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Quote by Sylvia Plath

Work

The Collected Poems

This book encompasses a wide range of poetic works, showcasing the author's diverse styles and themes throughout their career. more

Author

Sylvia Plath
Sylvia Plath

American poet, novelist, and playwright. Her works are known for their profound emotion and unique style, and she is considered one of the most important female writers of the 20th century. more

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“Keep going. You can do it! The sky said, Leaning over, so I could hear her. When things are tough, I will give you a hand, The wind whispered. I will be with you, Sang the sea of blue. Keep going. You can do it! Wrote the young rose In my soul’s pose. You have it all Inside your core! Hummed the grove of trees, amid the Earth’s grand symphony. Keep going. You can do it!”

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“Henry's also an insomniac. He suffers from Restless Leg Syndrome. I feel the sheets twitching as his legs move restlessly and think about how incredibly bourgeois we are, with our Sur La Table kitchenware, our Sundance catalogue lamps, our upper-middle class insomnia. Why can't we sleep, I wonder? We have enough to eat, we have a roof over our heads, we're not living in a mud hut sporting a thatch of gnarled leaves that barely cover our genitalia. I'm filled with self-loathing.”

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“Up near the top, underlined and in capitals were the words: 'READ THIS.' Jay grimaced as she wondered what she was in for. Would it be a semi-literate political rant, a half-baked conspiracy theory or a quasi-religious manifesto? Perhaps it was just a very long suicide note: a self-pitying list of misfortune and hardship. Whatever it was she doubted it would contain anything useful. Unable to put it off any longer, she finished her coffee and began: 'We are all stories that we tell ourselves, memories selected to fit our chosen form. What becomes of us when there is no-one there to read?”

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“Do you play?” Quincy jerked her eyes away from the instrument to find Lord Arch watching her, his mouth drawn in a very familiar straight line. “Only for myself, now that Ezekiel is dead,” she answered truthfully. “How delightful,” he said, smiling, his handsome face giving way to the refined wrinkles of his age. “Why don’t you play for yourself now, and I’ll just listen?”

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“The station was filling with more movement and noise and light, as the morning sun began to bounce and rattle off the brass and glass of the building. Quincy pushed through the crowd, her eyes towards the ground, her feet guiding her out of the station. She only lifted her head when she came out onto the sidewalk. And there, before her, a familiar figure was waiting, standing with a paper in one hand, watching the flow of traffic. He saw her and waved in silence, somehow knowing it wasn’t a morning for many words. “Did Fisher tell you to come?” Quincy said, her voice sounding so unlike itself—sounding yearning. “No,” Arch replied. Then he shook his head as confirmation, as if it were an important truth she needed to know two ways. “But I knew this was his train.” “You missed him.” “I didn’t come for him. I came for you.”

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