Author of quotes: Sylvia Plath

Buddy Willard was a hypocrite. Of course, at first I didn't know that. It seemed to me that he is the most beautiful of all the guys I knew. I adored him from a distance for five years, before he looked at me, and then came the wonderful time when I still adored him, and he began to glance at me. And then, when he increasingly looked at me, I by chance discovered, he's a terrible hypocrite. Now he wanted me to marry him and I hated him with all my heart.

The silence oppressed me. It was not the silence of a peaceful silence. It was the silence inside me. I knew that the machines are noisy, and that the people sitting in the cars and the lighted Windows, too noisy, and that the river makes a little noise, but I heard nothing. The city hung in my window, flat as a poster, but he was not actually hanging, despite all the good that he brought me.

... wherever I was - on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok - I would still be under the same glass cover, varyas in its own juice and desperately searching for a way out.

I thought that I would continue to swim away from shore until I have enough strength to return. When I rowed forward, heart was thumping in my ears, like muffled knocking of the engine.
I am, I am, I am.

My favorite tree was called "Chaos scribe". It seemed to me that it was brought from Japan. They know a lot about spiritual things and do Hara-Kiri if something went wrong.

If someone do not expect anything, you'll never be disappointed.

Creeps leopard.
One day he will kill me.
Greed burn it
Forest. He is proud, as rise fire!
Sliding his soft step
All the time behind my back
In the rocks and the vultures scream
He is after me.
I - rocks I - the thorns,
The blinding noon burned...
What passions boil in him!
How evil his blood is red!

Dying -
It is an art, like everything else.
I'm doing it brilliantly.
I'm doing it, committing themselves to the slaughter.
I do it for real.
Can u tell me calling.

At the stone trough water
From the mill rushes into the black pond,
Which is the Swan, pure as snow, a pond
Absurd excites the mind when
From white to close want that.
Above the swamp the sun rises sparingly
Ciclopi red staring eyes in contempt
In the magic landscape of the marshes;
I'm thinking, just in the black plumage,
As the rook that is looking for your night shelter.
The ice cane as if the picture had frozen,
As your image in my eye; glass
Pattern of pain painted frost,
Someone in the house will go cold? As a rock
To cut to the heart blossomed?

Should be, there is light at the misfortune, which will not heal and the hot tub, but I almost do not know. As soon as I begin to weary sadness, as soon as I feel myself dying as soon as I get mad to such an extent that I can't sleep, as soon as someone will fall in love, or being separated from a lover for a week once I reach a certain point of despair, I tell myself, "take me now hot bath".

Nothing emits a stench like a pile of unpublished manuscripts.

To be born a woman is a terrible tragedy. I feel an overwhelming desire to travel with tramps, sailors and soldiers to be part of the events, an anonymous listener and observer. However, all my dreams are poisoned by the fact that I'm a girl, and being female is in constant danger of physical and sexual aggression. My huge interest in men and their lives is often taken for wanting to seduce them or an invitation to intimacy. And yet, God knows, I want to talk to anyone as sincere as you can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel West, to walk freely at night.

I know depth. I hack into her.
Root. But you're afraid of depths
And I'm not afraid - I was there, I was used to.

... Grass wave
All written on the faces of the grave stones:
"Understand! Drowning there are a lot of ways."