i. ii. iii.
"I see it all. I feel it all. My eyes fill with tears"

 —  back

10 . 20

“There is a difference between dissatisfaction with yourself and anger, depression. You can be dissatisfied and do something about it: if you don’t know German, you can learn it. If you haven’t worked at writing, you can work at it. If you are angry at someone else, and repress it, you get depressed. Who am I angry at? Myself. No, not yourself. Who is it? It is my mother and all the mothers I have known who have wanted me to be what I have not felt like really being from my heart and at the society which seems to want us to be what we do not want to be from our hearts: I am angry at these people and images. I do not seem to be able to live up to them. Because I don’t want to.”

—  Sylvia Plath, from a diary entry

10 . 20

“Why is crying so pleasurable? I feel clean, absolutely purged after it. As if I had a grief to get over with, some deep sorrow.”

—  Sylvia Plath, from a diary entry

10 . 18

10 . 15

“It is true when you are by yourself and you think about life, it is always sad. All that excitement and so on has a way of suddenly leaving you, and it’s as though, in the silence, somebody called your name, and you heard your name for the first time.”

—  Katherine Mansfield, from Bliss, And Other Short Stories

10 . 15

“When a thing’s gone, it’s gone. It’s over and done with. Let it go then! Ignore it, and comfort yourself, if you do want comforting, with the thought that you never do recover the same thing that you lose. It’s always a new thing. The moment it leaves you it’s changed.”

—  Katherine Mansfield, from Je Ne Parle Pas Français

10 . 13

10 . 13 

“What inner decision, what inner murder or prison-break must I commit if I want to speak from my true deep voice in writing and not feel this jam up of feeling behind a glass-dam fancy-facade of numb dumb wordage.”

—  Sylvia Plath, from a diary entry

10 . 11

“I feel a sadness I expected and which comes only from myself. I say I’ve always been sad. That I can see the same sadness in photos of myself when I was small. That today, recognizing it as the sadness I’ve always had, I could almost call it by my own name, it’s so like me.”

—  Marguerite Duras, from The Lover

10 . 10

10 . 7