I felt compelled to read this. Almost like I had a moral duty to listen to what she had to say, knowing how it ended for her.

You can definitely feel Plath's angst coming out of this book. There's a sad, disjointed, hopeless chaos to it.

“because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.”

“I didn't know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of the throat and I'd cry for a week.”

“Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.”

I remember reading this short story in Asimov’s magazine about a very young girl who suffers from autism. She moves at her own pace, dragging herself at the heels of the rushing time and existing in that void where her consciousness treads a gravelly path only to arrive at the destination to find that everyone else had already moved on. So that when she answers her mother to a question that was asked of her three weeks ago, her mother doesn’t really understand her because she had already moved on from that question. For the life of me, I can’t seem to be able to remember the name of the story. But it probably was the best darnest short story I will ever read. And it seemed to wave, lazy like a flag in a winter night with the trifle of winds, in the nook in the behind of my head that was spared by the brutal voice of Esther Greenwood, throughout my reading of The Bell Jar. I failed to grasp at the significance of this remembrance until I came across this line that helped put everything in blinding focus:

n  I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloon

For The Bell Jar is an account of Sylvia Plath’s own experiences, Esther a fait accompli , a flesh that she constructed of her own imagination , to allow a look into her own life through a ‘a curtain of clear water’. Or a bell jar.

It is an anxious and unsettling novel. On one hand there is a young girl who a younger me, stripped of the vagaries of time and experiences, nodded along with vigorously and vehemently and found a winning kinship with. A world away from my own childhood, yet the voice of Esther spoke of the dawn of youth with such clarity and a bluntness that can only be expected off the mouth of a child. And then the descent of the bell jar, the glassy apparition that separated her from the world into her own, looming like a black cloud, slowly and sleathily crept in. She feels separate from the rest of the world, so disassociated that it feels to her as though even the air that she breathes is separate and ‘sour’. The unflinching prospect of death as the final destination causes her to question the merit of the frivolities of everyday life, the depression finally pushes her to try and take her own life.

My reading of this book was a sad one. Knowing that it was not just a story, knowing that the haunting witticisms was a result of a Schizophrenia (although she was never officially diagnosed) and in full possession of the knowledge of the finality that ripped this brilliant voice at the young age of thirty. Yet, knowing full well, how the story really ends, shouldn’t drive one to perceive this as a book about depression. Although it deals with the part of Plath’s life that romanced with death with her many attempts at suicide, it is also the voice of a girl who refused to conform. The Bell Jar is also a text on social critique. Set in the 50’s with it’s strict societal constraints , Plath shreds the accepted notions of what it was she was supposed to be, and attempts to replace them with what she wanted to be. No wonder that it became one of the centrepieces of feminism.

But, in the end what really gripped me was her brutal honesty and the genius that she potrayed in evoking reality through her prose. For when she wrote:

n  The Silence depressed me. It wasn’t the silence of silence. It was my own silence.n

I realised how stifling it must have felt to have realised such glaring truths in her own alienated world, separate in her understanding and alone in her trials.

Update(14/11/2015) : The short story I mention is Movement by Nancy Fulda.I read it last year while sitting on a bench in a bus station waiting to come back home after a particularly intense and gruelling internship. The bus was late by hours due to floods and it was cold and rainy and just one of those particularly miserable winter nights that make you miss your bed and your mom's special 'cold day' dish.I remember reading this story from an old, badly dog eared copy of the Asimov magazine and the moment of inner silence that follows the completion that tells you that this is a book that is going to remain with you. I distinctly remember the details in the story, and the shadow of silence that descended as I made my way through this. But, soon after the bus arrived and I forgot the copy of the magazine. I left it behind on the bench and ever since, try as I might, I couldn't bring the name of this story to my mind. It was lost like the magazine. Until I mention it here, and two wonderful people tell me the issue, the title, the author... Ah! I love Goodreads! Thank you to Kim and Joe for helping clear the mist!

Don't be scared.......yeah right.

Esther Greenwood's story actually begins a bit comical describing the details of a free trip to New York City with a group of college girls. While recounting the activities of her strange new friends and blind date disasters, one in particular pertaining to a turkey neck and gizzards gave me a laugh-out-loud moment I will not forget although there's not much else in this terribly depressing novel to bring joy to the reader.

This semi-autobiographical novel was first published in 1963 just before Sylvia Plath ended her incredibly sad life while her two young children slept in the next room, and vividly narrated in this story are the pre-planned details of her first suicide attempt at age 20 in 1953 resulting in an absolute miracle she was ever found alive.

