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What I want back is what I was Before the bed, before the knife, Before the brooch-pin and the salve Fixed me in this parenthesis Horses fluent in the wind, A place, a time gone out of mind.
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
Bed
Fluent
Horse
Miscellaneous
Wind
Pins
Gone
Knife
Place
Knives
Brooches
Back
Horses
Parenthesis
Mind
Melancholy
Salve
Time
Fixed
Parentheses
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
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Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.
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I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.
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To learn and think to think and live to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.
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Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.
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It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)
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If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.
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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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I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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Is there no way out of the mind?
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I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.
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I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.
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It's the living, the eating, the sleeping that everyone needs. Ideas don't matter so much after all. My three best friends are Catholic. I can't see their beliefs, but I can see the things they love to do on earth. When you come right down to it, I do believe in the freedom of the individual.
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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrific, like madness, being tortured, this sort of experience, and one should be able to manipulate these experiences with an informed and an intelligent mini.
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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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Talking about my fears to others feeds it.
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I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.
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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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I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
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Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.
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