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Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.
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
Things
Anxious
World
Step
Steps
Grow
Takes
Grows
Littles
Unsettling
Little
Tricky
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.
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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 felt very low. I had been unmasked only that morning by Jay Cee herself, and I felt now that all the uncomfortable suspicions I had about myself were coming true. After nineteen years of running after good marks and prizes and grants of one sort and another, I was letting up, slowing down, dropping clean out of race.
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I have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I'm so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily.
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One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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Don't let the wicked city get you down.
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Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.
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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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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
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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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When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.
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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline, you've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space that you've just got to turn away all the peripherals.
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I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
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Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
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A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion an insight like the flight of birds.
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I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.
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If I have a dry spell ... I wait and live harder, eyes, ears, and heart open, and when the productive time comes, it is that much richer.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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