Inside The Bell Jar is not a place you want to be, but Sylvia Plath's convincing writing style will take you on an emotional and scary journey into the 1960's medical world of shock treatments, and give you a descriptive glimpse of the frightening darkness inside the mind of a young woman on her way to complete mental breakdown.

Highly recommend this classic despite the disturbing subject matter.

New all time fave

Really enjoyed this much more the 2nd time reading it

أكثر الكتب التي أحب الكتابة عنها هي تلك الكتب التي تؤثر بي بشكل خاص .. لم أعرف سيلفيا بلاث إلا منذ سنوات قليلة من كتاب جمانة حداد عن الشعراء الذين قضوا نحبهم بالإنتحار .. شاعرية بلاث وإرتباطها بهيوز وطريقة موتها بوضع رأسها في فرن الغاز عوامل ساهمت في شهرتها وتأتي هذه الرواية التي تحكي قصتها لتؤكد إبداع سيلفيا إلى جانب جنونها ..

استير فتاة متدربة في إحدى مجلات الموضة متفوقة تبدو كأن المستقبل يفتح أذرعه بإتجاهها تحضر حفلات ، تشارك في الحياة ، لكنها فجأة تبدأ بالقيام بتصرفات غريبة دون سبب واضح تنحدر شيئا فشيئا بسبب اضطرابها العقلي حتى تصل إلى الجنون

شاعرية بلاث وكل لحظاتها الجنونية سكبتها على الورق لذلك تتميز هذه الرواية إنها تأخذك لذلك العالم الجنوني من الداخل ، هذا العالم الغامض الساخر والذي تبدو فيه كل الأشياء مكشرة عن أنيابها ، العالم الذي أخل بحياة سيلفيا وانتصر على شاعريتها وقتل حيويتها ودفعها للإنتحار مرات عديدة حتى نجحت أخيرا !

كانت الصخرة الرمادية تسخر مني
وأنا طافية بسهولة كقارب نجاة ..
كنتُ أعرف نفسي حين أهُزم ..

لا تبدو هذه الرواية سوى سيرة ذاتية وإنسانية للشاعرة الأمريكية سيلفيا بلاث .. وهي إنعكاس لما طرأ عليها من تغيرات على طبيعتها وعلاقتها بالحياة والأشخاص بنظرة سوداوية نتيجة لإصابتها بمرض عصابي ..
قامت بلاث بتغيير الأسماء وبعض الأحداث حافظا على مشاعر أقربائها .. وقدنشرت الرواية في حياتها باسم مستعار ثم أعيد نشرها بعد وفاتها ..
( أن أيّ أحد بنصف عين سيلاحظ أن لاعقل في رأسي )

كان الهم الذي يشغل بلاث هو الكتابة ... وبدا عجز استير عن اختيار طريق واحد يوصلها لهدفها أبان وقوعها تحت سطوة تلك النوبات سببا رئيسيا في مراجعتها للأطباء والمصحات النفسية
فهي مرة تريد أن تتعلم الألمانية ومرة أخرى تريد أن تصنع الخزف ومرة تريد أن تكمل دراستها الجامعية إلخ
كما تقول استير الأفكار تزدحم في راسها وتقفز كعائلة من الأرانب ..
إلا أن هذه العائلة كانت مصابة بالشلل فاستير لا تفعل شيئا إنها تقف مليئة بالحيرة

من الأمور اللافتة في هذه الرواية قضية العفة والتي كانت توصي بها والدة بلاث ابنتها .أن تحتفظ بعفتها لزوجها بل إنها كانت ترسل لها مقالات تذكيرية عن الموضوع لذلك عندما أحبت استير بودي كانت تعتقد أن موضوع العفة سيكون بالمقابل متوفرا عند رجلها المختار لذلك أصيبت بالصدمة عندما اعترف لها بودي بكل بساطة إن حياته لم تخلو من علاقات .. لذلك تحولت صورة الوسيم طالب الطب المثالي إلى شخص منافق .. لذلك اقترن اسمه طوال صفحات الرواية بالمنافق وهنا ظهرت بلاث بقمة براءتها وعفويتها حين تصورت أن الأمر سيكون متبادلا بين حبيبين ..

