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11 de mai. de 2024 · It's getting so I live every moment with terrible intensity. It all flowed over me with a screaming ache of pain... remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it. I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted. When you feel that this may be good-bye, the last time, it hits you harder.”.
3 de mai. de 2024 · Sylvia Plath. The Bell Jar, novel by Sylvia Plath, first published in January 1963 under the pseudonym Victoria Lucas and later released posthumously under her real name. The work, a thinly veiled autobiography, chronicles a young woman’s mental breakdown and eventual recovery, while also exploring societal expectations of women in the 1950s.
17 de mai. de 2024 · Sylvia Plath — ‘The trouble about jumping was that if you didn't pick the right number of storeys, you might still be alive when you hit bottom.’
13 de mai. de 2024 · Sylvia Plath (; October 27, 1932 – February 11, 1963) was an American poet, novelist, and short-story writer. She is credited with advancing the genre of confessional poetry and is best known for two of her published collections, The Colossus and Other Poems (1960) and Ariel (1965), as well as The Bell Jar, a semi-autobiographical novel published shortly before her death in 1963.
Há 4 dias · Widow, the compassionate trees bend in, The trees of loneliness, the trees of mourning. They stand like shadows about the green landscape --. Or even like black holes cut out of it. A widow resembles them, a shadow-thing, Hand folding hand, and nothing in between. A bodiless soul could pass another soul.
Há 5 dias · The Death Of Myth-making. Two virtues ride, by stallion, by nag, To grind our knives and scissors: Lantern-jawed Reason, squat Common Sense, One courting doctors of all sorts, One, housewives and shopkeepers. The trees are lopped, the poodles trim, The laborer's nails pared level. Since those two civil servants set.
18 de mai. de 2024 · Little Fugue. Cold clouds go over. Signal the blind, and are ignored. I like black statements. The featurelessness of that cloud, now! White as an eye all over! At my table on the ship. He felt for his food. His fingers had the noses of weasels.
