For the first time in my life, sitting there in the sound-proof heart of the UN building between Constantin who could play tennis as well as simultaneously interpret and the Russian girl who knew so many idioms, I felt dreadfully inadequate. The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
Sylvia PlathA bad dream.
To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream.
A bad dream.
I remembered everything.
I remembered the cadavers and Doreen and the story of the fig-tree and Marco's diamond and the sailor on the Common and Doctor Gordon's wall-eyed nurse and the broken thermometers and the negro with his two kinds of beans and the twenty pounds I gained on insulin and the rock that bulged between sky and sea like a grey skull.
Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them.
But they were part of me. They were my landscape
Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it
--from "Elm", written 19 April 1962
Yet I liked him too much… way too much, and I ripped him out of my heart so it wouldn’t get to hurt me more than it did. Oh, he’s magnetic, he’s charming; you could fall into his eyes. Let’s face it: his sex appeal was unbearably strong. I wanted to know him—- the thoughts, the ideas behind the handsome, confident, wisecracking mask… then the friction increased, centered. His nearness was electric in itself. ‘Can’t you see,’ he said. ‘I want to kiss you.’ So he kissed me, hungrily, his eyes shut, his hand warm, curved burning into my stomach. ‘I wish I hated you,’ I said
Sylvia Plath...it wouldn't have made one scrap of difference to me, because wherever I sat - on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok - I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
Sylvia PlathTags: sylvia-plath the-bell-jar
I sometimes think my vision of the sea is the clearest thing I own. I pick it up, exile that I am, like the purple ‘lucky stones’ I used to collect with a white ring all the way round, or the shell of a blue mussel with its rainbowy angel’s fingernail interior; and in one wash of memory the colors deepen and gleam, the early world draws breath.
Sylvia PlathI brought the newspaper close up to my eyes to get a better view of George Pollucci's face, spotlighted like a three-quarter moon against a vague background of brick and black sky. I felt he had something important to tell me, and that whatever it was might just be written on his face.
But the smudgy crags of George Pollucci's features melted away as I peered at them, and resolved themselves into a regular pattern of dark and light and medium gray dots.
The inky black newspaper paragraph didn't tell why Mr Pollucci was on the ledge, or what Sgt Kilmartin did to him when he finally got him in through the window.
Tags: suicide newspapers
I wondered what I thought I was burying.
Sylvia PlathTags: inspirational
Semmi sem valódi, csak a jelen, és én máris érzem, századok súlya fojtogat. Élt egy lány száz évvel ezelőtt is, mint ahogy én most. Ő halott. Én vagyok a jelen, de tudom, hogy egyszer én is eltűnök. A nagy pillanat, a lángcsóva, jön és megy, véghetetlen futóhomok. Nem akarok meghalni, nem.
Sylvia PlathAz vagyok, amit érzek, gondolok és teszek. Szeretném minél teljesebben kifejezni a lényemet, mert valahogy úgy érzem, csak ezzel igazolhatom, hogy élek. Ha az a dolgom, hogy kifejezzem, ami vagyok, kell valami ugródeszka, módszer, életelv- hogy a saját kis gyászos, személyes káoszomból önkényes és ideiglenes szervezetet építsek föl. Csak most kezdek ráébredni, milyen álságos és szűkre szabott is lesz ez az ugródeszka, ez a szabvány. Ez az, amivel olyan nehéz szembenézni.
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