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  • #1
    Sylvia Plath
    “When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn’t know.
    "Oh, sure you know," the photographer said.
    "She wants," said Jay Cee wittily, "to be everything.”
    Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

  • #2
    Sylvia Plath
    “because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.”
    Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

  • #3
    Sylvia Plath
    “I didn't know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of the throat and I'd cry for a week.”
    Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

  • #4
    Sylvia Plath
    “But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defensless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.”
    Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

  • #5
    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.”
    Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

  • #6
    Sylvia Plath
    “Ever since I was small I loved feeling somebody comb my hair. It made me go all sleepy and peaceful.”
    Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

  • #7
    Sylvia Plath
    “The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.”
    Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

  • #8
    Sylvia Plath
    “It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next.

    It made me tired just to think of it.”
    Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

  • #9
    Sylvia Plath
    “I wanted to tell her that if only something were wrong with my body it would be fine, I would rather have anything wrong with my body than something wrong with my head, but the idea seemed so involved and wearisome that I didn’t say anything. I only burrowed down further in the bed.”
    Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

  • #10
    Sylvia Plath
    “At this rate, I'd be lucky if I wrote a page a day.

    Then I knew what the problem was.

    I needed experience.

    How could I write about life when I'd never had a love affair or a baby or even seen anybody die? A girl I knew had just won a prize for a short story about her adventures among the pygmies in Africa. How could I compete with that sort of thing?”
    Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

  • #11
    Sylvia Plath
    “Do you know what a poem is, Esther?'
    No, what?' I would say.
    A piece of dust.'
    Then, just as he was smiling and starting to look proud, I would say, 'So are the cadavers you cut up. So are the people you think you're curing. They're dust as dust as dust. I reckon a good poem lasts a whole lot longer than a hundred of those people put together.'
    And of course Buddy wouldn't have any answer to that, because what I said was true. People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn't see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick or couldn't sleep.”
    Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

  • #12
    Sylvia Plath
    “I am sure there are things that can't be cured by a good bath but I can't think of one.”
    Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

  • #13
    Sylvia Plath
    “My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.”
    Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

  • #14
    Sylvia Plath
    “I would catch sight of some flawless man off in the distance, but as soon as he moved closer I immediately saw he wouldn’t do at all.”
    Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

  • #15
    Sylvia Plath
    “I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.”
    Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

  • #16
    Sylvia Plath
    “Everything people did seemed so silly, because they only died in the end.”
    Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar



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