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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.
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
Young
Snowfall
Firsts
Overhead
First
Gifts
Children
Spring
Think
Poet
Thinking
Coming
Stars
Child
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
..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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To look at her, you might not guess that inside she is laughing and crying, at her own stupidities and luckiness, and at the strange enigmatic ways of the world which she will spend lifetime trying to learn and understand.
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I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.
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Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
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I felt dumb and subdued. Every time I tried to concentrate, my mind glided off, like a skater, into a large empty space, and pirouetted there, absently.
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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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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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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 have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
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I am what I feel and think and do.
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I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
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Is anyone anywhere happy?
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I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.
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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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Miracles occur, If you dare to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.
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I need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to the shock room, to comfort me with an assurance that no psychiatrist can quite manage to convey.
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I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling.
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Sometimes I feel like I'm not solid. I'm hollow. There's nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.
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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 sure there are things that can't be cured by a good bath but I can't think of one.
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