70 pages in. Does this bitch ever do anything besides complain that guys are too short?

70 pages in. Does this bitch ever do anything besides complain that guys are too short?

>implying short 'men' aren't despicable nice try, manlet

Hmm
Pretending that The Bell Jar is literally just Stacey:The Book does have meme potential, but I'm gonna have to see more evidence before I make up my mind

Non-'Stacy' girls find short men vile as well, manlet cunt

The most famous quote from it is literally about having too many dicks to choose from

>it's a 'Sylvia goes on holiday with friends and enjoys having casual sex with men she will see again' chapter

Literally 6"3 lanklet
And they do but to a lesser extent and more subtly

Quote?
I only read her poetry and I thought it was dire.

you sound triggered my guy
and Sylvia was pretty tall for a lady, 5'10"
Ted Hughes was 6'6" lol

and she's too busy wanting to die to deal much with boys in the second half

she can't give away her virginity! (and when she does she doesn't enjoy it and almost dies)!

>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.

>the dicktree

>that many figs
Has a rather high opinion of her abiltiies

nah, Sylvia was a qt

I dropped the book at page 96.

...bc she was a genius
top of her class, published since she was a teenager, cutie

She a woman she inferior

Nah mate, the curtains are blue. She's just talking about figs, reading too much into it

A person has at most a handful of figs

this book is like 200 something SCHOLASTIC-PRINT pages

seyz you

Doesn't matter if it's 100 pages. Why force yourself to read something you don't enjoy?

You're right, but other interests prevail sometimes despite you not liking whatever it is you're doing.

And if you don't like The Bell Jar you're probably a hard-ass psued.

err, not even a matter of liking TBJ. If it somehow repulses you or you HATE it then you are probably a hard-ass pseud.

I've never really read anything that repulsed me. I just didn't like the protagonist's attitude from the get-go. Maybe I'll finish it some day, either way I don't care.

I feel it my friend

FAT

PURPLE

FIGS

Because men never describe the physical attractiveness of women in their novels?

Have some intellectual self respect you sad little man.

Could you be anymore of a pseud? If you wan't to live vicariously through a protagonist there's plenty of genre fiction.

desire to self-insert truly is the most pleb trait of all.

Dunno man, I think you're missing out.
I think one of the lines in the first pages is great and sets the tone for the whole book.
Something about how she should be having the time of her life, but isn't.
It talks about depression in a very literal way (as in, how you feel it right there, right then) so sometimes the actual mental situation or thoughts of the person aren't very... how to say it, nice? positive? productive? it's like a lack of tact, interest, etc. that may come as bitchy, obnoxious, or whatever whenever it's not clear that there's an issue with the person, NOT that it means that it should be tolerated, or an excuse, but simply that it's more than just a person who complains.

Usually a common problem with depression is that positive outlooks on life are almost impossible to have. Hence all the bitching... also, her problem with men is elaborated, which is a personal issue that comes from certain events (external and internal).

Give it a try, be more open. Don't try to forgive her or be on her side, just try to see more beyond her actions.

I can't tell if this is bait, a misreading of the metaphor, or dumb /r9k/ shit, but fuck it I'm taking the bait. The figs represent the different lives she could lead, some of which are represented by men. It's about her being paralysed by the potential of her future, not about being unable to choose a guy.

There are also (more or less voiced) complaints about the comprehensibility of Finnegans Wake, the state of the American healthcare system (mainly concerning psychiatry and gynecology), the immediate consequences of losing one's virginity and the freshness of the shrimp (was it shrimp?--can't remember).

>all these cucks reading MUH PATRIARCHY feminist shit

Jesus, just kys

nice b8

does everything sound this stupid when torn from its context and plopped in a Veeky Forums thread?
because this sounds really particularly stupid

Wouldn't even if I got paid for it.

Reading female writers you ask for this

>Clan of sex-depraved donkey-cocked African tribal warriors brutally and anally deflower stupid white author whore

>And there I was, a popular, intelligent and handsome girl, at the dawn of what so many people insisted would be the finest years of my life. But somehow and for some reason foreign to my understanding I could find neither comfort nor contentment in the idea that my life was to go on the way it had been, that I was to live another year alone with my thoughts all astray the way they had been in recent months. The number of men I had bedded, the number of books I had read, the amount of experience I had gained in the past year alone had left me exhausted. My senses had all but frayed. I lay in bed that Sunday morning, the early morning traffic faintly audible on the road outside, when all of a sudden everything went quiet. I was tempted to speak to prove that my hearing had not suddenly ceased to function. But instead I embraced this new and silent world, devoid of anything that might encourage me to resume living in it. Truly, I was now living inside a Bell Jar"

It's pretty good writing desu.

Why? explain your behavior in public interest. Is it too boring and repetitive like OP says?

So you memorized especially those words, huh?
Hm, "guys are too short", ... "s-h-o-r-t g-u-y-s", ... "complain"...

Tell me, how did reading those words make you feel? Did you feel anger?

Nice one, user.

...

I found the protagonist irritating and cocky.

>the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.
Once you go black, you can never go back!

DIRTY

It's a great book, only thing is that I didn't know what a bell jar actually was until after I read it. I thought it was like a mason jar she was talking about. Still not sure what they're actually used for

What about her reference to Finnegans Wake? Sylvia Plath was actually going to do her honors thesis on the novel but backed out for dostoevsky's "the double". That's pretty Veeky Forums if you ask me.

Yeah, I know that, but each choice is literally a man.
It's hardly even a metaphor, she's spelling shit out very obviously. Pretty shit tier
Choosing a man, also choosing the life she wants.
It's still about dicks m8. Sneaky weird book.
>that part where she's vomiting and having explosive diarrhea at the same time.

Not that other user, but I think that's fine choice from Plath.
Books that deal with romantic choices usually present them as a salvation of sorts, princes in the castle kind of thing. Here the princes is the heroine and her outlook is shit. She has choices, and most are romantic, but they are all shit in her opinion or don't represent anything of value to her other than settling for the cultural status quo. It also shows how even while she knows incredibly well how she hates her life being defined by the choices of men (although she loves playing by the rules at first, before she sees that the fat fuck overtook her) all her choices seem to still be that, and those that aren't, are never further examined by her.
There's no salvation, be it in the form of a man (the fiance, the UN guy, etc.) be it in the form of work (academia, work itself), be it in the form of family or friends, as no one ever saves anyone from depression, it has to be a choice taken by the one dealing with it, and this road is shown in the book.