The Bell Jar
Reviews
Although people say its all depressing, the first half is full of almost comical satire about the society.
The tone of writing changes with the how esther is feeling. During depression, the writing feels absolutely devoid of any feelings, and changes as she recovers into more beautiful quotes, quite literally depicting how depression feels in real time.
Its a novel worth reading! The story doesn't fail to surprise after each page.
Mind you it does have some racist remarks!
I did not enjoy this at all :/
Lo sentí bastante familiar, como si una parte de Esther viviera dentro de mí; sentí que no solo estaba acompañando a Esther con sus sentimientos negativos sino que ella también me estaba acompañando a mí, si bien las razones detrás de nuestras tristezas difieren bastante, la manera en la que se ven representadas es bastante similar, y me hace sentir menos miserable no ser la única persona con esta carga emocional
La traducción al español súper me causó conflictos a ratos, las decisiones de usar ciertas palabras me sacó full de onda; siento que hubiera conectado mucho más de haberlo leído en inglés
updated review 1/16
i’m no stranger to the bell jar. i first read it in my sophomore year of high school, then saw the recent hype and reread it a couple more times, and i'm just trying to figure out what the hell the hype is about. did we read the same book? because this was insane.
before i rip into it, i can see why this is considered a classic. it’s beautifully written, and some could say sylvia was ahead of her time. there are a lot of memorable quotes, and yes, the fig tree passage is nice (i guess). but i find it despicable how so many people dub this as feminist literature—how they claim all modern women can relate to and benefit from it.
what women are you talking about?? because i am black, and i’m sure many other WOC wouldn’t appreciate this book being pushed as some savior of modern womanhood. fuck sylvia, fuck esther, and FUCK that fig tree. this was not written for women of color—she wrote this for the women who looked like her. look at these quotes and tell me she was thinking of us when she wrote this:
“a big, smudgy-eyed Chinese woman staring idiotically into my face.”
“the face in the mirror looks like a sick Indian.”
“dusky as a bleached-blonde negress.”
“they're squat…they're ugly as Aztecs.”
i'm not even going to provide context for these, just sit there and take it in.
the amount of racism and other -isms littered throughout this book is insane, and so many people try to excuse it by saying, oh, it was written in the 1960s. the 1960s?? you mean during the civil rights movement?? did your brain slip from your thick skull down to your ass? i didn’t know being mentally ill was an excuse for being a disgusting racist—i guess i’ve been living my life all wrong. stop trying to impress the dead. if she was conscious and intelligent enough to write this shitshow—along with loads of other work—then she was intelligent enough to know right from wrong. she simply didn’t care.
in all seriousness, this was a huge disappointment, and i can’t help but feel a pang of hurt. how can this be so widely enjoyed? i’m genuinely confused, and if this question applies to you, i’d love to hear your answer. how could i possibly relate to the themes of womanhood, identity, and mental health when she would most likely refer to me as a “negress” if i appeared in front of her? such an incredible letdown.
It started off good until it’s not. The raw depiction of mental illness might be triggering for some people. There are certainly chapters that made me question where is the plot going but it was an enjoyable read after all.
finished the book 15min before new year's.....
this was such a raw experience, i could see and especially feel what Esther was experiencing. Sylvia was able to put into words some feelings that i once had, which was validating but also heartbreaking.
this was fascinatingly sad, not my best summer read choice but i dont regret it one bit
I will always love her poems more.
sylvia plath is one of the authors that encapsulates writing the feeling of emptiness perfectly. in addition to that, the lead character, Esther, remind me so much of sylvia on her unabridged journal.
this book is such a good read that it healed my slump.
An enjoyable read. I appreciate the pov & enjoyed the themes of marriage, women vs men & crippling mental health through Sylvia’s lens.
im so sick to my stomach bcs been reading this for tooooo long and finished it this nighg where i thought im not at my function (like... at all!)
Please be warned that there are descriptions of self harm and suicide in this book.
Throughout reading The Bell Jar, I felt an unmistakable emptiness. It’s in the tone, in protagonist Esther Greenwood’s focus on rationality over feeling, in her detachment from self. There’s a detachment that Sylvia Plath paints between Esther and her experiences, between Esther and emotion. Though rational in judgment and narration, the draining darkness of depression is felt as it pulls everyone within its reach down below.
