♥ Loving Sylvia Plath ♥
homoceratops:

"What? Sylvia Plath didn’t say… Oh."


OF COURSE NOT!!! Idiots! This is totally the next “Barbara Laage-Situation”!! Thank you “Generation I DON’T CARE”! I think people need to take a look at the “About Section" of http://incorrectsylviaplathquotes.tumblr.com/! Oh and also taking a closer look at this tumblr’s name might help: INCORRECTsylviaplathquotes for Christ’s sake!!
Everyone claiming to love Sylvia Plath “sooo much” and reblogging this quote as Plath’s very own quote (and/or that picture) is - to put it in Holden Caulfield’s words - A BIG PHONY!

homoceratops:

"What? Sylvia Plath didn’t say… Oh."

OF COURSE NOT!!! Idiots! This is totally the next “Barbara Laage-Situation”!! Thank you “Generation I DON’T CARE”! I think people need to take a look at the “About Section" of http://incorrectsylviaplathquotes.tumblr.com/! Oh and also taking a closer look at this tumblr’s name might help: INCORRECTsylviaplathquotes for Christ’s sake!!

Everyone claiming to love Sylvia Plath “sooo much” and reblogging this quote as Plath’s very own quote (and/or that picture) is - to put it in Holden Caulfield’s words - A BIG PHONY!

mutantspyparadigm:

I recently wrote an article for qmunicate about the cultural misconceptions surrounding the works of Sylvia Plath.
It received a fairly good response from friends and readers equally, I’ve even received some messages telling me the article spoke to them personally, or encouraged them to try some Plath.
Considering a significant part of the article is devoted to the danger of de-contextualising quotes on sites such like Tumblr, I can’t believe I haven’t posted it on here yet. Hope you enjoy!
http://qmunicatemagazine.com/2014/09/03/reclaiming-sylvia-plath/

Everyone who ever posted a Sylvia Plath quote on their blog and did/does not care where it came from or what it really means should read this! This is just perfect! And it sums up perfectly what I think and feel every time I read “I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead” or “Kiss me and you will see how important I am”.
Thank you, Helen Murray!

mutantspyparadigm:

I recently wrote an article for qmunicate about the cultural misconceptions surrounding the works of Sylvia Plath.

It received a fairly good response from friends and readers equally, I’ve even received some messages telling me the article spoke to them personally, or encouraged them to try some Plath.

Considering a significant part of the article is devoted to the danger of de-contextualising quotes on sites such like Tumblr, I can’t believe I haven’t posted it on here yet. Hope you enjoy!

http://qmunicatemagazine.com/2014/09/03/reclaiming-sylvia-plath/

Everyone who ever posted a Sylvia Plath quote on their blog and did/does not care where it came from or what it really means should read this! This is just perfect! And it sums up perfectly what I think and feel every time I read “I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead” or “Kiss me and you will see how important I am”.

Thank you, Helen Murray!

shimeni:

"Sometimes I dream of a tree,
And the tree is my life.
One branch is the man I shall marry
And the leaves my children.
Another branch is my future as a writer
And each leaf is a poem.
Another branch is a glittering academic career.
But as I sit there, trying to choose,
The leaves begin to turn brown and blow away
Until the tree is absolutely bare.”

-Sylvia Plath

ONLY THAT THIS QUOTE IS NOT COMING FROM The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath or The Bell Jar AS YOU TAGGED IT!

And it is not a quote by Sylvia Plath either! It’s a quote from the movie Sylvia, since they were not allowed to use her quotes, they just made something up!

I would be very careful with such a labelling, because it can create the next “Barbara Laage situation”!

If you had simply reblogged my post (since you liked is shortly before you posted yours anyway) instead of just taking the picture and the quote, you not only would have gotten the caption right, but you would also have kept the picture credit!

