Sylvia Plath/Diari

Lennart Olson, Röd signal / Red light

Fammi essere forte,
forte di sonno e di intelligenza e forte di ossa e fibra; 
fammi imparare, 
attraverso questa disperazione,
a distribuirmi:
a sapere dove e a chi dare:
a riempire i brevi momenti
e le chiacchiere casuali
di quell’infuso speciale
di devozione e amore
che sono le nostre epifanie.
A non essere amara.
Risparmiamelo il finale,
quel finale acido citrico
aspro che scorre nelle vene
delle donne in gamba e sole.

Cecilia Edelfalk, born 1954, Selfportrait - 1993

letter to warren

and because you’re eighteen, because you’re still vulnerable, because you still don’t have faith in yourself, you talk a little fliply, a little too wisely, just to cover up so you won’t be accused of sentimentality or emotionalism or feminine tactics. You cover up, so you can still laugh at yourself while there’s time.
Sylvia Plath

There is no living being on earth at this moment except myself. I could walk down the halls, and empty rooms would yawn mockingly at me from every side. 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 it’s appalling self-consciousness, is horrible and overpowering.

Sylvia Plath

uno, nessuno, centomila

I am myself. That is not enough.

Sylvia Plath

Self Portrait by Francesca Woodman

sylvia plath

There is no living being on earth at this moment except myself. I could walk down the halls, and empty rooms would yawn mockingly at me from every side. 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 it’s appalling self-consciousness, is horrible and overpowering.

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