تجمع الرواية بين تعقيد الشخصية وبين البساطة والشفافية وتتميز بالرشاقة في التعبير كون الكاتبة شاعرة بدت كلماتها حية صادقة وإن كانت الشخصية ذات جوانب معتمة وأنانية لامبالية في كثير من الأحيان بمشاعر الآخرين .. لاحظوا اضطراب الشخصية إلى أي حد وصل :
أزعجني هذا الصوت الأقرب إلى صوت الحنزير ..ثم خطر ببالي أن الطريقة الوحيدة لوقف هذه الضوضاء هي أن أمسك العصب والعضلة معا حتى تقع أمي هامدة بين يدي ّ !

استير تنظر للأشياء بنظرة مختلفة تفسرها بطريقة أكثر إختلافا .. تلتقي بالغرباء تقيم علاقات من باب الفضول أحكامها تميل للتطرف للإشمئزاز وللإزدراء إلا إنها حملت شيئا ساحرا هو تلك الدهشة الطفولية خفة الدم وتقلّب المزاج والذي أظن أنه ربما تقاطعت فيه مع شخصية هولدن بطل رواية الحارس في حقل الشوفان لسالينجر إضافة للطبيعة المتمردة وحالة الضياع التي كانت تعيشها استير بينما ما ترغب به ومالا تستطيع القيام به بسبب وقوعها أسيرة ناقوسها الزجاجي والذي حكم عليها بحالة من الإكتئاب أدت في مرات عديدة لمحاولات الإنتحار ثم محاولات إنقاذها وبلاشك تجاربها الرهيبة مع الصدمات الكهربائية ثم دخولها مصحة الأمراض النفسية ..

حين أزفت الساعة بدا جلد رسغي شديد البياض ، بلا حول ولا قوة
فلم أتمكن من فعل ذلك ..
كما لو أن الذي رغبتُ في قتله لم يكن في ذلك الجلد أو في الشريان الأزرق الرفيع الذي ينبض تحت إبهامي ..
بل في مكان أعمق
أكثر سرية .. ويصعب الوصول إليه ..
يلزمني القيام بحركتين الرسغ الأول ثم الآخر
ثلاث حركات لو أخذنا بالحسبان نقل موسى الحلاقة من يد إلى أخرى
ثم سأنزل للحوض وأتمدد هناك ..

من أكثر الأشياء المأساوية في هذا النص حديث سيلفيا عن الوسائل المثلى للإنتحار دون ألم دون قسوة لكنها اختارت لموتها إحدى أكثر الطرق بشاعة
..
من داخل ناقوسها الزجاجي تأتي بلاث
متوحدة مع ألمها الخاص
مع جنونها
عارية تماما من كل زيف ..

Racism (and homophobia) is where I draw the line.


Let me preface this review by saying that I've read "Boy Parts" by Eliza Clark and most of the work of Ottessa Moshfegh AND I LOVED THOSE BOOKS. Call me basic, but those are some of my favorite books of all time.
In other words, I love the "insane women" genre. Not even my physical copies are all the same size (which I hate) so how can I even think to fit the contents of completely different books with completely different storylines in the same genre shelf?
Yeah, I hate to put labels on books and the "insane women" narrative quite frankly drives ME insane, but here we are.
You can't tell me you haven't seen The Bell Jar alongside previously mentioned books at least one time in your life, recommended as a "female rage" book or something of that connotation!

However, call it how you want, but I like my books a tad bit crazy, and this delivered that, A LOT.
And not in a good way.
I mentioned my disliking of this book in the updates already, but let me try to be coherent for a second.
First of all, this is not feminism, in any way. Out of 300 pages, this book had 2-3 feminist pages, rest was just pure HATRED. Can you call yourself a feminist if you bring down black people, Asian people, overweight people, mothers, students, bodies of dead people?
I understand that the MC suffers from depression and that's the whole point of the book, but from what I see on the Internet, the author wasn't very different from her character, at least in that aspect. Many people think that this book was "ahead of its time" blablabla, BUT, honestly, it wasn't written that long ago to be this ignorant. People can have other characteristics aside from the color of their skin, and writers knew that CENTURIES ago.

The story had a 3 star plot (to me) and I would rate it three stars, but I give three stars to solid books I had good time reading. This wasn't one of those. It had me closing the book (and almost throwing it across the room) every now and then.
Some parts were good, and then BOOM, more racism.
Thinking about that now, maybe even 2 stars is generous.
The ending was also very disappointing, basically no message came across.
Writing was very beautiful, Sylvia Plath has a wonderful way of describing situations and emotions, but that poetic vessel was wasted on this hot mess. I didn't write down a single thing (and writing down quotes is usually my routine)
I don't want to talk about characters because there's nothing to talk about.


