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At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
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
Thought
Back
Even
Would
Twenty
Twenties
Bones
Tried
Dies
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.
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A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money.
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I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.
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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.
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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
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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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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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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'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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Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.
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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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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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I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
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I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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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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A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion an insight like the flight of birds.
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Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.
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I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.
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