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I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates. He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it for both of us.
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
Names
Catholic
Interesting
Ugly
Socrates
Bigs
Son
Collected
Also
Hollywood
Producer
Men
Intellectual
Ruined
Already
Tall
Knew
Greek
Movie
Producers
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.
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I am flushed and warm. I think I may be enormous, I am so stupidly happy, My wellingtons Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.
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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.
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Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
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I felt very low. I had been unmasked only that morning by Jay Cee herself, and I felt now that all the uncomfortable suspicions I had about myself were coming true. After nineteen years of running after good marks and prizes and grants of one sort and another, I was letting up, slowing down, dropping clean out of race.
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I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free.
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I hurl my heart to halt his pace.
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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 can't think logically about who I am or where I am going. I have been very ecstatic, horribly depressed, shocked, elated, enlightened, and enervated.
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Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.
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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrifying, like madness, being tortured...with an informed and intelligent mind.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.
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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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I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.
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I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
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The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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