The Bell Jar
Ratings812
Average rating3.9
3.5 - My rating is not based solely on how much I enjoyed the book because if it were, I would probably make it lower. I did not like it.
I love reading sad books and the idea of reading about her “decent into madness” intrigued me. I've heard so much about The Bell Jar and about how painfully accurate Plath's depiction of mental illness is, so I guess I was kind of hoping that I would find some parts of myself tucked away in the book and that it would be close to my heart. I was wrong. I felt disappointed at best, and at worst, like I finally aught to kill myself because that's supposedly the only thing that makes mental illness real. Disliking the book this much makes me feel like I have some sort of internalized phobia.
First of all, I just really did not like Esther :/ it feels awfully insensitive to say because I know this book is semi-autobiographical and Plath really did struggle, but Esther was insufferable. I mean, mann, I did not like her even before her breakdown but at least once she became depressed I felt a bit more empathy.
I get it. Being a women in the 1950s was hard and not everyone wants to get married or have a baby but why is that a reason to look down on those who do? In fact she looks down on nearly every single women/female companion in this book, it's ridiculous. In her eyes everyone is either boring, shallow, stupid or inferior. Even her mother! I could not understand for the life of me why she hated her mother so much. Even when she TRIED, nothing she did was ever good enough.
On top of that, I don't think having depression is an excuse to be racist or act like you are superior to other classes or ethnicities. I'm not even exaggerating, it made me feel like the book was set in the 30s. People continually defend the racist elements of this book as a product of the time blah blah blah and yes, I agree that those terms were common usage, but my annoyance came with her comparisons. Why is it every time she described herself as ugly, there just had to be a reference to some ethnicity. I do not think those descriptions were justified in the context or even good.
For example, there's a part where she writes
“I noticed a big smudgy-eyed Chinese women staring idiotically into my face. It was only me of course. I was appalled to see how wrinkled and used-up I looked.”
or when Doreen mentions that a guy is from Peru, Esther says “they're ugly as Aztecs.”
Like??? It left a bitter taste in my mouth. There was literally no need for it either. Comments like those would come out of nowhere and irked me. You can write a book where the character calls someone a Nigger a million times for all I care but don't go and expect me to sympathize.
Of course, the poignancy of The Bell Jar comes from the fact that Sylvia Plath successfully commits suicide a decade later, but even Esther's view of depression frustrated me too. Countless times she undermines the plight of other women in the ward because no one else could possiblyyyyy be struggling. Of course we're all more privy to our own struggles, but at some point you have to realize other people are hiding their issues just as well as you. Should I stop taking medication so I'll finally descend into madness and kill myself to prove I'm as sick as you? Of course not, that's ridiculous, yet time after time the book could not seem to get away from this proverbial hierarchy where Esther was judge, jury and executioner.
And it frustrates me because Sylvia Plath is an excellent writer and I did enjoy her prose. There were parts of the book that were lovely to read like her visit to her father's grave or her walk along the beach. I just wish more of the book could have been like that but evidently I wouldn't have complained this much if it was.
As someone who intends to live a long and full life, I relate to this book far too deeply. I've read it at least four times since I was fifteen, and always in times of great depression. Somehow knowing that I'm not alone in my thoughts serves to break me out of the fog.
I'm sure I'll turn to it again in the future, though I hope the stretches of time between reads grow further apart.
I'd give it a 2.5, right in the middle because that's exactly what this is. Fine, but not more!
Heartfelt and evocative. Plath's writing has always struck me as slightly adolescent, but this book is spot-on at describing the distorted perspective of depression and Plath's own emotional inner world. I'm kind of tempted to say I relate to it too much to really enjoy reading it, if that makes any sense.
got to the point where she would ‘open her veins with a gillette blade' and i just can't read that
sucks bc it's been such a good book so far
No entendiste a Esther Greenwood, y no pasa nada. Pero no la desprecies por ser más sincera que tú.
