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There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.
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
Mets
Picture
Minutes
Building
Went
Nothings
Would
Passionately
Men
Glamorous
Love
Minute
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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I do not know who I am tonight.
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Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person
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A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
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Character is fate.
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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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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.
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I had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on the delivery table after it was all over - dead white, of course, with no makeup and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant, with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was.
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The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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You are a dream I hope I never meet you.
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Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?
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I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.
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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.
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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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Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.
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A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money.
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I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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Then I thought, No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.
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