a little plath every other day.
“The dialogue between my Writing and my Life is always in danger of becoming a slithering shifting of responsibility, of evasive rationalizing, in other words, I justified the mess I made of life by saying I’d give it order, form, beauty, writing about it; I justified my writing by saying it would be published, give me life (and prestige to life). Now you have to begin somewhere, and it might as well be with life, a belief in me, with my limitations , and a strong punchy determination to fight to overcome one by one, like languages, to learn French, ignore Italian (a sloppy knowledge of 3 languages is dilettantism), and revive German again, to build each solid. To build all solid. “
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” I need you to do this one more thing for me. Break your image and wrench it from me. I need you to tell me in very definite concrete words that you are unavailable, that you do not want me to come to you in Paris in a few weeks or ask you to come to Italy with me or save me from death. I think I can live in this world as long as I must, and slowly learn how not to cry at night, if only you will do this one last thing for me. Please, just write to me one very simple declarative sentence, the kind a woman can understand; kill your image and the hope and love I give it which keeps me frozen in the land of the bronze dead, for it gets harder and harder to free myself from that abstract tyrant named Richard who is so much more, being abstract, than he really is in this world… For I must get back my soul from you; I am killing my flesh without it. “
perkaraperkara 