よすが

Rory once said: Who cares if I’m pretty if I fail my finals?

چرا همه‌ی فیلما و کتابای خوب تو فرجه‌ی امتحانا سرِ راهم قرار می‌گیرن؟

(چون اولین امتحان با موفقیت تموم شد.)

جایزه خریدم برای خودم🤓

You do not do, you do not do    Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot    For thirty years, poor and white,    Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. Daddy, I have had to kill you.    You died before I had time—— Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,    Ghastly statue with one gray toe    Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic    Where it pours bean green over blue    In the waters off beautiful Nauset.    I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town    Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common.    My Polack friend Says there are a dozen or two.    So I never could tell where you    Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare.    Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you.    And the language obscene An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.    I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna    Are not very pure or true. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck    And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew. I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.    And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You—— Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through.    Every woman adores a Fascist,    The boot in the face, the brute    Brute heart of a brute like you. You stand at the blackboard, daddy,    In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot    But no less a devil for that, no not    Any less the black man who Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you.    At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. But they pulled me out of the sack,    And they stuck me together with glue.    And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look And a love of the rack and the screw.    And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I’m finally through. The black telephone’s off at the root,    The voices just can’t worm through. If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two—— The vampire who said he was you    And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now. There’s a stake in your fat black heart    And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you.    They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through. -Sylvia Plath, Daddy

🍿Sylvia (2003)

Sylvia (2003)

اَمُرداد.

«تو در مورد میکل‌آنژ کلی می‌دونی، درسته؟ کلی کتاب‌ درباره‌ش خوندی. در مورد زندگی‌نامه‌ش، آرزوهاش، نقاشی‌هاش، فلسفه‌ش. اما نمی‌تونی بگی توی کلیسای سیستین چه بویی می‌ده! نمی‌تونی بگی زیر سقفی ایستادی که اون نقاشی کرده! نمی‌تونی بگی چه احساسی داشتی وقتی به اون شاهکار نگاه کردی. تو با خوندن کتاب‌ها می‌تونی همه‌چیز رو بدونی، ولی نمی‌تونی درد، عشق، یا از دست دادن کسی رو فقط با مطالعه کردن درک کنی.»