Sylvia Plath

What does Veeky Forums think about Sylvia Plath?

WOULD BANG 10/10 BEST NEW OVEN-HEAD WRITER PLEASE KILL ME BUT NOT

Your children are asleep and nothing but intellectual hypocrisy crushed by a forgotten understanding of the meaning of the

PRETENTIOUS BULLS HIT IS CRUSHING I CAN NO LONGER NAVIGATE THIS

hell on wheels leave me be.

Somebody get this hot head outta here

I get a really normal, modernist girl vibe from her. Perhaps Plath herself lived to extremes, yet to me she reflects the presence of the feminine that has come to understand and leverage itself to enunciate what is thrust upon it, what it also interprets and constructs (perhaps, only through associations, as she was mainly a poet). I must admit, I see her as a personage more than a genuine poet (though, obviously, she is one of the greatest poets of her generation), primarily because of her tragic death which is generally one of the only students learn about her.

I read The Bell Jar years back, it was an enjoyable book that I would recommend to anyone who is a fan of poets writing novels as well.

a hack who got lucky, just like dickenson
take a random unknown bad poem from their time and it won't be any different from what they wrote

I think she's great, but I like Sexton better

Not a huge fan of her poetry but The Bell Jar is a fine look into her outlook and a solid, if basic read

would to spend the day at the beach with

>just like dickenson
Oh come on.

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, more determined forefinger can reach up and smear down-and-out the soft, resilient, elastic greenish-yellow smallish blobs of mucous, roll them round and jelly-like between thumb and forefinger, 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 thus secretively befouled since childhood? Or sometimes there will 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.