The box is only temporary.

Perhaps, perhaps this would be the one to pull me out of my plunge.

There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.

I lay and cried, and began to feel again, to admit I was human, vulnerable, sensitive. I began to remember how it had been before; how there was that germ of positive creativeness. Character is fate; and damn, I'd better work on my character. I had been withdrawing into a retreat of numbness: it is so much safer to NOT feel, NOT to let the world touch one.

Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.

I may have made a straight A in physics, but I was panic-struck. Physics made me sick the whole time I learned it.

To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.