I'm never going to get married."
"You're crazy." Buddy brightened. "You'll change your mind."
"No. My mind's made up.
Stichwörter: sylvia-plath married the-bella-jar marrage
A skeptic, I would ask for consistency first of all.
Sylvia PlathStichwörter: consistency skepticism
That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses.
"Save them for my funeral," I'd said.
Stichwörter: roses sylvia-plath the-bell-jar funeral
My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.
Sylvia PlathStichwörter: thinking think yourself mother sylvia-plath the-bell-jar helping worse too-much
When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.
Sylvia PlathStichwörter: future sylvia-plath the-bell-jar career grow-up
I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
Sylvia PlathStichwörter: sylvia-plath the-bell-jar
Reality is what I make it. That is what I have said I believed. Then I look at the hell I am wallowing in, nerves paralyzed, action nullified - fear, envy, hate: all the corrosive emotions of insecurity biting away at my sensitive guts. Time, experience: the colossal wave, sweeping tidal over me, drowning, drowning. How can I ever find that permanence, that continuity with past and future, that communication with other human beings that I crave? Can I ever honestly accept an artificial imposed solution? How can I justify, how can I rationalize the rest of my life away?
Sylvia PlathI lay and cried, and began to feel again, to admit I was human, vulnerable, sensitive. I began to remember how it had been before; how there was that germ of positive creativeness. Character is fate; and damn, I'd better work on my character. I had been withdrawing into a retreat of numbness: it is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch one. But my honest self revolted at this, hated me for doing this. Sick with conflict, destructive negative emotions, frozen into disintegration I was, refusing to articulate, to spew forth these emotions - they festered in me, growing big, distorted, like pus-bloated sores. Small problems, mentions of someone else's felicity, evidence of someone else's talents, frightened me, making me react hollowly, fighting jealousy, envy, hate. Feeling myself fall apart, decay, rot, and the laurels wither and fall away, and my past sins and omissions strike me with full punishment and import. All this, all this foul, gangrenous, sludge ate away at my insides. Silent, insidious.
Sylvia PlathAnd there is the fallacy of existence: the idea that one would be happy forever and aye with a given situation or series of accomplishments.
Sylvia PlathI felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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