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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
Sylvia Plath
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Sylvia Plath
Age: 30 †
Born: 1932
Born: October 27
Died: 1963
Died: February 11
Autobiographer
Diarist
Essayist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Victoria Lucas
Sylvia Plath Hughes
Frail
Pool
Thought
Human
Humans
Must
Heart
Mirrored
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.
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I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.
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When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever.
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A man's world is different from a woman's world and a man's emotions are different from a woman's emotions and only marriage can bring the two different sets of emotions together properly.
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Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?
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I am sure there are things that can't be cured by a good bath but I can't think of one.
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What I didn't say was that each time I picked up a German dictionary or a German book, the very sight of those dense, black, barbed-wire letters made my mind shut like a clam.
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I hurl my heart to halt his pace.
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There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
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I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
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The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.
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...we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.
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I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.
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I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.
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Why do we electrocute men for murdering an individual and then pin a purple heart on them for mass slaughter of someone arbitrarily labeled “enemy?
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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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And if you have no past or future which, after all, is all that the present is made of, why then you may as well dispose of the empty shell of present and commit suicide.
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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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