“She is in love with the beautiful formlessness of the sea.” — 

Sylvia Plath, from Finisterre

(via nymphlight, violentwavesofemotion)




heteroglossia, forthejoyof:

Sylvia Plath feeding deer in Ontario, Canada, 1959

heteroglossiaforthejoyof:

Sylvia Plath feeding deer in Ontario, Canada, 1959




“[She] is a woman who has the great and terrible gift of being reborn. The only trouble is, she has to die first.” — 

Sylvia Plath, on Lady Lazarus, Plath’s comments on the Ariel poems, from a typescript she prepared for a radio broadcast that was never delivered

(via frenchtwist)




“I am too pure for you or anyone.
Your body
Hurts me as the world hurts God.”
— Sylvia Plath, Fever 103°


“Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.”
— 

Sylvia Plath, from “Fever 103°

(via proustitute)




“You are a dream; I hope I never meet you.” — 

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals

(via proustitute)




“I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.” — 

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals

(via frenchtwist)




“I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.”
— Sylvia Plath, Elm


“The blood jet is poetry,
There is no stopping it.”
— Sylvia Plath, Kindness


“The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.”
— Sylvia Plath, Elm


“It was sometime in October; she had long ago lost track of all the days and it really didn’t matter because one was like another and there were no nights to separate them because she never slept anymore.” — 

Sylvia Plath, Tongues of Stone

(via spartanqueenknockturn)




“The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.”
— 

Sylvia Plath, from “Edge

(via proustitute)




“Is there no way out of the mind?” — Sylvia Plath, Apprehensions


“I inhabit the wax image of myself, a doll’s body.
Sickness begins here: I am the dartboard for witches.
Only the devil can eat the devil out.
In the month of red leaves I climb to a bed of fire.”
— 

Sylvia Plath, Witch Burning

(via amoelbarrocoseabois)