Quotes from books

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Quotes from books

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I headed back to the kitchen, where my layer cakes reposed. I couldn’t figure out how to turn them over so that the plates would hold the two cakes. I put the plates upside down on top of the layers as they sat on the rack and turned the racks over so that the plates would turn out rightside up … Lack of foresight was revealed when the heavy rack, turned over on top of the cakes, crushed deeply into them and crumbled large pieces from the edge. I had not made enough frosting to spread over the side of the cake to conceal the messy uneven edges, so I cut three pieces of the worst-looking part … They crumbled into little shapeless brown masses on the plates. So I hid them in a cupboard in order that no one would see them.

Sylvia Plath
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Talk, talk, talk: the utter and heartbreaking stupidity of words.

Mosquitoes, William Faulkner
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He avanzado lento pero ugh, es que hay tantas cosas interesantes que dice. Sobre montón de temas. Y es muy interesante cómo se expresaba sobre cosas tan simples que justo a mi edad son lo que más te preocupa. Me siento, hasta ahora, muy muy identificada. He subrayado muchas cosas, creo que tenía mucho sin hacerle tantas notas a un libro.

Algunas de The Journals, de Sylvia Plath:

I may never be happy, but tonight I am content.

Today is the first of August. It is hot, steamy and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: After a heavy rainfall, poems titled RAIN pour in from across the nation.

I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me. My love's not impersonal yet not wholly subjective either. I would like to be everyone, a cripple, a dying man, a whore, and then come back to write about my thoughts, my emotions, as that person. But I am not omniscient. I have to live my life, and it is the only one I'll ever have. And you cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time...

Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass.

Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.

I felt sick. I couldn't have spoken if someone had talked to me. My voice was stuck in my throat, thick and furry.

I wish I could be smart, or flip, but I'm too scared.

This is I, I thought, the American virgin, dressed to seduce.

So we talked about little things, how words lose their meaning when you repeat them over and over; how all people of the Negro race look alike until you get to know them individually; how we always liked the age we were at best.

Oh, something is there, waiting for me. Perhaps someday the revelation will burst in upon me and I will see the other side of this monumental grotesque joke. And then I'll laugh. And then I'll know what life is.
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Esto me pasa constantemente:

This morning I am at low ebb. I did not sleep well last night, waking, tossing, and dreaming sordid, incoherent little dreams. I awoke, my head heavy, feeling as if I had just emerged from a swim in a pool of warm polluted water. My skin was greasy, my hair stiff, oily, and my hands as if I had touched something slimy and unclean. The thick August air does not help. I sit here lumpishly, an ache at the back of my neck. I feel that even if I washed myself all day in cold clear water, I could not rinse the sticky, untidy film away; nor could I rid my mouth of the furry unpleasant taste of unbrushed teeth.
Última edición por triste el 26 Jun 2014 00:15, editado 1 vez en total.
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A little thing, like children putting flowers in my hair, can fill up the widening cracks in my self-assurance like soothing lanolin. (...) And all my hurts were smoothed away. Something about the frank, guileless blue eyes, the beautiful young bodies, the brief scent of the dying flowers smote me like the clean quick cut of a knife. And the blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.

Oh, he's magnetic, he's charming; you could fall into his eyes.

"I'll whisper something: I like you, but not too much. I don't want to like anybody too much", he said.
"I like people too much or not at all. I've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them. Have a hell of a nice life," I said.

My mental fear, which can be at times forced into the background, reared up and caught me in the pit of my stomach; it became a physical nausea which wouldn't let me eat breakfast.

It all flowed over me with a screaming ache of pain... remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it.

I've got to have something. I want to stop it all, the whole monumental grotesque joke, before it's too late. But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.

Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.
Última edición por triste el 26 Jun 2014 00:16, editado 1 vez en total.
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If I didn't think, I'd be much happier; if I didn't have any sex organs, I wouldn't waver on the brink of nervous emotion and tears all the time.

How we need another soul to cling to, another body to keep us warm. To rest and trust; to give your soul in confidence: I need this, I need someone to pour myself into.

Tonight I am ugly. I have lost all faith in my ability to attract males.

I don't care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.

Ah, what the hell do I care what they think - (damn much.)
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La poetisa Sylvia Plath, que se suicidó a los 30 años, escribía de madrugada para evitar el barullo de sus hijos.
Imagen
Última edición por Yelena de Rusia el 28 Jun 2014 16:57, editado 1 vez en total.
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Esa de la foto no es Sylvia, Yelena. No recuerdo el nombre de esa actriz. Siempre se me ha hecho raro que en Google aparezca esa imagen como si fuera Plath. :shock:
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triste escribió:Esa de la foto no es Sylvia, Yelena.
¿Seguro?


* * * * *

"Go away! Leave me on my own again, vile element! I'm a straightforward engineer and a rationalist, and I reject you as woman and as love. I'd do better to worship the electron and the dust of the atoms!" But the world drifting before his eyes as fire and noise was already dying away in its own sounds; it had crossed beyond the dark threshold of his heart and left behind it only a single living being - the most touching creature on earth. Could he truly renounce this being in order to devote himself to the atom - to a mere particle of dust and ash?

...The man was left to settle up without her, astonished at the heartlessness of the young generation, who kiss passionately, as if they love, when really they're saying goodbye for eternity.

Andrey Platonov


All is nothingness in the world, including my despair, which any man who is wise but also calmer, and I myself certainly at a quieter time, will see as vain, irrational, and imaginary. Wretched me! Even this pain of mine is vain, nothing. After a certain time it will pass and turn to nothing, and leave me in a universal emptiness, a terrible apathy that will not even let me lament.

Giacomo Leopardi.
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Yelena editó la foto, la anterior no era, la que pone ahora sí. Era ésta, que aparece en Google al buscar "Sylvia Plath" y que incluso la página de Facebook de Random House compartió alguna vez como si fuera ella. :shock: Yo ni siquiera le veo parecido a Sylvia, pero bueh...
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Ah, vale, no me había dado cuenta. :roll:
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From a Dylan Thomas letter:

Tell me everything; when you’ll be out again, where you’ll be at Christmas, and that you think of me and love me. And when you’re in the world again, we’ll both be useful if you like, trot round, do things, compromise with the They people, find a place with a bath and no bugs in Bloomsbury, and be happy there ... I don’t want you for a day (though I’d sell my toes to see you now my dear, only for a minute, to kiss you once, and make a funny face at you): a day is the length of a gnat’s life: I want you for the lifetime of a big, mad animal, like an elephant ... I want so very much to look at you.

I love you so much I’ll never be able to tell you; I’m frightened to tell you. I can always feel your heart. Dance tunes are always right: I love you body and soul:— and I suppose body means that I want to touch you & be in bed with you, & I suppose soul means that I can hear you & see you & love you in every single, single thing in the whole world asleep or awake.
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Quotes from books

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Las citas del escritor turco Yaşar Kemal.
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