Monthly Archives: March 2017

The Book Jar

The Book Jar

Yesterday I was coping with the fact that there’s not enough time in a human life to read all the book we wish to read. But maybe, it’s not time the thing that lacks. Not in my case, anyway. I stared at my shelves with defiance, waving “hello” to the few books I have read from first to last page, and approching cautiously towards those who are waiting for me. I have an endless list of started-but-not-yet-finished books and another

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I already failed my reading list…

I already failed my reading list…

Almost 4 months ago, I published an article about my Reading List of 2017; all the books I had planned to finish and read during these 12 months. Now, thinking about it, I realized I completely failed. And because I failed, I deserve to publicly humiliate myself about it. I had 9 new books to read and 6 books to finish, on my list. Well… None of those are on my “currently reading” one. I have to say this: I

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The Everlasting Monday, Sylvia Plath

The Everlasting Monday, Sylvia Plath

Thou shalt have an everlasting Monday and stand in the moon. The moon’s man stands in his shell, Bent under a bundle Of sticks. The light falls chalk and cold Upon our bedspread. His teeth are chattering among the leprous Peak and craters of those extinct volcanoes. He also against black frost Would pick sticks, would not rest Until hos own lit room outshone Sunday’s ghost of sun; Now works his hell of Mondays in the moon’s ball, Fireless, seven

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Faun, Sylvia Plath

Faun, Sylvia Plath

Haunched like a faun, he hooed From grove of moon-glint and fen-frost Until all owls in the twigged forest Flapped black to look and brood On the call this man made. No sound but a drunken coot Lurching home along river bank. Stars hung water-sunk, so a rank Of double star-eyes lit Boughs where those owls sat. An arena of yellow eyes Watched the canging shape he cut, Saw hoof harden from foot, saw sprout Goat-horns. Marked how god rose

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Letter to a purist, Sylvia Plath

Letter to a purist, Sylvia Plath

That grandiose colossus who Stood astride The envious assaults of sea (Essaying, wave by wave, Tide by tide, To undo him, perpetually), Has nothing on you, O my love, O my great idiot, who With one foot Caught (as it were) in the muck-trap Of skin and bone, Dithers with the other way out In preposterous provinces of the madcap Cloud-cuckoo, Agawp at the impeccable moon. Clicca qui per la versione in Italiano!

Night Shift, Sylvia Plath

Night Shift, Sylvia Plath

It was not a heart, beating. That muted boom, that clangor Far off, not blood in the ears Drumming up any fever To impose on the evening. The noise came from outside; A metal detonating Native, evidently, to These stilled suburbs: nobody Startled at it, though the sound Shook the ground with its pounding. It took root at my coming Till the thudding source, exposed, Confounded inept guesswork: Framed in windows of Main Street’s Silver factory, immense Hammers hoisted, wheels

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Aftermath, Sylvia Plath

Aftermath, Sylvia Plath

Compelled by calamity’s magnet They loiter and stare as if the house Burnt-out weretheirs, or as if they thought Some scandal might any minute ooze From a smoke-choked closet into light; No deaths, no prodigious injuries Glut these hunters after an old meat, Blood-spoor of the austere tragedies. Mother Medea in a green smock Moves humbly as any housewife through Her ruined apartments, taking stock Of charred shoes, the sodden upholstery: Cheated of the pyre and the rack, The crowd

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Heavy Women, Sylvia Plath

Heavy Women, Sylvia Plath

Irrefutable, beautifully smug As Venus, pedestaled on a half-shell Shawled in blond hair and the salt Scrim of a sea breeze, the women Settle in their belling dresses. Over each weighty stomach a face Floats calm as a moon or a cloud. Smiling to themselves, they meditate Devoutly as the Dutch bulb Forming its twenty petals. The dark still nurses its secret. On the green hill, under the thorn trees, They listen for the millennium, The knock of the small,

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Tulips, Sylvia Plath

Tulips, Sylvia Plath

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in. I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.   They have propped my head between the pillow and

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Lady Lazarus, Sylvia Plath

Lady Lazarus, Sylvia Plath

I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it— A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?— The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And

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New Projects!

New Projects!

Hello everyone! This post is just a brief introduction to what I’m planning on doing with this blog, from now on. I have 5 main ideas I want to develop.  #1: A F. Scott Fitzgerald Series It’s quite useless to say that Fitzgerald is my favourite author. So, why not writing a series of post about him and his work? I’m planning on reading his bibliography in a chronological order, and write a post for each work.  #2: Women in Literature During my

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