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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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
Hadn
Along
Simply
Trouble
Thought
Inadequate
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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ
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The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.
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I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print, the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-tree.
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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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we walk the plank with strangers.
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Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it
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And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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As from a star I saw, coldly and soberly, the separateness of everything. I felt the wall of my skin I am I. That stone is a stone. My beautiful fusion with the things of this world was over.
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It never occurred to me to say no.
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If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.
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To learn and think to think and live to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.
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Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
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Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.
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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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God, if ever I have come close to wanting to commit suicide, it is now, with the groggy sleepless blood dragging through my veins, and the air thick and gray with rain ... I fell into bed again this morning, begging for sleep, withdrawing into the dark, warm, fetid escape from action, from responsibility. No good.
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You are a dream I hope I never meet you.
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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