The ghost of Sylvia Plath is intrinsically linked with any discussion surrounding her novel The Bell Jar. In the literary space, there always seemed to be some mysterious aura surrounding it, leaden with heavy context even if you don’t strictly remember the story behind the weight the bare mention of the book carries. The book feels a bit haunted. There are unfortunately many authors who have committed suicide, but Plath so completely pasted her experience in a barely fictionalized account that spoke as a resounding omen for her later death.
When I first started reading The Bell Jar, I wasn’t entirely impressed and was worried that I was going to agree with the publishers who originally refused the manuscript in that it was too juvenile. The sentences were short and blunt, and I wasn’t feeling the magic connection to my own experiences that I was told I would by countless reviews singing the novel’s praises.
But while I was questioning her writing style and not sure how to feel, I then realized that the protagonist Esther had somehow seamlessly transitioned from a functioning adult in the early stages of depression into a harsh suicidal landslide. Just like someone sinking into depression, there was never a moment of absurd self-awareness to explain to the reader that Esther had, in fact, crossed the metaphorical line (that doesn’t exist). Plath just presented the emotions and thought processes in a matter-of-fact, mundane way. No melodrama. No flowery presentation or over-the-top descriptions of self-indulgent gloom. Just raw reality. It’s hard to render the emptiness of depression, and Plath did the best rendition I’ve personally come across.
I think the majority of people like this book because of how realistically Sylvia Plath depicted the descent into depression, and I too like the book for its relatability. I have the distinct impression that, in some cases, liking this novel can be a bit self-confessional. Plath’s and Esther’s was a severe case of suicidal depression, one that required hospitalization, but Plath still managed to adequately express so many people’s lived experience. She came up with metaphors like the fig tree and the bell jar. She articulated her mental illness in words that spoke to people’s souls, something that is hard for me to fathom as I sit here and struggle to write a simple review.
There were also dispersed moments of humor, like not knowing what to do with a finger bowl or not knowing how to tip a bellhop. She related these humorous stories with cynicism that felt refreshing, though it probably also lended itself to the creation of negative thoughts.
Throughout the book, there were so many moments where I recognized my own thoughts and actions written down in somebody else’s story, and yet I didn’t feel an insane emotional pull. It was painful, but minutely. The only time I felt like crying was when Esther’s doctor told her that someone else’s suicide wasn’t her fault. Was my lack of emotional pull despite the relatability a sign of healing? Or is the relating of this emptiness a devastation that can only be met with an equally empty despondence?
“wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street cafe in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.”
“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.”
“How did I know that someday—at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere—the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn’t descend again?”
