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I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
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
Felt
Visions
Shattered
Flat
Flats
Dull
Vision
Full
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
I hurl my heart to halt his pace.
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I do not know who I am tonight.
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And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
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My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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So learn about life. Cut yourself a big slice with the silver server, a big slice of pie. Open your eyes. Let life happen.
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A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.
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Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone.
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I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, This is what it is to be happy.
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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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Outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.
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But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.
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The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness
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So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.
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