Mostrando postagens com marcador Sylvia Plath. Mostrar todas as postagens
Mostrando postagens com marcador Sylvia Plath. Mostrar todas as postagens

quarta-feira, 4 de dezembro de 2013

If I could cut from my brain the phantom of competition, the ego-center of self-consciousness, and become a vehicle, a pure vehicle of others, the outer world. My interest in other people is too often one of comparison, not of pure intrigue with the unique otherness of identity. Here, ideally, I should forget the outer world of appearances, publishing, checks, success. And be true to an inner heart. Yet I fight against a simple-mindedness, a narcissism, a protective shell against competing, against being found wanting.

To write for itself, to do things for the joy of them. What a gift of the gods.”

The Journals of Sylvia Plath, 29/09/1959

Yet what would money do

I said to myself yesterday, reading Arthur Miller in Ted's studio, my foot-soles scorching on the stove. I feel a helpelessness when I think of my writing being nothing: for I have no other job --- no teaching, not publishing. And a guil grows in me to have all my time my own. I want to store money like a squirrel stores nuts. Yet what would money do. We have elegant dinners here: sweetbreads, sausages, bacon and mushrooms; ham and mealy oranfe sweet potatoes; chicken and garden beans. I wlked in the vegetable garden, beans hanging on the bushes, squash, yellow and orange, rhubarb. And wondered where the solid confident purposeful days of my youth vanished. How shall I come into the right, ricj full-fruites world of my middle-age. Unless I work. And get rid of the accusing, never-satisfied gods who surround me like a crown of thorns. Forget myself, myself. Become a vehicle of the world, a tongue, a voice. Abandon my ego
The Journals of Sylvia Plath - 16/09/1959

quarta-feira, 12 de junho de 2013

oh sylvia

Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath in Concordia, Massachussetes, december 1959

... all these articles & stories are based on the idea that passionate & spiritual love is the only thing on earth worth having & that it is next to impossible to find and even harder to keep, once caught. I turned to Ted, who is as close & warm & dear as can be, closer, warmer, dearer than I ever was to myself - who sees me sick, ugly, sallow, sneezy & hugs me, holds me, cooks me a veal chop & brings bowls of iced pineapple, steaming coffee at breakfast, tea at teatime. I feel, miraculously, I have the impossible, the wonderful - I am perfectly at one with Ted, body & soul, as the ridiculous song says - our vocation is writing, our love is each other - and the world is ours to explore. How did I ever live in those barren, desperate days of dating, experimenting, hearing mother warn me I was too critical, that I set my sights too high & would be an old maid. Well, perhaps I would have been if Ted hadn't been born. I am, at bottom, simple, credulous, feminine & loving to be mastered, cared for - but I will kill with my mind, my ice-eye, anyone who is weak, false, sickly in soul - and so I have done. Our needs - of solitude, quiet, long walks, good meat, all our days to write in - few friends, but fine ones who measure nothing by externals - all these agree & blend. May my demons & seraphs guard me on the right way and we live long toward white hair & creative wisdom & die in a flash of light in each other's arms. He uses me - uses all of me so I am lit and glowing with love like a fire, and this is all I looked for all my life - to be able to give of my love, my spontaneous joy, unreservedly, with no holding back for fear of his, misuse, betrayal. 
 I think I shall sit up all night & force myself to read or write untill this drugged, dregged twitching goes. Pray God Ted doesn't catch this for his reading in Cambridge on Friday. Today, as so many days this year, & so many days in my life, has been a horrid painful limbo. Woke after a sleep & queer nightmare - of seeing a new comet or satellite - round, but conical, with the point behind it.

Como dormir depois de ler estas linhas, Sylvia?

quinta-feira, 16 de maio de 2013

Love and communication

I stood there, complete in myself: whole, we talked, and I said what I thought. He did not understand, but he listened, and liked me."I love the people," I said. "I have room in me for love, and for ever so many lives". (...)
At home on my desk is the best story I've ever written. How can I tell Bob that my happinness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it and to typewritten words on paper?

The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

quinta-feira, 9 de maio de 2013

God, who am I? I sit in the library tonight, the lights glaring overhead, the fan whirring loudly. Girls, girls everywhere, reading books. Intent faces, flesh pink, white, yellow. And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches. There is history to read - - centuries to comprehend before I sleep, millions of lives to assimilate before breakfast tomorrow. Yet I know that back at the house there is my room, full of my presence. There is my date this weekend: someone believes I am a human being, not a name merely. And these are the only indications that I am a whole person, not merely a knot of nerves, without identity. I'm lost. Huxley would have laughed. What a conditioning center this is! Hundreds of faces, bending over books, fans whirring, beating time along the edge of thought. It is a nightmare. There is no sun. There is only continual motion. If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad. There is so much, and I am torn in different directions, pulled thin, taut against horizons too distant for me to reach. To stop with the German tribes and rest awhile: But no! On, on, on. Through ages of empires, of decline and fall. Swift, ceaseless pace. Will I never rest in sunlight again - slow, languid & golden with peace? 

The unabridged journals of Sylvia Plath - July  1950- July 1953

quinta-feira, 11 de abril de 2013

not enough

O little gimlets—
What holes this papery day is already full of!
He has been burning me with cigarettes,
Pretending I am a negress with pink paws.
I am myself. That is not enough.

The fever trickles and stiffens in my hair.
My ribs show. What have I eaten?
Lies and smiles.

terça-feira, 26 de março de 2013


Sisters, your song
Bears a burden too weightly
For the whorled ear's listening
Even than your maddening
Song, your silence

segunda-feira, 20 de agosto de 2012