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Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person
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
Winter
Mean
Thing
Simple
Much
Littles
Like
Persons
Person
Little
Snowfall
Wells
Snow
Well
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
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When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever.
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I am what I feel and think and do.
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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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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I must say that I am not very genteel and I feel that gentility has a stranglehold: the neatness, the wonderful tidiness, which is so evident everywhere in England is perhaps more dangerous than it would appear on the surface.
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My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.
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In this particular tub, two knees jut up like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp green soap navigates the tidal slosh of seas breaking on legendary beaches in faith we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.
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And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.
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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
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I wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.
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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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I said: I must remember this, being small.
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To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone.
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The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.
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As from a star I saw, coldly and soberly, the separateness of everything. I felt the wall of my skin I am I. That stone is a stone. My beautiful fusion with the things of this world was over.
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I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
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I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
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