The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

The Bell Jar—I found it disturbing, simply sad. I was even sadder when I read about Sylvia Plath on Wikipedia. But hey, what do you think of these lines from the book? The book is said to be semi-autobiographical. Perhaps these will tell you a bit about Plath herself.

I was supposed to be having the time of my life.

All my life I'd told myself studying and reading and writing and working like mad was what I wanted to do, and it actually seemed to be true, I did everything well enough and got all A's and by the time I made it to college nobody could stop me.

Perhaps one day I would be able to write great books the way she did.

I'd always spoil what I did so nobody would ask me to do it again. (Here Plath is talking about cooking and this is precisely what my sister thinks I do when I cook, but I don't, I swear. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

The trouble was, I hated the idea of serving men in any way. I wanted to dictate my own thrilling letters.

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.

(#_<-)

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