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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
Happy
Scenery
Felt
Lungs
Mountains
Nature
Trees
Thought
Mountain
People
Air
Tree
Happiness
Inflate
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
Talking about my fears to others feeds it.
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I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates. He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it for both of us.
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My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.
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There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.
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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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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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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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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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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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What is so real as the cry of a child?
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I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.
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I lay in that tub on the seventeenth floor of this hotel for-women-only, high up over the jazz and push of New York, for near unto an hour, and I felt myself growing pure again. I don't believe in baptism or the waters of Jordan or anything like that, but I guess I feel about a hot bath the way those religious people feel about holy water.
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Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.
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Outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.
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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
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What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid.
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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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Tomorrow I will curse the dawn, but there will be other, earlier nights, and the dawns will be no longer hell laid out in alarms and raw bells and sirens.
Sylvia Plath
The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm
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