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I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.
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
Men
Slept
Intelligent
Respect
Felt
Firsts
First
Must
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
I wonder about all the roads not taken and am moved to quote Frost...but won't. It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.
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With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start.
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There is more than one good way to drown.
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They would grow old. They would forget me.
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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money.
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I used to pray to recover you.
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There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart - It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge, For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
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If every soldier refused to take arms ... there would be no wars but no one has the courage to be the first to live according to Christ and Socrates, because in a world of opportunists they would be martyred.
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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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I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.
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Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.
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The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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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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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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And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
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Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.
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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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You are a dream I hope I never meet you.
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