He leído La campana de cristal con los ojos de alguien que ha sentido lo que Sylvia Plath escribió, aunque no con las mismas palabras. Conozco la sensación de ver a la tristeza llegar como una niebla, envolverte sin que puedas explicarla. He escuchado las conversaciones del feminismo, he sido testigo del peso de la maternidad forzada, y he mirado a mi madre vivirla. No leí este libro por morbo ni por curiosidad literaria. Lo leí buscando verdad. Y la encontré.
Por eso me duele e indigna ver cómo hay quienes entran a estas páginas buscando “una historia interesante”, y salen diciendo que es aburrida, que no pasa nada, que Esther Greenwood es una exagerada.
¿De verdad?
¿Esperaban fuegos artificiales mientras una mujer intentaba poner en palabras su colapso?
Lo que más me enfurece no es que no les haya gustado. Es que la juzguen por hablar con crudeza de lo que el mundo se ha esforzado tanto en silenciar: la tristeza que no tiene forma, el rechazo a los roles impuestos, el peso de vivir en un cuerpo y un tiempo que no te escuchan. La desesperación sin nombre. El deseo de desaparecer sin hacerlo sonar bonito.
Y muchas veces, quienes más se indignan con este libro son las generaciones mayores.
Personas que crecieron con la idea de que los problemas emocionales eran debilidad, que la maternidad era una obligación sagrada y que las mujeres que cuestionaban su lugar en el mundo estaban “dañadas”. Para ellas, este libro no solo es incómodo: es una amenaza directa a la narrativa que les enseñaron a aceptar como verdad. Pero la incomodidad no es un defecto del libro, sino un reflejo de las paredes que lo rodean. La campana de cristal no ataca, simplemente muestra. Y a veces lo que muestra es todo lo que otros han evitado ver.
La campana de cristal no fue escrita para complacer. Fue escrita para sacar el grito de una garganta que ya no encontraba salida. Y muchos la leyeron buscando exactamente eso: el grito de Sylvia antes de su muerte. Lo que no esperaban es que ese grito fuera humano, sutil, incómodo, demasiado verdadero. Que no viniera envuelto en drama hollywoodense, sino en descripciones suaves, poéticas y precisas del vacío.
Y cuando encontraron esa verdad, algunos se burlaron. Otros se alejaron.
Pero muy pocos se atrevieron a quedarse y mirar de frente.
Yo sí.
Y muchos otros también.
Porque hay quienes no necesitan vivir exactamente lo mismo para saber que esto es real. Y hay quienes, como yo, han sentido cosas tan parecidas que dolería no llamarlas por su nombre.
No entendiste a Esther Greenwood, y no pasa nada.
Pero no la desprecies por ser más sincera que tú.
Solo acepta que hay voces que aún no sabes escuchar, y que no todas las heridas se gritan. Algunas se escriben.
Como esta.
Contains spoilers
i understand certain aspects of this book aren’t for everyone, Esther, as a main character is incredibly whiny and judgmental, but I think there’s some historical context is important to think about in retrospect to what she wanted out of life and how it felt inaccessible to her (not talking about her racism in the story). Esther experienced a lot of similar things I did when I started to come to the end of college that made me feel purposeless, and the story in that aspect made me feel seen. she doesn’t wanna get married. She doesn’t wanna have children and in that era that’s basically all women were for. I think she continuously battles with that. I genuinely believe that things only got as bad as they did because of the fact she experienced that electro shock therapy. it changed her fundamentally as a person it muted her, subdued her and that was her greatest battle. she went to only two appointments with psychotherapist, and he immediately recommended shock treatment. because it’s so odd and uncomfortable that a woman might feel an emotion other than nothing.
I think the best part of this book is probably the final chapter. It felt so impactful for me. I also feel so sad for Sylvia Plath just knowing that this book feels like a diary. It feels like a genuine reflection of herself, her life events, and the things she experienced.
This one is tough. The main character seems to hate everyone and everything, in a mean way, and is very self-righteous. I understand she is sick, but it makes her hard to like (even though you still hope for her recovery). As others before me have noted, there is a lot of racism, homophobia, and body shaming, which makes it tough to read. The fact that this is a mostly true account of the author does make the book more interesting, especially given the author's sad untimely end. I wish she could have had more peace.
