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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.
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
Night
Gray
Heart
Piece
Scraps
Never
Exactly
Scrap
Would
York
Wardrobe
Like
Wind
Settle
Pieces
Feds
Loved
Ashes
Dark
Settling
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it.
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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.
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God, if ever I have come close to wanting to commit suicide, it is now, with the groggy sleepless blood dragging through my veins, and the air thick and gray with rain ... I fell into bed again this morning, begging for sleep, withdrawing into the dark, warm, fetid escape from action, from responsibility. No good.
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When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever.
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I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
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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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I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
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I like people too much or not at all.
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I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
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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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I am still so naïve I know pretty much what I like and dislike but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?
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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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The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.
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Then I thought, No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.
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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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If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
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Let's face it: I'm scared, scared and frozen. First, I guess, I'm afraid for myself...the old primitive urge for survival. It's getting so I live every moment with terrible intensity.
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