Honestly people, something like this makes me really furious!!

sylviaplathink:

Submitted by Mary (mkminnick@charter.net)

sylviaplathink:

Submitted by Mary (mkminnick@charter.net)

sylviaplathink:

Submitted by http://inherityour-blood.tumblr.com/:
"Sorry for the boob shot. My tattoo I got last March by Dallas at Irezumi in KCMO. I love it more and more everyday."

sylviaplathink:

Submitted by http://inherityour-blood.tumblr.com/:

"Sorry for the boob shot. My tattoo I got last March by Dallas at Irezumi in KCMO. I love it more and more everyday."

sylviaplathink:

Submitted by Brie (Instagram Brie92)
“Wear your heart on your skin in this life.”
—Sylvia Plath, “The Fifteen-Dollar Eagle”, Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams, 1977

sylviaplathink:

Submitted by Brie (Instagram Brie92)

Wear your heart on your skin in this life.

—Sylvia Plath, “The Fifteen-Dollar Eagle”, Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams, 1977

sylviaplathink:

midgirl99:

#sylviaplathink

“The Bee Meeting”
 Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the          villagers——-The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock,Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.Thev will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.Which is the rector now, is it that man in black?Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors,Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.Their smiles and their voices are changing. I am led through a beanfield.Strips of tinfoil winking like people,Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers,Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts.Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string?No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hatAnd a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them.They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives.Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick?The barren body of hawthorn, etherizing its children.Is it some operation that is taking place?It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for,This apparition in a green helmet,Shining gloves and white suit.Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know?I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts meWith its yellow purses, its spiky armory.I could not run without having to run forever.The white hive is snug as a virgin,Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove.The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything.Here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics.If I stand very still, they will think I am cow-parsley,A gullible head untouched by their animosity,Not even nodding, a personage in a hedgerow.The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen.Is she hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever.She is old, old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it.While in their fingerjoint cells the new virginsDream of a duel they will win inevitably,A curtain of wax dividing them from the bride flight,The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her.The villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing.The old queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful?I am exhausted, I am exhausted -Pillar of white in a blackout of knives.I am the magician’s girl who does not flinch.The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands.Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished,          why am I cold.
—written 3 October 1962

sylviaplathink:

midgirl99:

#sylviaplathink

The Bee Meeting

 Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the
          villagers——-
The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,
And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?
They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.

I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?
Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock,
Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.
Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.
Thev will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.

Which is the rector now, is it that man in black?
Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?
Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors,
Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.
Their smiles and their voices are changing. I am led through a beanfield.

Strips of tinfoil winking like people,
Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers,
Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts.
Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string?
No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.

Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hat
And a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them.
They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives.
Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick?
The barren body of hawthorn, etherizing its children.

Is it some operation that is taking place?
It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for,
This apparition in a green helmet,
Shining gloves and white suit.
Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know?

I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me
With its yellow purses, its spiky armory.
I could not run without having to run forever.
The white hive is snug as a virgin,
Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.

Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove.
The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything.
Here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics.
If I stand very still, they will think I am cow-parsley,
A gullible head untouched by their animosity,

Not even nodding, a personage in a hedgerow.
The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen.
Is she hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever.
She is old, old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it.
While in their fingerjoint cells the new virgins

Dream of a duel they will win inevitably,
A curtain of wax dividing them from the bride flight,
The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her.
The villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing.
The old queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful?

I am exhausted, I am exhausted -
Pillar of white in a blackout of knives.
I am the magician’s girl who does not flinch.
The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands.
Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished,
          why am I cold.

—written 3 October 1962

chelseabones:

"I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.” -Sylvia Plath
My third tattoo! I absolutely love sylvia plath and the bell jar and I feel like this quote applies to my life. It also covers up some scars from cutting. I love it!

chelseabones:

"I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.” -Sylvia Plath

My third tattoo! I absolutely love sylvia plath and the bell jar and I feel like this quote applies to my life. It also covers up some scars from cutting. I love it!

The “Sylvia Plath Submitted Tattoos”-Week part 1!