This is a book that reflects Sylvia Plath’s own life, provides an accurate portrayal of the debilitating nature and dismissive treatment of depression and mental illness, and calls to attention the limiting societal expectations of women. And it does all of this so beautifully and with a bit of levity from Plath’s sarcasm and wit. It’s vulnerable and honest and hopeful. It fights to reclaim womanhood and the self. It’s fairly poetic.
This is a book I’ve been putting off for so long, and I’m so glad it’s found its way back to me now at this point in time. As I’ve mentioned before, life is pretty difficult right now. I feel my own perceptions clouded and distorted by the bell jar, my mind and my heart and my lungs trapped and stifled within its heavy glass. But despite the distortion, I know others are just outside, enclosed in their own bell jars, experiencing what may very well be the same thing. And I know I’ve lifted the glass over my head before, so I can do it again.
Written from a white perspective and although the story is interesting, it is not as groundbreaking as it was hyped up to be.
I really, really, liked the prose in this one. Sometimes the stream-of-consciousness style of narration pops up, and the descriptions never fail to paint a picture of what Esther sees and feels.
I think I read it at a good time in my life (just fresh out of university, not knowing what exactly I want to do)...
** spoiler alert ** This is an absolute masterpiece that left an indelible mark on me. From start to finish, I was utterly captivated by the raw honesty and poetic beauty of her writing. Every word seemed to resonate with me on a deeply level, as if she had reached into my soul and put my thoughts and feelings into words. I couldn't help but give it a perfect five-star rating because I genuinely loved everything about it. One aspect of the novel that particularly resonated with me was the fig tree metaphor. Plath’s portrayal of Esther Greenwood's struggle to find her place in the world and break free from societal expectations really spoke to me, as I too have grappled with feelings of disillusionment and uncertainty about the future. I feel it perfectly captures the overwhelming pressure to make the "right" choice and the fear of making the wrong one
Si estás en tus 20's lo tenés que leer.
what is goin ooooon!!!!
shit got a little too relatable after chapter 10 😁
Someone once said, The thing about depression, A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it's impossible to ever see the end. We all, at some point, experience this phase: "I'm lost and I have no clue what to do with my life". While reading this book,I thought that Esther was feeling the same way. She didn't know what she wanted, feeling scared that she'd just sit there and watch her life pass by, and I believe that's the main reason that made her depressed. Being lost in every kind of way, trying to find meaning for life in everything she does. And I can relate to all of this. As with so many other girls like her, Esther was a lonely person who needed support and love.I also was thinking about Sylvia the entire time I was reading this. When she talked about the fig tree and how each fig represented a distinct life decision for her, that's when I felt the most moved. It's a pretty dark and miserable book to read overall. Although not everyone will like it, I definitely did.
she's just like me fr
Terrifying to admit but Sylvia feels the way I do and expresses it the way I wish I could.
good book but i hope i NEVER read it again :)
its like year of rest and relaxation if year of rest and relaxation made sense
Highlights
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 coloured arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
And I knew that in spite of all the roses and kisses and restaurant dinners a man showered on a woman before he married her, what he secretly wanted when the wedding service ended was for her to flatten out underneath his feet like Mrs Willard's kitchen mat.
I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. 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.
De la punta de cada rama, como un suculento higo morado, un futuro maravilloso me atraía y me tentaba. Un higo era un marido y un hogar feliz y niños, y otro higo era una poeta famosa, y otro higo una profesora brillante, y otro higo era E.G., la fantástica editora, y otro higo era Europa y África y Sudamérica, y otro higo era Constantin y Socrates y Attila y un pelotón de otros amantes con nombres curiosos y profesiones estrafalarias, y otro higo era una campeona olímpica de remo, y más allá y por encima de esos higos había muchos más que no acertaba a distinguir.
Me vi sentada en la horcadura de esa higuera, muriendo de hambre solo porque no podía decidir cuál de los higos deseaba. Los quería todos, pero elegir uno significaba perder los demás, y mientras permanecía allí sentada, incapaz de decidirme, los higos empezaban a arrugarse y a ponerse negros, y uno por uno caían en el suelo a mis pies.
I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart.
