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Sunday-the doctor's paradise! Doctors at country clubs, doctors at the seaside, doctors with mistresses, doctors with wives, doctors in church, doctors in yachts, doctors everywhere resolutely being people, not doctors.
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
Clubs
Mistresses
Doctors
Resolutely
Everywhere
Yacht
Wife
Wives
Church
Mistress
Country
Sunday
People
Paradise
Yachts
Doctor
Seaside
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
I like people too much or not at all. I've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.
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I am what I feel and think and do.
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A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
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August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
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I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.
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I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.
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..I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
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I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
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Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.
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The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.
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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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O heart, such disorganization!
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As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.
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They would grow old. They would forget me.
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So I began to think maybe it was true that when you were married and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterward you went about as numb as a slave in a totalitarian state.
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And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
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The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.
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I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
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