˚ ౨ৎ⋆。˚ ⋆ دانه

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Tuesdays with Mor...
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May 16, 2026 04:58AM

 
حيونة الإنسان
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Intermezzo
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Sylvia Plath
“If I lived by the sea I would never be really sad. I get an immense sense of eternity and peace from the ocean. I can lose myself in staring at it hour after hour.

--from a letter to Aurelia Plath, written c. July 1951”
Sylvia Plath, Letters of Sylvia Plath, Volume I: 1940-1956

Sylvia Plath
“I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.”
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath
“I am alone in my room, between two worlds.”
Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath
“في كل مرة أقول فيها " أحبك"، فإن الكلمة تخرج و كأنها جديدة، أعمق، و أغنى و كأنها كعكة خوخ مع فارق بسيط في الذوق و الملمس. بسبب كل هذا أتساءل، من ناحية المكان و الزمان، كم من الوقت المستمر و الفاصل احتاجه حتى أتمكن من الجلوس في نفس الغرفة معك و القراءة لساعات دون قول كلمة أو مقاطعة التحدث أو المناقشة أو مشاركة شيء معك، أن أقرأ دون ان يتراقص صوتي الداخلي مكرراً:"انت هنا… انت هنا..هنا!”
Sylvia Plath, رسائل سيلفيا بلاث 1940 - 1963

William Shakespeare
“To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.--Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd!”
William Shakespeare, Hamlet

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