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God, it was good to let go, let the tight mask fall off, and the bewildered, chaotic fragments pour out. It was the purge, the catharsis.
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
Fragments
Tight
Mask
Fall
Purge
Good
Catharsis
Bewildered
Pour
Chaotic
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Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it
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Pretty soon, the only doubt in my mind was the precise time and method of committing suicide. The only alternative I could see was an eternity of hell for the rest of my life in a mental hospital, and I was going to use my last ounce of free choice and choose a quick clean ending.
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I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.
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I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see, I swallow immediately. Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful.
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Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn.
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I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead I lift my eyes and all is born again.
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I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
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What is so real as the cry of a child?
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I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.
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Character is fate.
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I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.
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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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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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You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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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 wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.
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August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
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Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.
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I didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.
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