What a man wants is is an arrow into the future and what a woman is is the place the arrow shoots off from.
Sylvia PlathTags: inspirational
I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and say, 'Ah!' in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out.
Sylvia PlathIt seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next.
It made me tired just to think of it.
Tags: sadness depression
امرأةٌ مبتسمة أنا
لم أزل في الثلاثين
ولديّ مثل القطة تسع مرّات لأموت.
الموت فنّ
على غرار كل ما عداه
وإني أمارسه بإتقان
أمارسه حتى يبدو جهنّما
أمارسه حتى يبدو حقيقة
في وسعكم القول إنه دعوتي.
لكن هناك ثمن لكي أتجسس على ندوبي
لكي أصغي إلى نبضات قلبي -
آه، إنه يدقّ حقا!
وهناك ثمن،
ثمن باهظ جداً
لكل كلمة، لكل لمسة
لبضع نقاط من دمي
لخصلة من شعري
أو قطعة من ثيابي.
Sırça fanusun içinde ölü bir bebek gibi tıkanıp kalmış biri için dünyanın kendisi kötü bir düştür. Bir gün bir yerde -okulda, Avrupa'da, herhangi bir yerde- o boğucu çarpıtmalarıyla sırça fanusun yeniden üzerime inmeyeceğini nasıl bilebilirdim?
Sylvia PlathAnd I knew that in spite of all the roses and kisses and restaurant dinners a man showered on a woman before he married her, what he secretly wanted when the wedding service ended was for her to flatten out underneath his feet like Mrs. Willard's kitchen mat...I also remembered Buddy Willard saying in a sinister, knowing way that after I had children I would feel differently, I wouldn't want to write poems any more. So I began to think maybe it was true that when you were married and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterward you went about numb as a slave in some private, totalitarian state.
Sylvia PlathI saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.
Sylvia PlathTags: decisions indecision
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I have a call.
Tags: death
Let me sit in a flowerpot,
The spiders won't notice.
My heart is a stopped geranium.
There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.
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