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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.
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
Live
Ears
Heart
Wait
Much
Harder
Time
Open
Spell
Eyes
Richer
Waiting
Spells
Eye
Dry
Comes
Productive
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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Look at that ugly dead mask here and do not forget it. It is a chalk mask with dead dry poison behind it, like the death angel. It is what I was this fall, and what I never want to be again. The pouting disconsolate mouth, the flat, bored, numb, expressionless eyes: symptoms of the foul decay within.
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Dancing is the normal prelude to intercourse.
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It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.
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I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.
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I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
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Then I thought, No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.
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I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.
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You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.
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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.
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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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Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.
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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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