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What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.
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
Wells
Feminism
Well
Classic
Useless
Educated
Middle
Brilliantly
Age
Promising
Idea
Fading
Ideas
Indifferent
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.
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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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You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
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A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.
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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.
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I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and say, 'Ah!' in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out.
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Not being perfect hurts.
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What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid.
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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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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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I collect men with interesting names.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.
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There is more than one good way to drown.
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Sunday-the doctor's paradise! Doctors at country clubs, doctors at the seaside, doctors with mistresses, doctors with wives, doctors in church, doctors in yachts, doctors everywhere resolutely being people, not doctors.
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I am too pure for you or anyone.
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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
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The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.
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I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.
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