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Anna
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“How we need another soul to cling to.”
― The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
― The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
“God, but life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinsel gaiety of "parties" with no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter - they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship - but the loneliness of the soul in its appalling self-consciousness is horrible and overpowering.”
― The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
― The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
“Isn't it funny. I'm enjoying my hatred so much more than I ever enjoyed love. Love is temperamental. Tiring. It makes demands. Love uses you, changes its mind. But hatred, now, that's something you can use. Sculpt. Wield. It's hard, or soft, however you need it. Love humiliates you, but Hatred cradles you.”
― White Oleander
― White Oleander
“We ate well and cheaply and drank well and cheaply and slept well and warm together and loved each other.”
― A Moveable Feast
― A Moveable Feast
“Astrid," Linda called, her feet tucked under herself on the flower-print couch. "If you had a choice between two weeks in Paris France, all expenses paid, or a car —"
"Shitty Buick," Debby interjected.
"What's wrong with a Buick?" Marvel said.
"—which would you take?" Linda picked something out of the corner of her eye with a long press-on nail.
I brought their drinks, suppressing the desire to limp theatrically, the deformed servant, and fit all the glasses into hands without spilling. They couldn't be serious. Paris? My Paris? Elegant fruit shops and filterless Gitanes, dark woolen coats, the Bois de Boulogne? "Take the car," I said. "Definitely.”
― White Oleander
"Shitty Buick," Debby interjected.
"What's wrong with a Buick?" Marvel said.
"—which would you take?" Linda picked something out of the corner of her eye with a long press-on nail.
I brought their drinks, suppressing the desire to limp theatrically, the deformed servant, and fit all the glasses into hands without spilling. They couldn't be serious. Paris? My Paris? Elegant fruit shops and filterless Gitanes, dark woolen coats, the Bois de Boulogne? "Take the car," I said. "Definitely.”
― White Oleander
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