You see something absurd. You hear something absurd. You read something absurd = Yeah,TNTG. Posts tagged sylvia plath.
“ My students at New York University love her work. I look at them and remember she was only 30 when she died. I tell them to talk back to any inner voices they may hear saying mean things about them. I tell them their lives are a treasure to us all. I tell them to take their vitamins.
— Sharon Olds, on Sylvia Plath. (via thebronzemedal)
“ Noddin’ my head like yeah, movin’ my hips like yeah.
— Sylvia Plath (via incorrectsylviaplathquotes)
Sylvia Plath, “Elm”
I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root;
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.
Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?
Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it.
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.
All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.
Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, the big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin white, like arsenic.
I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand,a hand of wires.
Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.
The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radience scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
I let her go. I let her go
Diminshed and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.
I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.
I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrevables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?
I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches?—
Its snaky acids kiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That kill, that kill, that kill.
(submitted by pokemonthemesong)
“ Some of my favorite writers have been Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Alice Walker. You’re inspired by those that have inspired you, and those women tackled some pretty serious subjects. You can do it with a sense of humor, sometimes there’s not, but I’ve always loved chasing the dark; chasing it, eating it, dancing with it.
— Tori Amos (via fuckyeahfeministartandliterature)
untitled by Poison Arms on Flickr.
i love this.
“ There is no living being on earth at this moment except myself. I could walk down the halls, and empty rooms would yawn mockingly at me from every side. God, but life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinsel gaiety of ‘parties’ with no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter — they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship — but the loneliness of the soul in it’s appalling self-consciousness, is horrible and overpowering.
—
Sylvia Plath
I could read her poems, journals and books all day everyday (which I do often). There’s something very comforting in discovering what could be your own diary, written in a much more beautiful way than you could ever express it.
(via catsdomino)
“ With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can’t start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It’s like quicksand… hopeless from the start. A story, a picture, can renew sensation a little, but not enough, not enough. Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.
— The Unabridged journals of Sylvia Plath (via justhappymymanicand-i)
“ I felt very still and very empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.
— Sylvia Plath (The Bell Jar)
“ I smile, now, thinking: we all like to think we are important enough to need psychiatrists
— Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via sylvpla)
“I am so busy keeping my head above water that I scarcely know who I am, much less who anyone else is” - Sylvia Plath
