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A skeptic, I would ask for consistency first of all.
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
Asks
Firsts
First
Would
Skeptic
Consistency
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
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There was a beautiful time.
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I like people, but to learn about one individual always appeals to me more than anything.
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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 have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
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I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.
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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
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But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.
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I could never be a complete scholar or a complete housewife ora completewriter: Imustcombinea little of all, and thereby be imperfect in all.
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See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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I saw the years of my life spaced along a road in the form of telephone poles threaded together by wires. I counted one, two, three... nineteen telephone poles, and then the wires dangled into space, and try as I would, I couldn't see a single pole beyond the nineteenth.
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Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
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I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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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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Ash, ash —- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
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For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.
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The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.
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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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