This was supposed to be only her first book, not the only one. It's a showcase of some of her talent and a reflection of how much of an unlikable brat she was. However, I feel that if she had miraculously survived her suicide attempt and left Ted Hughes for good, she could have written much better work. What a shame.
Decepcionante.
A deterioração da saúde mental da narradora-protagonista é a única coisa realmente interessante. É esse retrato honesto da piora da condição psicológica, da culpa, do ódio a si mesma e aos outros, que triunfa. Se você se interessa nesses elementos, nessa capacidade de identificação específica com o sentir da protagonista, você vence a narrativa.
Se você tenta ir além disso, surge um retrato de capacidade reflexiva limitada sobre a condição mental da narradora. O livro trata muito de seu sentir imediato e de lembranças fruto do instante, o que tem seus prós e contras, mas, pra mim, não trouxe nada de especial. Isso casa com o problema de que nada nesse livro justifica o quão insuportável é a narradora. Foi duríssimo passar por todo o incômodo das reclamações constantes, especialmente na primeira parte. O resultado é uma narrativa que parece resistir a si mesma e deixa o leitor sem vontade alguma de querer saber algo sobre a protagonista, tornando-o muito menos instigante e provocativo do que poderia ser. Quando o livro realmente melhora, na metade, e mergulha na depressão, eu já não tinha mais vontade de saber o que aconteceria.
O pecado original é que, sabendo se tratar de um livro que se mistura com a vida da autora, esse retrato psicológico ganha um ar autoindulgente. Começa a emergir à reflexão uma obra escrita no susto, no espírito do sentimento, faltando certa consciência que a engrandeceria, restando somente um retrato fidedigno do sentimento da depressão. Nisso reside a única importância dessa obra. O pior é que todos os elementos para começar a pensar com mais gosto e envolvimento estão lá, mas sem fazer questão de despertar interesse. A linguagem tem seus momentos, mas, no geral, não é inspirada o suficiente para intrigar.
Eu entendo quem gostou. Not my cup of tea.
Creo que es un buen libro para entender los trastornos, me pareció explicita la manera en que se los describía y logre entender, aunque no completamente, lo que quería transmitir la autora. Tengo muchos sentimientos encontrados con este libro, pero no lo volveria a releer.
Me alegra haberlo leído porque al menos ya tendré un libro, el primero que leo sobre el tema, para recomendar.
Una lástima que en esa época haya habido mucha falta de información al respecto como se da a entender en el libro, aunque al final haya salido bien siento que falto un poco más de descripción sobre como pudo superar su distintos trastornos la protagonista.
She is me I am her
I struggle with plotless books but I relate heavily to her blasé attitude towards the struggles she's facing. I feel I am slightly too grown now to relate deeply but I would've loved this more as a teen.
In terms of it being iconic feminist literature, I am unsure I would agree but loved her snapshot into a young and miserable female mind - where others have failed to portray the female experience she has surpassed expectations. Her matter of fact attitude feels so contrary to how men and even adult woman view someone struggling with coming of age, and this alone feels like feminism.
“Her thoughts were not my thoughts, nor her feelings my feelings, but we were close enough so that her thoughts and feelings seemed a wry, black image of my own.”
the way this took me way too long to read.....but also like 8/10 kinda was bored during some of it but also really pulled in during other parts, definitely would read it again. it was interesting how mental illness was portrayed throughout.
era un libro che dovevo leggere. bel personaggio femminile. devo essere sincera la storia non mi ha trasportata molto. mi piace molto di più la Plath poetessa.
“The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.”
5/5
Some people say novels should be about story or about characters, but The Bell Jar is a prime example of why prose quality matters, as well as a useful reminder why you shouldn't sleep on poets.
Yes, it's a harrowing depiction of mental illness. Yes, it's a searing look at the limited options open to women (even relatively privileged white ones) during the middle of the 20th Century.
More importantly, the book is fucking beautiful. I found the pages slipping by, while also finding myself pausing to savor a turn of phrase or striking image. Plath's mastery of language is breathtaking.