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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
Wonder
Sleep
Incoherent
Hours
Skip
Live
Decide
Matter
Bed
Would
Hour
Life
Tired
Tomorrow
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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 feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
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I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
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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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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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There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.
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Sometimes I feel like I'm not solid. I'm hollow. There's nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.
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So learn about life. Cut yourself a big slice with the silver server, a big slice of pie. Open your eyes. Let life happen.
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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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Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.
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I do not know who I am tonight.
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