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I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, This is what it is to be happy.
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
Felt
Lungs
Nature
Mountains
Thought
Trees
People
Mountain
Air
Tree
Happiness
Inflate
Happy
Scenery
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A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion an insight like the flight of birds.
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That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. Save them for my funeral, I'd said.
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Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
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I could never be a complete scholar or a complete housewife ora completewriter: Imustcombinea little of all, and thereby be imperfect in all.
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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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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.
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Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.
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I like people too much or not at all.
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