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Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.
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
Neck
Necks
Thick
Silent
Hate
Speak
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Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.
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I have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I'm so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily.
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Sometimes I feel like I'm not solid. I'm hollow. There's nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.
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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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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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I like people too much or not at all.
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I am what I feel and think and do.
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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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I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free—— The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
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I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
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My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.
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Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.
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I used to pray to recover you.
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I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.
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The box is only temporary.
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What is so real as the cry of a child?
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They would grow old. They would forget me.
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Character is fate.
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O heart, such disorganization!
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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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