Tag Archives: Plath

Sylvia Plath “Klaaskuppel”


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  • Botaanika oli mõnus, sest mulle meeldis lõikuda lehti ja panna neid mikroskoobi alla, joonistada leivahallitusi või sõnajala paljunemistsüklis ette tulevat veidrat südamekujulist lehte, see kõik tundus nii tõeline.
  • Ma kulutasin palju aega kujuteldavatele vestlustele Buddy Willardiga. Ta oli paar aastat minust vanem ja väga teaduselembene, nii, et oskas alati kõike tõestada. Temaga olles pidin ma kõvasti vaeva nägema, et minugi peanupp vee peal püsiks. Need väljamõeldud vestlused kordasid tavaliselt mõnda Buddyga tegelikult toimunud jutuajamise algust, ent lõppesid sellega, et mina suutsin talle üsna teravalt vastata, selle asemel, et istuda ja pomiseda “Küllap vist.”
  • …päris õnnelik olin ma üldse oma elus olnud vaid üheksanda eluaastani. Pärast seda, hoolimata skautlusest, klaveritundidest, akvarellitundidest, tantsutundidest ja purjetamislaagrist, kõigest, mille võimaldamiseks ema aina koonerdama pidi, hoolimata kolledžist ja hommikueine-eelseist kambakesi kooliminekust aoaegses sudus, hoolimata kõigist omaküpsetatud kõrbemaläinud kookidest ja uute mõtteseoste tekkimise igapäevasest vaiksest tulevärgist, polnud ma kunagi enam tõeliselt õnnelik.
  • Igal hommikul täiendas lumivalgete käsikirjade laviin ilukirjanduse toimetaja toas kõrguvaid tolmhalle virnu. See tähendas, et Ameerika kirjutustubades, pööningukambrites ja õppeklassides tegeldakse salamahti kirjutamisega. Kui iga minut pannakse kuskil punkt ütleme ühele käsikirjale, kuhjub ilukirjanduse toimetaja lauale viie minutiga viis käsikirja.
  •  Lappasin raamatu lehekülgi, lastes neil silme ees aeglaselt tagasi langeda. Ähmaselt tuttavad sõnad, ehkki kõik nagu kõverpeeglis igapidi viltu väänatud, riivasid jälgi jätmata mu teadvuse klaasjat pinda.
  • Ma olin väsinud võitlemast. Kui mu osaks on langeda, hoian ma kinni neist pisikestest rõõmudest nii kaua, kui vähegi saan.
  • Võib-olla peaks tõesti unustus nagu leebe lumevaip need mälestused kinni katma ja summutama. Kuid nad olid osa minust endast. Nad olid mu hingemaastik.
  • Püüdsin kindlaks teha, kes neist oli kõnelnud. Ma ei salli, kui pean rääkima rühmaga. Kui ma räägin mitme inimesega, valin alati ühe, kellega suhtlen, ja tunnen siis kogu rääkimise aja, kuidas teised ebaõiglast eelisseisundit kasutades mind uurivad. Samuti ei salli ma, kui inimesed pärivad reipalt, kuidas mul läheb, teades, et ma olen tegelikult omadega läbi, aga ootavad ikkagi, et ma vastaksin “hästi”.
  • Ainus viga on see, et kirik ja isegi katoliku kirik ei ole kogu su elu. Ükskõik kui palju sa ka ei põlvitaks ega paluks, ikkagi pead kolm korda päevas sööma, pead käima tööl ning muu maailmaga kuidagi läbi saama.

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“The Journals of Sylvia Plath 1950-1962”


Raamat, mida olen vist Krisost tellides kõige suurema huviga oodanud. Sest et Sylvia.. on Sylvia. Üle 600 lehekülje tema päevikuid. Loetud ja märkmed üles tähendatud kahe aasta eest.

 

  • I have the choice of being active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.
  • Cats have nine lives, they say. You have one, and somewhere along the thin, tenuous thread of your existence there is a black knot, the blood knot, the stopped heartbeat that spells the end of this particular individual which is spelled “I” and “you” and “Sylvia”. So you wonder how to act and how to be – and you wonder about values and attitudes.
  • Can I write? Will I write if I practice enough? How much should I write before I find out, if I’m any good?
  • All the young growing and testing and being once burned and twice shy and not knowing what to do, or where or when to be how. And then this, the sudden intuitive flash, the sudden knowing when it is right to render up a dream.
  • I lay and cried, and began to feel again, to admit I was human, vulnerable, sensitive. I began to remember how it had been before; how there was that germ of positive creativeness. I had been drawing into a retreat of numbness: it is so much safer not to feel, not to let them touch you. But my honest self revolted at this, hated me for doing this.
  • I live and dislike, but please don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe.
  • Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything it is because we are dangerously near to wanting nothing. There are two opposing poles of wanting nothing. When one is so full and rich and has so many inner worlds that the outer world is not necessary for joy, because joy emanates from the inner core of one’s being. When one is dead and rotten inside and there is nothing in the world: not all the women, food, sun or mind-magic of others can reach the wormy core of one’s gutted soul planet.
  • Is it possible to love the neutral, objective world and be scared of people?
  • I am both worse and better than you thought.
  • I will write until I begin to speak my deep self
  • Why do I find groups impossible? Do I even want them?
  • What do the gods ask? I must dress, rise and send my body out.
  • I am sure I teach better in that room, just as I am sure I teach better in certain dresses whose colors and textures war not against my body and my thought.
  • I have gotten back a life-vision, whatever that is, which enables people to live out their lives and not go mad.
  • Crossings and re-crossings with people, mad and sane, stupid and brilliant, beautiful and grotesque, infant and antique, cold and hot, pragmatic and dream-ridden, dead and alive.
  • Rain. Wet rain. Grit and slush rubbing in my boots. No parking spaces left in town. To bank. Then tea and a lukewarm bath, and the luxurious unfolding into my own evening and time.
  • I say it’s people I need but what good have they done to me?
  • I find myself wishing, to have a corner of my own: something I can know about, write about well.
  • Teaching was good for me: it structured my mind and forced me to be articulate. If I don’t settle my trouble from within, no outside shower of fortune will make the grass grow.
  • A life of doing nothing is death.
  • I am in a vicious circle – too much alone, with no fresh exteriour experiences except the walking around, staring at people who seem, simply because they are others, to be enviable.
  • Like a soldier, demobbed, I am cut loose of over 20 steady years of schooling and let free into civilian life – as yet, newly, I hardly know what to do with myself. I get weird impulses to rush to Harvard, Yale, begging them to take me on for a Phd, a master’s, anything, only to take my life out of my own clumsy hands.
  • So what does she know about love? Nothing. You should have it. You should get it. It’s nice. But what is it?
  • Writing is a way of ordering and re-ordering the chaos of experience.
  • I may have all the answers to my questions in myself but I need some catalyst to get them into my consciousness.
  • I felt needed and very happy and lucky.