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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
Comfort
Least
Small
Fall
Going
Long
Comforts
Would
Hang
Possibly
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Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.
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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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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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One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
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The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.
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Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
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I've got to have something. I want to stop it all, the whole monumental grotesque joke, before it's too late. But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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I may have made a straight A in physics, but I was panic-struck. Physics made me sick the whole time I learned it.
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I knew chemistry would be worse, because I'd seen a big card of the ninety-odd elements hung up in the chemistry lab, and all the perfectly good words like gold and silver and cobalt and aluminum were shortened to ugly abbreviations with different decimal numbers after them.
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I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
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I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free.
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The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm
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Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.
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…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.
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I collect men with interesting names.
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It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.
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Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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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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I don't know what started me, I just wrote poetry from the time was quite small. I guess I liked nursery rhymes and I guess I thought I could do the same thing. I wrote my first poem, my first published poem, when I was eight-and-a-half years old. It came out in The Boston Traveller and from then on, I suppose, I've been a bit of a professional.
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