i am, i am, i am.

i'm emma and these are my sylvia plath favorites.

also look at fuckyeahsylviaplath.

my email:
oneshouldreadeverything[at]gmail[dot]com
May 21
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I had hoped, at my departure, I would feel sure and knowledgeable about everything that lay ahead—after all, I had been ‘analyzed.’ Instead, all I could see were question marks.
The Bell Jar
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from the poem “tulips.”

from the poem “tulips.”

May 20
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I am hypnotised by the workings of the individual alone, and am constantly using myself as a specimen.
— The Journals of Sylvia Plath (via fuckyeahsylviaplath)
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May 19
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I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart.
I am, I am, I am.
The Bell Jar
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But I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure at all. How did I know that someday—at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere—the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn’t descend again?
The Bell Jar
May 18
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I waited for a touch of emotion, the faintest glow. Nothing. Nothing but a great, amiable boredom.
The Bell Jar
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“We’ll act as if all this were a bad dream.”

A bad dream.

To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream.

A bad dream.

I remembered everything.

I remembered the cadavers and Doreen and the story of the fig tree and Marco’s diamond and the sailor on the Common and Doctor Gordon’s wall-eyed nurse and the broken thermometers and the Negro with his two kinds of beans and the twenty pounds I gained on insulin and the rock that bulged between sky and sea like a gray skull.

Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them.

But they were part of me. They were my landscape.

The Bell Jar

May 17
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It seems to me more than ever that I am a victim of introspection. If I have not the power to put myself in the place of other people, but must be continually burrowing inward, I shall never be the magnanimous creative person I wish to be.
— The Journals of Sylvia Plath (via fuckyeahsylviaplath)
May 16
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Why was I so unmaternal and apart?
The Bell Jar