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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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
Love
Welled
Slow
Blood
Pain
Heart
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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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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God, it was good to let go, let the tight mask fall off, and the bewildered, chaotic fragments pour out. It was the purge, the catharsis.
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To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.
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I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
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The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed.
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…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.
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I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrific, like madness, being tortured, this sort of experience, and one should be able to manipulate these experiences with an informed and an intelligent mini.
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I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling.
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Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.
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I think I may well be a Jew.
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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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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off
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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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I need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to the shock room, to comfort me with an assurance that no psychiatrist can quite manage to convey.
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I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.
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She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.
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For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.
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