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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.
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
Occasionally
Exhausted
Cracks
Less
Skull
Back
Skulls
Feel
Fatigue
Feels
Continuous
Crack
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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ
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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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How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotions, my feeling, by turning it into print?
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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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The box is only temporary.
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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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The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone. She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks crackle and drag.
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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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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 think if I had done anything else I would like to have been a doctor. This is the sort of polar opposition to being a writer, I suppose.
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We know a thing by its opposite corollary hot by having experienced cold good by having decided what is bad love by hate.
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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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Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.
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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrifying, like madness, being tortured...with an informed and intelligent mind.
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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.
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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.
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I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.
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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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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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