I knew you'd decide to be all right again.
I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
I hated the very idea of the eighteenth century, with all those smug men writing tight little couplets and being so dead keen on reason.
I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.
I am the magician's girl who does not flinch.
I am inhabited by a cry.Nightly it flaps outLooking, with its hooks, for something to loveI am terrified by this dark thingThat sleeps in me;All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
All I want is blackness. Blackness and silence.
And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
…* to know a lot of people I love pieces of, and to want to synthesize those pieces in me somehow, be it by painting or writing. * to know that millions of others are unhappy and that life is a gentle...
Why do my beheld beauties vanish and deform themselves as soon as I look twice.
Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: 'I'll go take a hot bath.
What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.
Virginia Woolf helps. Her novels make mine possible.
To the person in The Bell Jar, black and stopped as a dead baby, the world itselfis a bad dream
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 op...
There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.
The woman is perfected.Her deadBody wears the smile of accomplishment,The illusion of a Greek necessityFlows in the scrolls of her toga,Her bareFeet seem to be saying:We have come so far, it is over.E...
The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
The sight of all the food stacked in those kitchens made me dizzy. It's not that we hadn't enough to eat at home, it's just that my grandmother always cooked economy joints and economy meat loafs and...