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I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.
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
Flowered
Dead
Though
Even
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
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Pretty soon, the only doubt in my mind was the precise time and method of committing suicide. The only alternative I could see was an eternity of hell for the rest of my life in a mental hospital, and I was going to use my last ounce of free choice and choose a quick clean ending.
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In spite of everything, I still have my good old sense of humor.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.
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I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have.
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I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.
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Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.
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The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.
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I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see, I swallow immediately. Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful.
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August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
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I do not fear it: I have been there.
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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.
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…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.
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