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S'està carregant… La campana de vidre (1963)23,535 | 422 | 100 |
(3.97) | 531 | Beautiful and gifted, with a bright future, Esther Greenwood descends into depression, suicidal thoughts, and madness while interning at a New York City magazine. |
Afegit fa poc per | ekrst, SONYAns, sarahjanehardy, Jpazderk, harrisoncotis, Laura_Liebe, willowrivers, beermanaj, boothbooks, ravenatadesk | Biblioteques llegades | Sylvia Plath, Juice Leskinen, Astrid Lindgren |
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 Apunta't a LibraryThing per saber si aquest llibre et pot agradar. ▾Converses (Enllaços) No hi ha cap discussió a Converses sobre aquesta obra. » Mira també 531 mencions ▾Relacions entre sèries i obres Pertany a aquestes col·leccions editorialsTé un estudiTé una guia d'estudi per a estudiants
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Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York.  | |
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Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. 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.  | |
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▾Referències Referències a aquesta obra en fonts externes. Wikipedia en anglès
No n'hi ha cap ▾Descripcions del llibre Beautiful and gifted, with a bright future, Esther Greenwood descends into depression, suicidal thoughts, and madness while interning at a New York City magazine. ▾Descripcions provinents de biblioteques No s'han trobat descripcions de biblioteca. ▾Descripció dels membres de LibraryThing
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