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My mistake, sorry.

Mole

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I enjoy reading poetry and I enjoyed reading Sylvia Plath's poems until I mistakenly discovered she murdered her own children.

I made a very bad mistake and I am sorry.
 

Little Linguist

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I enjoy reading poetry and I enjoyed reading Sylvia Plath's poems until I discovered she murdered her own children.

Now I wonder if even one poem is worth the life of a child.

What do you think?

I don't think she murdered her own children: I think she killed herself.

Assia, Ted Hughes's wife after Plath killed herself, killed herself the same way and killed her child along with herself.
 

Mole

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I don't think she murdered her own children: I think she killed herself.

Assia, Ted Hughes's wife after Plath killed herself, killed herself the same way and killed her child along with herself.

Yes, you are right. She killed herself but didn't murder her children. I made a very bad mistake. Sorry.
 

miss fortune

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umm.. Freida is still alive, perhaps you should inform her of her death?

nicholas killed himself last year... it was his decision, not his mother's...

meaning, read the poems if you like... just not those of Andrea Yates ;)
 

Jaguar

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"In the early morning of February 11, 1963, however, Plath set some bread and milk in the children's room then cracked their window and sealed their door off with tape. She went downstairs and, after sealing herself in the kitchen, knelt in front of the open oven and turned the gas on. Her body was discovered that morning by a nurse scheduled to visit and the construction worker who helped the nurse get into the house."

Source:
Neurotic Poets
 

miss fortune

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it ended that quickly? :thinking:

where is victor's usual verbosity... why didn't I get a response :boohoo:

now my feelings are hurt and I'll have to make myself a good cup of tea to recover... or stick my head in the oven :D
 

ajblaise

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it ended that quickly? :thinking:

where is victor's usual verbosity... why didn't I get a response :boohoo:

now my feelings are hurt and I'll have to make myself a good cup of tea to recover... or stick my head in the oven :D

I'm thinking he murdered someone. :thelook:
 

Mole

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It could have been anymore. Probably his children.

Victor, WHY?

God knows. I have just been banned for the first time from a thread, then I go and make a terrible mistake. I don't seem to know what is going on.

I check myself internally and I seem to be OK. I check externally and things seem to be the same.

But I seem to be going barking mad.

Perhaps I should be just tied up in the backyard for a while until I calm down.
 

ajblaise

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Perhaps I should be just tied up in the backyard for a while until I calm down.

Yeah, go keep your victims some company. ;)

Just don't get personal about other posters in a negative way, you can only really get away with that if you have a funny joke to go with it, or else it just falls flat. And slow down on the MBTI/astrology/conspiracy stuff.

And you'll be alright here.
 

miss fortune

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tea_cup_small.jpg


:)
 

miss fortune

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a cup of tea is meditation in it's own... nothing will bring back sanity quicker :)

I think i'll open a therapist's corner in a tea shop and live the easy life...
 

miss fortune

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^:rolli:

I could use my degrees and claim to be an alternative therapist... then I wouldn't have to follow FDA rules!!! :yay:

really... must you go around and be super literal about EVERYTHING? Where's your sense of intellectual play? Left here? :devil:

oh yes I DID just break your rule number one from that thread! play nice or expect repercussions...
 

Polaris

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I'm especially fond of this quote from Sylvia Plath's journals:

"As for minute joys: as I was saying: do you realize the illicit sensuous delight I get from picking my nose? I always have, ever since I was a child- there are so many subtle variations of sensation. A delicate, pointed-nailed fifth finger can catch under dry scabs and flakes of mucous in the nostril and draw them out to be looked at, crumbled between fingers, and flicked to the floor in minute crusts. Or a heavier, determined forefinger can reach up and smear down-and-out the soft, resilient, elastic greenish-yellow smallish blobs of mucous, roll them around and jelly-like between thumb and fore finger, and spread them on the under surface of a desk or chair where they will harden into organic crusts. How many desks and chairs have I this secretively befouled since childhood? Or sometimes there wil be blood mingled with the mucous: in dry brown scabs, or bright sudden wet red on the finger that scraped too rudely the nasal membranes. God, what a sexual satisfaction! It is absorbing to look with new sudden eyes on the old worn habits: to see a sudden luxurious and pestilential "snot green sea," and shiver with the shock of recognition."

Who knew that there was so much poetry in picking your nose? It's really quite beautiful.
 
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