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See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
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
Life
Leaking
Contain
Cracks
Darkness
Cannot
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What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid.
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A man's world is different from a woman's world and a man's emotions are different from a woman's emotions and only marriage can bring the two different sets of emotions together properly.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
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I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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Why do we electrocute men for murdering an individual and then pin a purple heart on them for mass slaughter of someone arbitrarily labeled “enemy?
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God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.
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A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.
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I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.
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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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The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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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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It is best to meet in a cul-de-sac, A palace of velvet With windows of mirrors. There one is safe, There are no family photographs, No rings through the nose, no cries.
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I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
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Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?
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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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I am still so naïve I know pretty much what I like and dislike but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?
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She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.
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