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If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.
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
Possibly
Comfort
Least
Small
Fall
Going
Long
Comforts
Would
Hang
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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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There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.
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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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My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.
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All the heat and fear had purged itself. I felt surprisingly at peace. The bell jar hung suspended a few feet above my head. I was open to the circulating air.
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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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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.
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Frustrated? Yes. Why? Because it is impossible for me to be God — or the universal woman-and-man — or anything much. I am what I feel and think and do. I want to express my being as fully as I can because I somewhere picked up the idea that I could justify my being alive that way.
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Not being perfect hurts.
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I said: I must remember this, being small.
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She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.
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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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This seemed a dreary and wasted life for a girl with fifteen years of straight A's, but I knew that's what marriage was like, because cook and clean and wash was just what Buddy Willard's mother did from morning till night, and she was the wife of a university professor and had been a private school teacher herself.
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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Read widely of others' experiences, even if it'd be more comfortable to snuggle back in the comforting cotton-wool of blissful ignorance.
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