"I am obsessed that it is this, or nothing, and that is I don’t take this, it will be nothing, but if I do take this, I will be squeezed into a pretty stiff pattern, the rigor of which I do not like."
Sylvia Plath (via catlexa)
(Source: cat-lexa)
my own handwriting. I think I’ll keep posting quotes like this from now on. It’s nice.
"It goes by, and whatever dream you use to dope up the pains and hurts, it goes…you’ve only got so long to live."
Sylvia Plath (via misschanning)
Surprising hobbies of famous authors
Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes were beekeepers, a hobby that was reflected in many of Plath’s poems and seems to have stemmed from a desire to feel grounded. When asked in a 1962 interview if she often hung out with other writers, she responded,
“I much prefer doctors, midwives, lawyers, anything but writers. I think writers and artists are the most narcissistic people. I mustn’t say this, I like many of them, in fact a great many of my friends happen to be writers and artists. But I must say what I admire most is the person who masters an area of practical experience, and can teach me something. I mean, my local midwife has taught me how to keep bees. Well, she can’t understand anything I write. And I find myself liking her, may I say, more than most poets. And among my friends I find people who know all about boats or know all about certain sports, or how to cut somebody open and remove an organ. I’m fascinated by this mastery of the practical. As a poet, one lives a bit on air. I always like someone who can teach me something practical.”
‘I am, I am, I am.’
it’s a quote from The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, which means so much to me I needed it in ink (:
forgettingstockwell asked: I had had to park the car on Calvert Street and walk, the forward crying of two children punctuating a Winter whiter than the shade by which you measured your sanity. In the silence as I saw 'our' street - I retained the 'nous' around my neck - I visioned a thousand collisions and a nothingness heavier than the world around me. I turned the path and stared at the future as if it were already hindsight, and realised you had taken half of it.
256/365
Today I checked the forecast and we’re supposed to have a high of 59 on Friday. Since I last looked it’s changed to 61 degrees, but I’m still excited. Cardigans, here I come.
Frog Autumn
Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother.
The insects are scant, skinny.
In these palustral homes we only
Croak and wither.
Mornings dissipate in somnolence.
The sun brightens tardily
Among the pithless reeds. Flies fail us.
he fen sickens.
Frost drops even the spider. Clearly
The genius of plenitude
Houses himself elsewhwere. Our folk thin
Lamentably.
(Source: allpoetry.com)