Without being dramatic, I'm so sad that this book is THIS popular and wide-spread nowadays, and an influence to so many young women. We can be feminists without being THIS hateful, or if hatred is needed, it can be pointed to population groups that actually put us down. DO BETTER

i am genuinely shocked and confused to why this book is averaging 4 stars. i went into this book knowing that this book is very loved and so is the author but i had no clue how problematic and blatantly racist this book would be, i assumed this would be a feminist book but this book is shitting on asian women and black people. for example “i looked as ugly as a chinaman” “smudgy eyed chinese woman staring idiotically into my face” “the *n word* kept grinning and chuckling in a silly way” this book is quite literally the definition of selective white feminism oh and let’s not forget the 10 paragraphs yapping about how she DESPISES gay people. if you like this book PLEASE do not talk to me

Ever since I was small I’ve been fascinated by death, er no, I mean it in the simplest way of fascination, it has nothing to do with my wistful nature or maybe a little, I am a happy being by the definitions of most authentic lexica, death just fascinates me for being death alone, a halt to everything, a standstill after a long, tiring journey(only if one wishes to make it long, to tire is inevitable though) a cool ,soggy evening after the long sunny day, a calm tame brook after the violent storm, a long anticipated friend, after an unfriendly hullabaloo of life, Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.as puts Plath:
The one pure sensation that one gets after reading words that hurt like hell, is of apology maybe, Sylvia must have been in innermost pain to inscribe her feelings on paper, Bell Jar might not be structurally flawless, it has its imperfections all the same, her protagonist is only twenty and is supposed to have the time of her life, the striking resemblance of Esther Greenwood with Sylvia is undoubtable.
“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”
Plath has stripped her emotions bare for blind world to view, isn’t it very apprehensive for a being to show places of such sheer darkness and weakness to lay open for world to see. And yet, how brave;. She molds them, carves something too refined and remarkable out of them, her own thoughts overpower her, make her defenseless and she roars, roars in agony of her own creation. The hell of her thoughts that led her to madness and then a mindless death.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
I felt like a culprit for some sin unknown to me, throughout the journey along her, Sylvia Plath's death haunts every page as despair vanquishes life, “The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence” she could’ve been saved, if only there had been a listener to her heart’s miseries, she could’ve lived longer only if there had been someone to seize her obstinately from that leapt she fated for herself!

"...wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air."

We all live in bell jars from time to time. I don't think there is any human being, lived or living, has escaped from being trapped in a bell jar at some point in their lives. The difference is that some of us break through and find our peace and contentment, either by ourselves or with the help of others. But some of us may not be that lucky. Even with the help and care of others, we may not have the strength and courage to break through the confining bell jar. This is the story of us all who are trapped in bell jars. But most importantly, this is the story of we who struggle, heavily and bitterly, and perhaps unsuccessfully, to break from our own bell jars.

Sylvia Plath's only novel is semi-autobiographical. This fact makes the work realistic and powerful, for readers cannot disregard that the material was stemming out of her own experience. It is said that there is a thin line dividing the genius and insane, and you can see how true that description is when you read the story. It is truly sad that one must pay a hard price for being a genius.

Esther Greenwood, the A-grade scholar, who everyone thinks is lucky and expects to shine in the world, is secretly fighting a dark battle. To the world, she is a genius, a potential future name. But to her, she is nothing but a hopeless wreck, who is qualified for nothing. This devaluation of self drags her to the bottom pit of hopelessness and envelops her with a vacant feeling which grows steadily till she seeks to escape into the unknown. From the failed attempted suicide to the asylum and freedom, she must struggle and struggle and struggle. Is there ever a freedom for her? Will the bell jar be closed on her forever?

Sylvia writes truthfully, emotionally, and with power. It's realistic, but unsettling at the same time. There are parts that are gut-wrenching and difficult to stomach. Some parts will bring you completely on your knees. When she wrote “I wanted to tell her that if only something were wrong with my body it would be fine, I would rather have anything wrong with my body than something wrong with my head...", it truly broke my heart. I wanted to shout at Esther, at Sylvia, and say "I see you!"

The story is emotionally wrecking. The firsthand narration of a person who descends into a dark abyss is not something easy to read. "To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream." The world is a bad dream for the one affected, and the story is one of horror to the one who reads. It is a depressing book. But I'd like to look at it as a beautiful work on mental illness, an anthem of tribute to those who have fallen or will fall into that painful dark abyss. It's tragic that Sylvia Plath had to end her life as she did. But her life, her suffering told to the world through this novel, will be her legacy to us. And The Bell Jar will always be a beautiful representation of her and those who have, and who will walk her path.

