How we need another soul to cling to, another body to keep us warm. To rest and trust; to give your soul in confidence: I need this, I need someone to pour myself into.
Sylvia PlathThere is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.
Sylvia PlathTag: pain vulnerability game-of-love searching-for-love the-bachelor
I had removed my patent leather shoes after a while, for they foundered badly in the sand. It pleased me to think they would be perched there on the silver log, pointing out to sea, like a sort of soul-compass, after I was dead.
Sylvia PlathBut when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.
Sylvia PlathI sank back in the gray, plush seat and closed my eyes. The air of the bell jar wadded round me and I couldn't stir.
Sylvia PlathIf you love her", I said, "you'll love somebody else someday.
Sylvia PlathBut I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure at all. How did I know that someday―at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere―the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn't descend again?
Sylvia PlathI 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.
--from "Elm", written 19 April 1962
Tag: elm
My world falls apart, crumbles, “The centre cannot hold.” There is no integrating force, only the naked fear, the urge of self-preservation. I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralysed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness. I never thought. I never wrote, I never suffered. I want to kill myself, to escape from responsibility, to crawl back abjectly into the womb. I do not know who I am, where I am going—and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions. I long for a noble escape from freedom—I am weak, tired, in revolt from the strong constructive humanitarian faith which presupposes a healthy, active intellect and will. There is nowhere to go.
Sylvia PlathTag: sylvia-plath
What is so real as the cry of a child?
A rabbit's cry may be wilder
But it has no soul.
Tag: children childhood motherhood cry rabbit
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