Hello again! ;)

This week will all be about Sylvia Plath tattoos, especially about these that were submitted to my second blog http://sylviaplathink.tumblr.com/ during the last months. Even though I love all of the ink on there, I feel like the submitted tattoos deserve some extra love, because people actually wanted to be featured on by blog and I’m always so happy about it! :)

Also, with Sylvia Plath Ink’s 4th Birthday coming up this month, I decided to post one Sylvia Plath tattoo every day the whole September long over there! I hope you like! :)

And remember, you can always submit via lovingsylviaplath@gmail.com or http://sylviaplathink.tumblr.com/submit or send me the link to your posted tattoo so I can reblog it!

Enjoy! :)

The biographer of an artist has one obligation and one only: to make the reader come away with a richer understanding of the relationship between the life and the work. A few who more than earn their way are Richard Holmes on Coleridge, James Lord on Alberto Giacometti, Judith Thurman on Isak Dineson, W. Jackson Bate on Samuel Johnson, Anne Stevenson on Sylvia Plath. The excellence of their books is derived from an affinity between subject and biographer that guides the work as a whole, is organized around one or two powerful insights and illuminates the subject’s work anew. “Bitter Fame,” Stevenson’s book on Plath, is a fine example of the genre at its best.

Every English-speaking reader of poetry knew that Sylvia Plath was angry because Daddy died; but, ah, what did we know from anger? Stevenson makes us experience Plath’s rage in all its breath-taking command. The rage was her true intimate: It had no rival. We see it as an embrace into which she sank without a struggle. The poems could indicate its strength, depth, and originality, but, finally, it was only suicide that could distinguish it. Stevenson’s book concentrates so intelligently on Plath’s self-consumption that, at last, we understand it in our nerve endings. After “Bitter Fame,” one does not again read the poems as one did before.

Vivian Gornick on what she says is the ‘best biography on Sylvia Plath’. (via booksandpublishing)

This is a joke, right? Bitter Fame may be the worst biography ever written on Plath (“may” because I’m not sure if Edward Butscher’s Method and Madness does not deserve the crown… only saying “bitch goddess”), because it was written with the collaboration, or as some claim even (partly) by Olwyn Hughes, Ted Hughes’ sister who, as we all know, hated Plath! Every Plath scholar knows (or should know) that Bitter Fame is a very onesided, opinionated and unsympathetic biography.

See also Janet Malcom’s The Silent Woman.

I wonder now, on August 6, lying here on my white bed, listening to the rain: slant long and hard on the roof outside my windows coming down liquidly, drippingly plural and generous from the low gray skies, fluently saying what I choose to make it say. Slanting down the screen in milky, translucent streams, prolific, uncaringly beneficent, it heals or annoys, (as we humans choose to translate it.) And I love it because of the sound, and the gray pluvial walls of it dropping down, closing in.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 6 August 1952
Three years ago, the hot, sticky August rain fell big and wet as I sat listlessly on my porch at home, crying over the way summer would not come again - never the same. […] August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 8 August 1952
And I look at the windshield wipers cutting an arch out of the sprinkled raindrops on the glass. Click-click. Clip-clip. Tick-tick. snip-snip. And it goes on and on. I could smash the measured clicking sound that haunts me - draining away life, and dreams, and idle reveries. Hard, sharp, ticks. I hate them. Measuring thought, infinite space, by cogs and wheels. Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn -
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950
Rain on roof outside window, gray light, deep covers and warm blankets. Rain and nip of autumn in air; nostalgia, itch to work better and bigger. That crisp edge of autumn.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 26 August 1956 in Paris
May 13 - today I bought a raincoat - no, that was yesterday - yesterday I bought a raincoat with a frivolous pink lining that does good to my eyes because I have never ever had anything pink-colored, and it was much too expensive - I bought it with a month’s news office pay, and soon I will not have any money to do anything more with because I am buying clothes because I love them and they are exactly right, if I pay enough. And I feel dry and a bit sick whenever I say “I’ll take it” and the smiling woman goes away with my money because she doesn’t know I really don’t have money at all at all. For three villanelles I have a blue-and-white pin-striped cotton cord suit dress, a black silk date dress and a grey raincoat with a frivolous pink lining.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 13 May 1953