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So I began to think maybe it was true that when you were married and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterward you went about as numb as a slave in a totalitarian state.
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
Children
Began
Think
Slave
Thinking
Married
Like
Went
Maybe
Brainwashed
State
Totalitarian
True
Afterward
States
Numb
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Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it
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I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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I'm about fifty years behind as far as my preferences go and I must say that the poets who excite me most are the Americans. There are very few contemporary English poets that I admire.
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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.
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Good to know that if I ever need attention all I have to do is die.
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Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. I am none the wiser.
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And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
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Not being perfect hurts.
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I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.
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Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.
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Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.
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With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start.
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Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.
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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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I used to pray to recover you.
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
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It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)
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