Sylvia Plath: The Bell Jar

One mark of great literature is the ability to portray an experience so convincingly that it does more than recreate the moment in the reader's mind; it forces the reader to live what is written in his or her own life. Such was my experience with this book.

Understand, though, that I have an affinity for Plath already. So closely does The Bell Jar follow my own path that I can mark the exact page at which it diverges: 170. The words at certain points might have come out of my own mouth--only probably not as beautifully. Some examples:

"The thought that I might kill myself formed as clearly in my mind as a tree or a flower" (97).

"I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I'd cry for a week. I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like a water glass that is too unsteady and too full" (101).

And there is more, not single lines but entire chapters. The fig tree filled with dreams between which she cannot choose--and which wither on the branch--and the calm with which she overdoses on sleeping pills. Most people think of suicide springing from despair, but Plath describes it as only one who has been there knows: springing not from despair, but from numbness.

So closely did The Bell Jar serve as a mirror, it was in fact dangerous to read. After putting it down, I found myself back there. My own mind and body has assimilated Plath's writing and made it reality. I felt the same invisible hand that worked Esther/Sylvia like a marionette grab hold of my strings again, and it was rather scary to feel him grasping for me. I wonder what would have happened if my path continued along Esther's after page 170, if somebody had checked me in somewhere. Would I have ended up like her? Or like her creator?

BTD: 22ish