I fancied you'd return the way you said,
I am still so naïve; I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?
I act and react, and suddenly I wonder, ‘Where is the girl that I was last year? Two years ago? What would she think of me now?
God, I scream for time to let go, to write, to think. But no. I have to exercise my memory in little feats just so I can stay in this damn wonderful place which I love and hate with all my heart. And...
Ever since I was small I loved feeling somebody comb my hair. It made me go all sleepy and peaceful.
Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts Nor the woman in the ambulance Whore red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly....Oh my God, what am I
Doreen had intuition. Everything she said was like a secret voice speaking straight out of my own bones.
Be stoic when necessary and write-you have seen a lot, felt deeply, and your problems are universal enough to be made meaningful-WRITE.
At this rate, I'd be lucky if I wrote a page a day.Then I knew what the problem was.I needed experience.How could I write about life when I'd never had a love affair or a baby or even seen anybody die...
And 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 flatt...
A time of darkness, despair, disillusion-so black only the inferno of the human mind can be-symbolic death, and numb shock-then the painful agony of slow rebirth and psychic regeneration
You inherit white heather, a bee's wing,Two suicides, the family wolves,Hours of blankness.
You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.
Yes, my consuming desire is to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, barroom regulars—to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording—all this is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl,...
What did my fingers do before they held him?What did my heart do, with its love?From Three Women: A Poem for Three Voices, 1962
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...
There I went again, building p a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few posy nothings.
The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.
The bell jar hung, suspended, a few feet above my head. I was open to the circulating air.
That's one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in...