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But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.
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
Interest
Running
Flare
Long
Balances
Life
Feminism
Classic
Short
Balance
Passion
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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
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I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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After all, we are nothing more or less than we choose to reveal.
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Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.
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I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.
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For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.
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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.
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I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
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I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.
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Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
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What a man wants is a mate and what a woman wants is infinite security,’ and, ‘What a man is is an arrow into the future and a what a woman is is the place the arrow shoots off from.
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Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
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When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tup and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank into sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.
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because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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