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You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.
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
Space
Barn
Barns
Envious
Spaces
Lean
Solid
Baby
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How we need another soul to cling to.
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I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.
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Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
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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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I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print, the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-tree.
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It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.
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I think that as far as language goes I'm an American, I'm afraid, my accent is American, my way of talk is an American way of talk, I'm an old-fashioned American. That's probably one of the reasons why I'm in England now and why I'll always stay in England.
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With that strange knowing that comes over me, like a clairvoyance, I know that I am sure of myself and my enormous and alarmingly timeless love for you which will always be.
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I opened the door and blinked out into the bright hall. I had the impression it wasn't night and it wasn't day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end.
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Don't let the wicked city get you down.
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You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.
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And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
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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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I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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Read widely of others' experiences, even if it'd be more comfortable to snuggle back in the comforting cotton-wool of blissful ignorance.
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But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.
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Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.
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I've got to have something. I want to stop it all, the whole monumental grotesque joke, before it's too late. But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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