I am, I am, I am.
To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.
A bad dream.
I remembered everything.
[...]
Maybe forgetfullness, like a kind of snow, should numb and cover them.
But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.
There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them. Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: 'I’ll go take a hot bath’
Relatable
Me vi sentada en la horcadura de esa higuera, muriendo de hambre solo porque no podía decidir cuál de los higos deseaba. Los quería todos, pero elegir uno significada perder los demás, y mientras permanecía allí sentada, incapaz de decidirme, los higos empezaban a arrugarse y a ponerse negros, y uno por uno caían en el suelo a mis pies.
"The trouble was,
I hated the idea of serving men
In any way."
Cuando se marchó, me pregunté por qué de pronto me costaba tanto cumplir con mis obligaciones. Eso me hizo sentir triste y cansada. Entonces pensé por qué me costaba tanto no cumplir con mis obligaciones, como hacía Doreen, y me sentí aún más triste y más cansada.
“I like you.”
“That’s tough, Joan,” I said, picking up my book. “Because I don’t like you. You make me puke, if you want to know.” And I walked out of the room, leaving Joan lying, lumpy as an old horse, across my bed.
gagged
The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life. Then, at the rim of vision, it gathered itself, and in one sweeping tide, rushed me to sleep.
It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next.
It made me tired just to think of it.
The wanted to do everything once and for all and he through with it.
It would mean getting up at seven and cooking him eggs and bacon and toast and coffee and dawdling about in my night- gown and curlers after he'd left for work to wash up the dirty plates and make the bed, and then when he came home after a lively, fascinating day he'd expect a big dinner, and I’d spend the evening washing up even more dirty plates till I fell into bed, utterly exhausted.
This seemed a dreary and wasted life for a girl with fifteen years of straight A’s, but I knew that’s what marriage was like, because cook and clean and wash was just what Buddy Willard’s mother did from morning till night, and she was the wife of a university professor and had been a private teacher once herself.
Finally I decided that if it was so difficult to find a red- blooded intelligent man who was still pure by the time he was twenty-one I might as well forget about staying pure myself and marry somebody who wasn't pure either. Then when he started to make my life miserable I could make his miserable as well.
I said maybe if you loved a woman it wouldn't seem so boring, but Eric said it would be spoiled by thinking this woman too was just an animal like the rest, so if he loved anybody he would never go to bed with her. He'd go to a whore if he had to and keep the woman he loved free of all that dirty stuff.
I thought how strange it had never occurred to me before that I was only purely happy until I was nine years old.
After that - in spite of the Girl Scouts and the piano lessons and the water-colour lessons and the dancing lessons and the sailing camp, all of which my mother scrimped to give me, and college, with crewing in the mist before breakfast and black- bottom pies and the little new firecrackers of ideas going off every day- I had never really been happy again.
I thought it sounded just like the sort of drug a man would invent. Here was a woman in terrible pain, obviously feeling every bit of it or she wouldn't groan like that, and she would go straight home and start another baby, because the drug would make her forget how bad the pain had been, when all the time, in some secret part of her, that long, blind, doorless and windowless corridor of pain was waiting to open and shut her in again.
Then I wiped each finger carefully with my linen napkin which was still quite clean. Then I folded the linen napkin and laid it between my lips and brought my lips down on it precisely. When I put the napkin back on the table a fuzzy pink lip-shape bloomed right in the middle of it like a tiny heart.
I thought what a long way I had come.
Only I wasn’t steering anything, not even myself. I just bumped from my hotel to work to parties and from parties to my hotel and back to work like a numb trolley-bus. I guess I should have been excited the way most of the other girls were, but I couldn’t get myself to react. I felt very still and very empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.
It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York.
And I knew that in spite of all the roses and kisses and restaurant dinners a man showered on a woman before married her, what he secretly wanted when the wedding service ended was for her to flatten out underneath his feet like Mrs Willard's kitchen mat.
Botany was fine, because I loved cutting up leaves and and putting them under the microscope and drawing diagrams of bread mould and the odd, heart-shaped leaf in the sex cycle of the fern, it seemed so real to me. The day I went into physics class it was death.
I turned the words over suspiciously, like round, sea-polished pebbles that might suddenly put out a claw and change into something else.