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I've got to have something. I want to stop it all, the whole monumental grotesque joke, before it's too late. But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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
Doesn
Grotesque
Seems
Poems
Whole
Joke
Writing
Letters
Much
Jokes
Something
Late
Good
Seem
Stop
Monumental
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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.
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I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.
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The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.
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I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
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At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
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I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.
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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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And you grit your teeth, despising yourself for your tremulous sensitivity, and wondering how human beings can suffer their individualities to be mercilessly crushed under a machinelike dictatorship, be it of industry, state or organization, all their lives long.
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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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We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.
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we walk the plank with strangers.
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Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.
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The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed.
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn.
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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.
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A skeptic, I would ask for consistency first of all.
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