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There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.
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
Much
Realizing
Mates
Turn
Testing
Hurt
Searching
Games
Dating
Turns
Suddenly
Inspirational
Tears
Away
Realize
Mate
Trying
Game
Forgot
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
We know a thing by its opposite corollary hot by having experienced cold good by having decided what is bad love by hate.
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It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.
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We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.
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I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
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No day is safe from news of you.
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I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.
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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 knew you'd decide to be all right again.
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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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Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.
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Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.
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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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Outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.
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I do not fear it: I have been there.
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Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.
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The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time.
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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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I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
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I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.
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Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
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