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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
Fall
Going
Long
Comforts
Would
Hang
Possibly
Comfort
Least
Small
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...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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So I kiss him, and there is the great dark sea ahead.
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Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
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If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. Save them for my funeral, I'd said.
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With that strange knowing that comes over me, like a clairvoyance, I know that I am sure of myself and my enormous and alarmingly timeless love for you which will always be.
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It was sometime in October she had long ago lost track of all the days and it really didn’t matter because one was like another and there were no nights to separate them because she never slept any more.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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Sometimes I feel like I'm not solid. I'm hollow. There's nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.
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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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A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.
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Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?
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And you grit your teeth, despising yourself for your tremulous sensitivity, and wondering how human beings can suffer their individualities to be mercilessly crushed under a machinelike dictatorship, be it of industry, state or organization, all their lives long.
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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 had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on the delivery table after it was all over - dead white, of course, with no makeup and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant, with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was.
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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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You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.
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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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