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Der einzige Roman der großen Lyrikerin: Was macht eine hochbegabte Studentin aus ihrem Leben, wenn sie nach New York kommt, wo es auch noch andere Verlockungen gibt als gute Zensuren? Es war ein verrückter, schwüler Sommer, dieser Sommer, in dem die Rosenbergs auf den elektrischen Stuhl kamen und ich nicht wußte, was ich in New York eigentlich wollte. Esther Greenwood läßt das muffige Leben einer amerikanischen Kleinstadt und die College-Erlebnisse hinter sich und verbringt mit anderen preisgekrönten Studentinnen einen Monat als Volontärin einer New Yorker Modezeitschrift. Hin- und hergerissen zwischen widersprüchlichen Empfindungen und Träumen - der Sehnsucht nach erotischen Erfahrungen und der Angst vor Schwangerschaft, dem Wunsch, eine erfolgreiche Autorin zu werden, und dem Rückzug auf die passive Rolle der Beobachterin - gerät sie in eine tiefe Krise: Als man bei ihr einen Nervenzusammenbruch diagnostiziert und sie zum Psychiater schickt, fühlt sie sich αunter einer Glasglocke±, auf sich selbst wartend.… (mehr)
"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." ( )
Wow! This is a book that should not be rushed. It is written in such a way that each word should be savored. Each paragraph lingered on to make sure that you have pulled every flavor out of it. ( )
Sylvia Plath's semi autobiographical novel is a very disturbing read indeed. It starts out pleasantly enough. The main character is a beautiful intelligent woman spending a month in New York City, all expenses paid, as a reward for her academic achievment's. She's interning as with an editor and gets to go to parties on a nightly basis. Seems like a wonderful future is in store for. But then we start to notice some cracks in the armor. She suffers from depression and we sadly watch her spiral further and further down the proverbial, slippery slope before attempting suicide. She's admitted into an asylum whereupon the novel turns really dark, at times horrific. Reading about the torture of electro shock therapy, virgins hemorrhaging to the point of near death upon their first sexual encounter, and young women hanging themselves by the rafters, I felt I was reading something out of a Stephen King novel. And what made this novel even more troubling was that while The Bell Jar is a novel, she was in fact, pretty much telling her own life story. ( )
Esther Greenwood's account of her year in the bell jar is as clear and readable as it is witty and disturbing. It makes for a novel such as Dorothy Parker might have written if she had not belonged to a generation infected with the relentless frivolity of the college- humor magazine. The brittle humor of that early generation is reincarnated in "The Bell Jar," but raised to a more serious level because it is recognized as a resource of hysteria.
Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite.Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen.
for Elizabeth and David
Erste Worte
Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite.Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen.
It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York.
[Foreword] You might think that classics like The Bell Jar are immediately recognized the moment they reach a publisher's office.
Zitate
Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite.Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen.
That's one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket. (p. 69)
The trouble was, I hated the idea of serving men in any way.
"We'll take it up where we left off, Esther," she had said, with her sweet, martyr's smile. "We'll act as if all of this were a bad dream" A bad dream. To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream. A bad dream. I remembered everything. I remembered the cadavers and Doreen and the story of the fig tree and Marco's diamond and the sailor on the Common and Doctor Gordon's wall-eyed nurse and the broken thermometers and the Negro with his two kinds of beans and the twenty pounds I gained on insulin and the rock that bulged between sky and sea like a gray skull. Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were part of me. They were my landscape. (p. 181)
I took a deep breath, and listened to the old bray of my heart: I am, I am, I am.
I began to think that maybe it was true that when you were married and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterward you went about numb as a slave in some private, totalitarian state. (p. 70)
I wanted to tell her that if only something was wrong with my body it would be fine, I would rather have anything wrong with my body than something wrong with my head, but the idea seemed so involved and wearisome that I didn't say anything. (p. 140)
I smelt a mingling of Pablum and sour milk and salt-codstinky diapers and felt sorrowful and tender. How easy having babies seemed to the women around me! Why was I so unmaternal and apart? Why couldn't I dream of devoting myself to baby after fat puling baby like Dodo Conway? If I had to wait on a baby all day, I would go mad. (p. 170)
I felt myself melting into the shadows like the negative of a person I'd never seen before in my life.
If Mrs Guinea had given me a ticket to Europe, or a round-the-world cruise, it wouldn't have made one scrap of difference to me, because wherever I sat - on the deck of a ship or at a street cafe in Paris or Bangkok - I would be sitting in the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream.
I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
Letzte Worte
Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite.Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen.
The eyes and the faces all turned themselves towards me, and guiding myself by them, as by a magical thread, I stepped into the room.
Literaturhinweise zu diesem Werk aus externen Quellen.
Wikipedia auf Englisch
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▾Buchbeschreibungen
Der einzige Roman der großen Lyrikerin: Was macht eine hochbegabte Studentin aus ihrem Leben, wenn sie nach New York kommt, wo es auch noch andere Verlockungen gibt als gute Zensuren? Es war ein verrückter, schwüler Sommer, dieser Sommer, in dem die Rosenbergs auf den elektrischen Stuhl kamen und ich nicht wußte, was ich in New York eigentlich wollte. Esther Greenwood läßt das muffige Leben einer amerikanischen Kleinstadt und die College-Erlebnisse hinter sich und verbringt mit anderen preisgekrönten Studentinnen einen Monat als Volontärin einer New Yorker Modezeitschrift. Hin- und hergerissen zwischen widersprüchlichen Empfindungen und Träumen - der Sehnsucht nach erotischen Erfahrungen und der Angst vor Schwangerschaft, dem Wunsch, eine erfolgreiche Autorin zu werden, und dem Rückzug auf die passive Rolle der Beobachterin - gerät sie in eine tiefe Krise: Als man bei ihr einen Nervenzusammenbruch diagnostiziert und sie zum Psychiater schickt, fühlt sie sich αunter einer Glasglocke±, auf sich selbst wartend.
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Buchbeschreibung
Zusammenfassung in Haiku-Form
Nachlassbibliothek: Sylvia Plath
Sylvia Plath hat eine Nachlassbibliothek. Nachlassbibliotheken sind persönliche Bibliotheken von berühmten Lesern, die von LibraryThing-Mitgliedern aus der Legacy Libraries-Gruppe erfasst werden.
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