The Bell Jar
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A beautifully written book and a brillient exploration of the mind. Highly enjoyable to read.
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Interesting
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This book clearly reflects Plath's state of mind at the time so, not being depressed myself, it is interesting to read and thought-provoking. Whilst reading it, it made me appreciate my life as well, I don't know whether that's a good thing or not.
However, I only gave it 3 stars because it was so heavy and made me feel depressed (if that's the right word to use?!) and was therefore quite glad when I had finished reading it. I wouldn't describe it as 'harrowing', nor would I describe it as 'boring'. I also like her poetry better than 'The Bell Jar' but that could be because I studied some of her poems at school.
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Pathologically anti-male, and solopsistically banal
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I've heard all sorts of claims of misogynism against writers like Martin Amis, and have always been perplexed by the critics inability to differentiate between complicated sexuality and downright hateful slander of an entire gender. So what do we have here?
Let's look at the male characters: Buddy Willard is a hypocritical philanderer, whose mistake was losing his virginity before Esther thought he had. The mistake was hers alone. I'm not mitigating Buddy - he seems like a bit of a dope - but it's when you look at Marco, the attempted rapist, Lenny, the screwy drunk DJ, and then finally we have nice Irwin, who Esther 'decided to seduce'. And when she gets what she desires, she proceeds to bleed profusely, her insides haemorraghing due to her virginity. This is then used as a tool to show how put-upon downtrodden Esther is. The doctor describes her body's reaction as being 'one in a million'. This just turns into an exercise of solopsism on Plath's part, whose work I have huge respect for, but I see why she published this under a pseudonym.
If this book helps you cope with depression, then more power to you. But there's something rampantly anti-male, rather than pro-feminist about the whole book. Aside from the fact that much of the prose constantly slides into retrospection in order to provide any depth or colour to what is happening in the present. She offers a scene then backslides out of it over and over again, with all these pointless - albeit fairly short - digressions about neighbour's past love life or history; it jars all the time.
My point about gender in regards to The Bell Jar is the shocking conclusion Doctor Nolan comes to with Esther's collusion: that men are fundamentally incapable of tenderness. What absolute rot. I'm 25 years old and if I wrote a novel (I've written three, the first published March 2009) where women were slandered for being too prissy or superficial, the Post Office couldn't provide me with a post bag big enough to deliver the papyral vitriol. It's the glib generalisations about men in general, which actually *undermine* femininity, by casting men as all after dumb satisfaction (Plath never even considers Irwin might just want to fall in love with Esther! But she never waits around long enough to find out; she runs off to the hospital in seconds to complain about yet another selfpitying episode) this automatically, and antithetically places women as totally alone, where men can just take what they want. What a bloody-minded, narcissitic perspective. This isn't about Esther as a character, it's the writer's, clearly very sick, state of mind at this point in her life, where Ted Hughes (her vastly superior poet ex-husband) has betrayed and cheated on her, and the depressive feels like the only persecuted soul in existence. Well Plath wasn't, and isn't. And such scenes are fairly embarrassing when re-read for the first time since my youth.
I can see why this appeals to teenagers (being a Manic Street Preachers obsessive, all I heard or read in interviews from Richey Edwards was about The Bell Jar, and, indeed, the band have something of a problem with masculinity, but phrase it in such a more powerful and convincing manner) suffering from depression. Frankly, writing as slopping and uninspired as much of the Bell Jar is depresses me a lot more than the toil and absurdity of the outside world.
The best thing I can say is that there are worse books out there. The worst thing I can say is that are infinitely stronger representations of female characters out there in literature. PLEASE seek out Morvern Callar by Alan Warner for a real female character with soul and heart.
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degradation into depression
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Sadly this author knew what she was talking about, and sadly I can relate to the protagonist. She describes the thought process perfectly and at one point I didn't even notice the change. It's a wonderfully written book, I just love it. I don't know what to say about it other than I really liked it, it's the only thing of hers I have read and because of this I just might try to read some of her poems, even though I'm not a poem kind of person.
On another note if you know of anyone who is depressed it might be a good idea to read this book to understand the way they are thinking. It could help and even if it doesn't it still a good read.
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The view from inside a breakdown
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I read this on the recommendation of my daughter who related to the semi autobiographical protagonist even 35 years later.
Although medical treatments have changed since the book was written, the frequency of such cases must surely have risen and this is as relevant a book as ever.
Esther Greenwood reperesents Sylvia Plath in the book; an intelligent, active woman who suddenly begins to find that life has lost its meaning and importance. From being constantly busy, she becomes totally demotivated, giving up further study in favour of lounging around her mother's house. After she attempts to kill herself with an overdose, her mother enlists medical help and Esther is eventually admitted to an asylum for treatment. This includes electric shock treatment and constant medication.
The treatment seems to have been sucessful to a degree as Ms Plath went on to write this book and numerous works of poetry. Unfortunately her eventual suicide, aged 31, suggests that all was not as it should have been and the ghosts were still lurking.
It put me in mind of Girl Interrupted by Susanna Kaysen who also wrote of her time in a psychiatric ward in 1967. I was amazed to find, on further investigation, that she was in the same hospital as Sylvia Plath.
Recommended - a unique opportunity to understand the emotions and confusion of a breakdown.
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