I feel like I owe Sylvia Plath an apology. This is a book I actively avoided for years because so many people (namely female classmates who wanted to be perceived as painfully different or terminally misunderstood or on the verge of absolutely losing their teenage shit) lauded the virtues of this book and how it, like, so totally spoke to them in places they didn't even know they had ears. My own overly judgmental high-school self could not accept even the remote possibility of actual merit lurking between the covers of something that such bland, faux-distraught ninnies clung to like a life raft. A fine novel, as bitter and remorseless as her last poems -- the kind of book Salinger's Fanny might have written about herself ten years later, if she had spent those ten years in Hell." -- Robert Scholes, The New York Times Book Review.

Esther Greenwood, our fictional protagonist, is unfortunately only a veiled cover for Plath’s real world disease which reached its nadir in 1963 when she took her own life at the young age of thirty. It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York.” this is often, as it was in my case, assigned reading for teenage girls, the people most likely to be willing to undergo the kind of self-centering it would take to think most of what's depicted in this book is an okay or acceptable way to be. when i first read this, i liked it. i was 18, it should be noted, and a senior in high school fresh off the then-worst year of my life. (it has since been soundly defeated.) anyway, i didn't know classic fiction could be like this: written by a woman, fresh and relatable, about someone like me. I uttered 'nothing new’ many times while reading it but considering it as a book written 50 years ago which still resonated at such an inexplicable level with me is fascinating to think of. Should I mourn at the repeated instances of histories which repeat themselves or cheer about the knowledge that there lived a girl who had a talent of telling something on behalf of most of us? I’m still contemplating about those questions but I guess they’ll lose their significance in time to come and only magical essence of Sylvia’s words shall remain with me.

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How do we separate the artist from their art if we blithely don't notice it and then excuse them with saying it was a product of their times? I couldn’t stand the idea of a woman having to have a single pure life and a man being able to have a double life, one pure and one not. I realise that we are living in the times where belief and feelings are considered much more important than science and facts, where democratic voting is wrong and illegal if the 'wrong party' (US) or Brexit or Scottish Independence (UK) don't go the way that people want. And that any dissension results in deplatforming, cancelling or immense campaigns of hatred against academic and public figures. Is this the right way to go? No dissension, no debate, facts are wrong if they don't fit feelings, and cultural icons for one movement or another can do no wrong? I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we are reading doesn't wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? ...we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.

La novela o yo hemos, en cierta manera, fracasado en el intento. O bien ella no ha logrado transmitirme el horror de ese fondo del hoyo que es una depresión o yo no he sido capaz de concebir la profunda desesperación que, pienso, debe sentir la protagonista dentro de esa campana que la envuelve y que le impide relacionarse y encontrar su sitio en ese mundo de hombres en el que la mujer sigue sujeta a roles y comportamientos establecidos por ellos. The similarities between Plath and Esther were so strong that Plath’s London publisher, Heinemann, warned her about potential libel issues. (As it turned out, they were correct. Jane Anderson, a woman who had known Plath at McLean, argued that the novel contained an unflattering portrait of her and sued the Plath Estate for libel in the 1980s.) Plath dismissed their concerns, but published the novel under a pseudonym, Victoria Lucas.

Regardless of its baggage, The Bell Jar could stand on its own. It is poignant, honest, unflinching. The prose is beautiful, touched with poetry. The ending is unforgettable. It had been a number of years since I last read Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. What I’d remembered most was how well Plath had established the mood for this story by weaving the electrocutions of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg with the mental breakdown of her heroine, Esther Greenwood. But the story is definitely about Esther, her ambition, and her own feelings of inadequacy, even though (viewed from the outside) Esther would be seen as a success.

The Bell Jar’ by Victoria Lucas was not a commercial success and seemed almost certain to disappear. In the months leading up to the publication of ‘The Bell Jar’ and her death Plath had a burst of creativity and wrote a large of number of poems in a confessional style that was both new for her and highly original. When these poems were posthumously published as the collection ‘Ariel’ in 1965 they caused a sensation and after her death Plath became a famous poet. Coinvolgerla tanto da ricorrere a uno pseudonimo, il nom de plume di Victoria Lucas, tanto era forte l’autobiografismo di queste pagine: al punto che la madre ne ostacolò la pubblicazione negli States riuscendo a postporla fino al 1971. The Bell Jar is an ambitious work, as I read before, but it’s not a perfect novel. There are some fissures that should prevent me from giving it a 5-star rating. Nevertheless, I changed my first rating from four to five stars; it is on my “favorites” shelf, another favorite axe, and it has rekindled my feelings for Plath. I am grateful for the story she shared. And for the fate she forged for her character. I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am. Despite the darkness in which this book is immersed, a sense of hope still lingers even after finishing this somber journey. Fig trees are on solid ground, awaiting for courage, a leap of faith, life-changing decisions – meaning, beauty, uniqueness. The silence, a limpid layer which allows to admire the now splendid azure sky, is no longer an ominous sign. As a small stone is thrown into a pond, causing violent ripples that soon vanish while the former serenity is restored, such silence is interrupted briefly by the sound of glass breaking. In the midst of too much consciousness, those small shivers are a vital part of the ritual for being born twice—patched, retreaded and approved for the road.

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sylvia plath has the kind of compelling story that would have sealed her canonical fate whether she was talented or not. Strangely enough, if you remember in my last review, what bothered me most about The Good Earth did not bother me in The Bell Jar. Because the Esther, the character we are following, is slowly descending into madness, time no longer matters. There are a few times I was confused about the timeline, but it did not upset me. Extremely beautiful and powerfully poignant. The Bell Jar is the autobiographical story of a young girl with Esther's future (but shouldn't we say Sylvia?). The young winner of a literary talent competition discovers New York, its parties, demands, and futility. But it would be wrong to separate The Bell Jar from its baggage, because the novel and its context inform each other. There is a certain level of sadness here that simply cannot be escaped.

E non si può non cogliere l’agghiacciante parallelo con la vicenda dei Rosenberg giustiziati sulla sedia elettrica (riguarderò il film di Lumet). Beyond that, Plath’s Esther is blisteringly honest, and not just about matters of mental health. For instance, there is a scene where Esther loses her virginity that is told with a candor that is surprising today, not to mention the date when it was first published. I told my GR friend Ann that I meant to read this since age 16. All the girls I had crushes on at the time were reading this book with their pencil skirts and Smiths Tshirts. I read some Plath poetry that I enjoyed but never got to this novel.

I had a vision of the celestially white kitchens on Ladies’ Day stretching into infinity. I saw avocado pear after avocado pear being stuffed with crabmeat and mayonnaise and photographed under brilliant lights. I saw the delicate, pink-mottled claw-meat poking seductively through its blanket of mayonnaise and the bland, yellow pear cup with its rim of alligator-green cradling the whole mess.