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August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
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
Born
Fall
Uneven
Best
Summertime
Time
August
Odd
Rain
Summer
Gone
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, This is what it is to be happy.
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Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: 'I'll go take a hot bath.
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I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
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And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.
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Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
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I feel that very strongly: having been an academic, having been tempted by the invitation to stay on to become a Ph.D., a professor, and all that, one side of me certainly does respect all disciplines, as long as they don't ossify.
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I'm about fifty years behind as far as my preferences go and I must say that the poets who excite me most are the Americans. There are very few contemporary English poets that I admire.
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Your room is not your prison. You are.
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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.
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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.
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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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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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And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
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So I began to think maybe it was true that when you were married and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterward you went about as numb as a slave in a totalitarian state.
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And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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