The bell jar / Sylvia Plath
| dc.contributor | Smith, John B. Department of Computer Science Chapel Hill College Chapel Hill |
| dc.contributor.author | Plath, Sylvia |
| dc.coverage.placeName | New York |
| dc.date.accessioned | 2018-07-27 |
| dc.date.accessioned | 2019-07-04T09:56:00Z |
| dc.date.available | 2019-07-04T09:56:00Z |
| dc.date.created | 1971 |
| dc.date.issued | 1992-03-12 |
| dc.identifier | ota:1634 |
| dc.identifier.citation | http://purl.ox.ac.uk/ota/1634 |
| dc.identifier.uri | http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12024/1634 |
| dc.description.abstract | Unknown markup version of this text (1634) available at 0110 |
| dc.format.extent | Text data (1 file : ca. 374 KB) |
| dc.format.medium | Digital bitstream |
| dc.language | English |
| dc.language.iso | eng |
| dc.publisher | University of Oxford |
| dc.relation.ispartof | Oxford Text Archive Core Collection |
| dc.rights | Oxford Text Archive |
| dc.rights.uri | https://ota.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/repository/xmlui/page/licence-ota |
| dc.rights.label | ACA |
| dc.subject.lcsh | English literature -- 20th century |
| dc.subject.other | Novels |
| dc.title | The bell jar / Sylvia Plath |
| dc.type | Text |
| has.files | yes |
| branding | Oxford Text Archive |
| files.size | 387395 |
| files.count | 2 |
| otaterms.date.range | 1900-1999 |
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<text>
<front>
<tPage>
<dTitle>The Bell Jar
<byLine>by
<dAuthor>Plath, Sylvia </dAuthor></byLine>
<dImprint>New York: Harper and Row, 1971 1961-1962<dImprint>
</tPage>
<pb n=1>
<body>
<div>
<p>IT WAS A QUEER, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted
the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing
in New York. I'm stupid about executions. The idea of being
electrocuted makes me sick, and that's all there was to read
about in the papers -- goggle-eyed headlines staring up at
me on every street corner and at the fusty, peanut-smelling
mouth of every subway. It had nothing to do with me, but
I couldn't help wondering what it would be like, being
burned alive all along your nerves.
<p>I thought it must be the worst thing in the world.
<p>New York was bad enough. By nine in the morning the
fake, country-wet freshness that somehow seeped in overnight
evaporated like the tail end of a sweet dream. Mirage-gray
at the bottom of their granite canyons, the hot streets
wavere . . .