More of my reviews can be found at http://piyangiejay.com/

“I felt dreadfully inadequate.”

Ugh.
That is how I felt after finishing this book. Thank goodness it is short, because when I decided I could not stomach it for more than a few pages at a time, it would have taken more forever to finish otherwise.

There is no joy in “The Bell Jar”. No hope. And I have read many books where that is the case. The problem with this book is that there is no point to any of it. No real characterization, no depth. As I read this text I kept thinking of “The Catcher in the Rye”, another underwhelming experience for me. I think both texts suffer from protagonist problems, and both are products of their time and they did not age well.

I could be nice and blame the time of year I read it, in between Thanksgiving and Christmas, for my dislike but that would be a cop out. 200 pages of how one would like to commit suicide. That’s a book? Maybe with a compelling characterization, or with more than a shallow examination of motivating factors for such thoughts, but this surface examination is a misfire on both counts.

I honestly don’t know what else to say about “The Bell Jar”. I can appreciate the skill of the writer. There are flashes of it in this book. Plath was a great poet, but a novelist, no. I think this text is one of those where its “greatness is thrust upon it” by people who wanted it for various agendas. If just standing alone, it does not merit any such claim.

I did find I was engaged in the last 20 pages or so, where the book shifts gears, but that also may have been because I knew I was almost done.

And I would not be picking it up again.

The Bell Jar is about an American Dream gone wrong. Esther, a young woman from Boston, comes to New York and feels the immense pressure of the city's upper-class intellectual circles. The lavish lifestyle and superficiality are evident from the 3rd chapter, "Ladies' Day," with its descriptions of extravagant food. In my opinion, this is actually a work of a small-town writer who fears the shattering of her dreams, afraid of being left behind in the fast-paced world of elite schools, high society, publishing, and handsome men.

After publishing this book, Plath committed suicide. So, it's more like a suicide note, a burden released by a mentally ill person. It tells the story of how women in the upper-class intellectual circles of post-war America felt oppressed. After her death, not only was the book published, but it also achieved unprecedented success, and countless generations of women have read it.

But for me, as human beings, we all have to bear the weight of reality, no matter what. It's a responsibility, and no matter how difficult it is, we must endure it.

This is the reason why I feel a certain degree of disgust and irony towards the latter half of the novel, when nearly half of it is devoted to describing how Esther destroys herself after experiencing betrayal in love, friendship, and her dreams.

Plath’s writing was OK, but this is definitely not a good novel. The story is too childish, the central theme is childish, the narrative is childish, and Plath herself, as the author of the book, is childish. Strangely enough, many people loved it, look at the amount of 4 & 5-star reviews.

I’m sorry but I don’t get it.

Esther always presents herself as a Plath-esque American sweetheart, yet despite being a virgin, she is perceived as promiscuous due to her appearance. And the seemingly honest and hardworking Yale medical student, with over 30 sexual experiences, is seen as a perfect marriage candidate. OK, he was tempted and fell, but that doesn't really count as a fall. It was just a lapse, the fault of that flirtatious women, not his own problem. But this is clearly the problem — both for Plath and Esther.

How to solve this problem has always puzzled them, and until the end of the novel they are still trying to overcome the extreme impact of this fact. So, during a break from the asylum, she randomly found a man she decided not to see again and lost her virginity. She tries to make her virginity as unimportant as a man's virginity. But in fact, she values ​her virginity too much, and cannot understand that men go crazy thinking about getting it. Whether it is a male student at Yale or a young associate professor of mathematics, this kind of thinking does not require wisdom at all. As long as straight men have sexual ability, they just, want it.

That's the problem with Ploth and Esther. Even after having sex, she still didn't find the answer. The process of losing her virginity and bleeding was the process of endless doubts. This question will obviously not be answered by women losing their virginity.

One thing that shocked me is how poorly female friendships are depicted in this novel. Do women in real life often see another women as competition, or are all those so-called 'BFFs' fake?

Another thing is: do intelligent women, like female writers, not want to get married and have children? They think being a good wife and mother is undignified?

Personally, it's a pity, thou. Both Plath and Esther were initially portrayed as such wonderful figures: independent, strong-willed, intelligent, happy, and lively. It's just puzzling why they would choose such a tragic ending.

My interpretation is that they were too sensitive, perfectionist and craved love and freedom too much, feeling as if they were living under a bell jar, unable to breathe.

I still believe that one's destiny is shaped by thought and action, not by despair or a negative outlook.

1 / 5