When I break into the clearing, she’s on the ground, hopelessly entangled in a net. She just has time to reach her hand through the mesh and say my name before the spear enters her body.
(Source: teacupinastorm)
(via vicieux)
—The Little Prince (via quote-book)
Reading is the best way to spend time.
I liked looking on at other people in crucial situations. If there was a road accident or a street fight or a baby pickled in a laboratory jar for me to look at, I’d stop and look so hard I never forgot it. I certainly learned a lot of things I never would have learned otherwise this way, and even when they surprised me or made me sick I never let on, but pretended that’s the way I knew things were all the time.
The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
(Source: vicieuxreads)
(Source: bookshelves)
There is something demoralizing about watching two people get more and more crazy about each other, especially when you are the only extra person in the room. It’s like watching Paris from an express caboose heading in the opposite direction—every section the city gets smaller and smaller, only you feel it’s really you getting smaller and smaller and lonelier and lonelier, rushing away from all those lights and that excitement at about a million miles an hour.
The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
(Source: vicieuxreads)
(via vannaisms)
There must be quite a few things a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them. Whenever I’m sad I’m going to die, or so nervous I can’t sleep, or in love with someday I won’t be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: “I’ll go take a hot bath.”
I meditate in the bath. The water needs to be very hot, so hot you can so hot you can barely stand putting your foot in it. Then you lower yourself, icy by inch, till the water’s up your neck.
I remember the ceiling over every bathtub I’ve stretched out in. I remember the texture of the ceilings and the cracks and the colors and the damp spots and the light fixtures. I remember the tubs too: the antique griffin-legged tubs, and the modern coffin-shaped tubs, and the fancy pink marble tubs overlooking indoor lily ponds, and i remember the shapes and sizes of the water taps and the different sorts of soap holders.
I never feel so much of myself as when I’m in a hot bath.
The longer I lay there in the clear hot water the purer I felt and when I stepped out at last and wrapped myself in one of the big, soft white hotel bath towels I felt pure and sweet as a new baby.
The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
(Source: vicieuxreads)
—The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
(Source: vicieuxreads)
