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The Monsters of T...
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by Lauren Groff (Goodreads Author)
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  (page 127 of 384)
Nov 27, 2023 09:01AM

 
The Biology of Be...
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Rosemary: The Hid...
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by Kate Clifford Larson (Goodreads Author)
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  (page 120 of 302)
Jan 16, 2020 11:15AM

 
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Sylvia Plath
“I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit. I have none of the selfless love of my mother. I have none of the plodding, practical love. . . . . I am, to be blunt and concise, in love only with myself, my puny being with its small inadequate breasts and meager, thin talents. I am capable of affection for those who reflect my own world.”
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath
“I?
I walk alone;
The midnight street
Spins itself from under my feet;
My eyes shut
These dreaming houses all snuff out;
Through a whim of mine
Over gables the moon's celestial onion
Hangs high.”
Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath
“let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences”
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath
“Is there no way out of the mind?”
Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath
“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

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