The Bell Jar

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
Category: I first read The Bell Jar in 11th grade AP English. This was the first time I had ever read anything Sylvia Plath wrote. All I had ever heard about her was that she committed suicide.

My thoughts: I think the idea of “Sylvia Plath, suicidal poet” has superseded the notion of “Sylvia Plath, talented writer.” And she was quite talented. The Bell Jar is a fictionalized account of Plath’s own assignment at a New York magazine during college, descent into a hellish breakdown, suicide attempt, and hospital stay complete with shock treatments. Esther Greenwood is the story’s protagonist. It is also a glimpse into the expectations placed on women during the 1950s. Esther’s attempts at making herself into a writer are not taken seriously, and she is groomed to believe that she should forget career aspirations if and when she becomes a wife and mother. Interesting that Plath went to Smith, as did Betty Freidan, author of The Feminine Mystique, and Gloria Steinem--both of whom very publicly rejected limitations placed on women.

Reading about Esther’s hospitalization reminded me of a biography I read about Marilyn Monroe—the idea of a young woman with a lot of personal demons living and being treated in an era that had a long way to go in terms of understanding and treating mental illness. It's heartbreaking. It also made me think of similarities in the lives of Sylvia Plath and Marilyn Monroe. Both were troubled women who struggled for artistic credibility, were married to literary men and died within months of each other.

The nice thing about rereading books is that your view of the world has changed in the years between, and you have a new or different understanding of things. When I first read The Bell Jar, I had only a vague idea about the Rosenbergs (Esther’s summer assignment occurs around the time they were executed amidst Cold War suspicions). Also, back in 11th grade, I had no idea that Madison Avenue, where the women’s magazine’s office is, was so famous (thank you, Mad Men).

And there’s this: Plath writes, “I strolled into the kitchen, dropped a raw egg into a teacup of raw hamburger, mixed it up and ate it.” Was this a thing in the 1950s? It sounds awful. Anyway, rereading The Bell Jar reaffirmed something that I first glimpsed in 11th grade and saw again years later when I read Sylvia Plath’s journals: the woman was an amazing writer.

Great passage: There is something demoralizing about watching two people get more and more crazy about each other, especially when you are the only extra person in the room.

Up next: Paradise by Toni Morrison