Wars, wars, wars': reading up on the region I came across one moment when quintessential Englishness had in fact intersected with this darkling plain. In 1906 Winston Churchill, then the minister resp...
That such a final, tragic, and awful thing is suicide can exist in the midst of remarkable beauty is one of the vastly contradictory and paradoxical aspects of life and art.
My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.
I waited, as if the sea could make my decision for me.
So what do you think?’ He asked, holding up the book.‘I think Salinger is a closet paedophile,’ I replied placidly and was surprised and comforted by this minuscule, acidic, bitter Sylvia Plath like m...
[Short Talk on Sylvia Plath] Did you see her mother on television? She said plain, burned things. She said I thought it an excellent poem but it hurt me. She did not say jungle fear. She did not say j...
Sylvia Plath is there for me when actual living people upon who I have depended upon my whole life, are not. What I mean to say is, without her words, I'd be exponentially more messed up than I am alr...
When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.
We have conversations most nights, Sylvia Plath and me. On these cold wintry nights with our coffee mugs in hand, we talk for hours and hours, Sylvia Plath and me!
There is no better way to know us Than as two wolves, come separately to a wood.
How we need that security. 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.
That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses.Save them for my funeral, I'd said.
I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
We have conversations with each other most nights - Sylvia Plath and me!
I have stitched life into me like a rare organ
They might ignore me immediately. In my moon suit and funeral veil. I am no source of honeySo why should they turn on me?Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.
If a man chooses to be promiscuous, he may still turn up his nose at promiscuity. He may still demand a woman be faithful to him, to save him from his own lust. But women have lust, too. Why should th...
Writing, then, was a substitute for myself: if you don't love me, love my writing & love me for my writing. It is also much more: a way of ordering and reordering the chaos of experience.
Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy...
She has foldedThem back into her body as petalsOf a rose close when the garden Stiffens and odours bleedFrom the sweet, deep throats of the night flower. The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring...
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