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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
Loved
Ashes
Dark
Settling
Night
Gray
Heart
Piece
Scraps
Never
Exactly
Scrap
Would
York
Wardrobe
Like
Wind
Settle
Pieces
Feds
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
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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I knew you'd decide to be all right again.
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I am sure there are things that can't be cured by a good bath but I can't think of one.
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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, white and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
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I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
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But I am I now and so many other millions are so irretrievably their own special variety of 'I' that I can hardly bear to think of it. I: how firm a letter how reassuring the three strokes: one vertical, proud and assertive, and then the two short horizontal lines in quick, smug succession. The pen scratching on the paper…I…I…I…I…I…I.
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Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.
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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
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It is best to meet in a cul-de-sac, A palace of velvet With windows of mirrors. There one is safe, There are no family photographs, No rings through the nose, no cries.
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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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I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.
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There is more than one good way to drown.
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In this particular tub, two knees jut up like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp green soap navigates the tidal slosh of seas breaking on legendary beaches in faith we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.
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It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.
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Talking about my fears to others feeds it.
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Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses.
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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
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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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