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I wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.
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
Life
Tired
Tomorrow
Wonder
Sleep
Incoherent
Hours
Skip
Live
Decide
Matter
Bed
Would
Hour
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tup and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank into sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.
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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 do not love I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.
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Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.
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What is so real as the cry of a child?
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I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.
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I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
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The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.
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I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
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I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.
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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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You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
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I could never be a complete scholar or a complete housewife ora completewriter: Imustcombinea little of all, and thereby be imperfect in all.
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We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.
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I didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.
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Talking about my fears to others feeds it.
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