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Born in October 27, 1932 / Died in February 11, 1963 / United States / English

Quotes by Sylvia Plath

But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.
Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.
I am too pure for you or anyone.
Kiss me and you will see how important I am.
I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you.
White Godiva, I unpeel— Dead hands, dead stringencies.
The blood blooms clean In you, ruby. The pain You wake to is not yours.
the woman in the ambulance Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly—
I am no source of honey So why should they turn on me?...
Naked as paper to start But in twenty-five years she'll be silver, In fifty, gold.
The dead bell, The dead bell. Somebody's done for.
like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade.
There's a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you....
There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.
Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
I would say it was the coffin of a midget Or a square baby Were there not such a din in it.
So daddy, I'm finally through. The black telephone's off at the root, The voices just can't worm through. If I've killed one man, I've killed two -- The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now. There's a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
I Am the arrow,...
Everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it and the imagination to improvise.
I fixed my eyes on the larget cloud, as if, when it passed out of my sight, I might have the good luck to pass with it.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent, One at each little Pitcher of milk, now empty.
To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.
I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
It works, there is nothing wrong with it. You have a hole, it's a poultice....
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs. They can be sent back. They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.