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I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
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
Hanging
Addresses
Boat
Thirty
Stubbornly
Name
Cargo
Names
Slip
Year
Slips
Things
Address
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
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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We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.
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You walked in, laughing, tears welling confused, mingling in your throat. How can you be so many women to so many people, oh you strange girl?
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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ
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I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.
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I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.
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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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Winning or losing an argument, receiving an acceptance or rejection, is no proof of the validity or value of personal identity. One may be wrong, mistaken, or a poor craftsman, or just ignorant - but this is no indication of the true worth of one's total human identity: past, present and future!
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For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.
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I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.
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I hadn't, at the last moment, felt like washing off the two diagonal lines of dried blood that marked my cheeks. They seemed touching, and rather spectacular, and I thought I would carry them around with me, like the relic of a dead lover, till they wore off of their own accord.
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I am still so naïve I know pretty much what I like and dislike but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?
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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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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
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I used to pray to recover you.
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..I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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Then I thought, No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.
Sylvia Plath
A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.
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I decided I would put off the novel until I had gone to Europe and had a lover, and that I would never learn a word of shorthand. If I never learned shorthand I would never have to use it.
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I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.
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