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Winter is for women The woman still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanish walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
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
Still
Spanish
Body
Cradle
Think
Dumb
Thinking
Winter
Walnut
Cold
Walnuts
Woman
Bulb
Stills
Bulbs
Women
Knitting
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If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.
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I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and say, 'Ah!' in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out.
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.
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I am disabused of all faith, and see too clearly.
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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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Is there no way out of the mind?
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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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I hurl my heart to halt his pace.
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When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.
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Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person
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I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
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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 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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I want, I think, to be omniscient. I think I would like to call myself the girl who wanted to be God. Yet if I were not in this body where would I be-perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it.
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I am flushed and warm. I think I may be enormous, I am so stupidly happy, My wellingtons Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.
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