The abstract kills, the concrete saves.
SYLVIA PLATHLet me live, love and say it well in good sentences.
More Sylvia Plath Quotes
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Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
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Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.
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Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.
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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
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I woke to the sound of rain.
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She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.
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It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.
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I want to be important. By being different. And these girls are all the same.
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Perhaps some day I’ll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
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Cheers for spring; for life; for a growing soul.
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We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.
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The silence depressed me. It wasn’t the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine.
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I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.
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I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.
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I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
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I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas.
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I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.
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I find myself absolutely fulfilled when I have written a poem.
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When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn’t want it, you cannot take it back. It’s gone forever.
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I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it.
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As a poet, one lives a bit on air. I always like someone who can teach me something practical.
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The constant struggle in mature life, I think, is to accept the necessity of tragedy and conflict, and not to try to escape to some falsely simple solution which does not include these more somber complexities.
SYLVIA PLATH