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The Bell Jar

by Sylvia Plath

3.98 · Rating Details · 439,567 Ratings · 15,812 Reviews

Sylvia Plath's shocking, realistic, and intensely emotional novel about a woman falling into the grip of insanity.

Esther Greenwood is brilliant, beautiful, enormously talented, and successful, but slowly going under—maybe for the last time. In her acclaimed and enduring masterwork, Sylvia Plath brilliantly draws the reader into Esther's breakdown with such intensity that ...more

Paperback, 244 pages

Published 2006 by Harper Perennial (first published January 14th 1963)

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Community Reviews

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May 29, 2007 Sammy rated it it was amazing · review of another edition

Shelves: a-the-best

There are many who have read The Bell Jar and absolutely loved it. I am gladly considering myself one of them. I was a little caught of guard when I read a few reviews of The Bell Jar comparing it to The Catcher in the Rye stating how it's the female version of it. I liked Catcher but I know there are many people who didn't and upon hearing that may be similar to Catcher not have the desire to read it. I assure you, The Bell Jar is a book all on it's own and should not be compared to any other b There are many who have read The Bell Jar and absolutely loved it. I am gladly considering myself one of them. I was a little caught of guard when I read a few reviews of The Bell Jar comparing it to The Catcher in the Rye stating how it's the female version of it. I liked Catcher but I know there are many people who didn't and upon hearing that may be similar to Catcher not have the desire to read it. I assure you, The Bell Jar is a book all on it's own and should not be compared to any other book... even as a compliment.

When I first started reading the book I was a little put off, feeling it was an extremely pretensious novel. Her descriptions were crisp and precise, often using words that one rarely hears spoken or even read. I went into the novel knowing that Plath was a poet and felt that at first the book was just another form of her poetry and her showing off her writing abilities. But that only remained within the first two pages, because after that I became absorbed. The writing that I was a little sketchy about at first helped me visualize the setting and get to know the characters. And though Plath never really described many characters as to their personality, I began to feel I knew them all intimately.

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.

The book really spoke to me because of my own personal experiences with depression and suicide. It spoke to me as a woman and my views on sex and the confusion I'm sure most other girls out there face. It's amazing that this book was written and published over 30 years ago, really, when a new woman was coming out into the world. I have a feeling that this book helped women realize that they're not alone, and brought things to light that most people have commonly shoved aside; women and men. But what else is amazing is how relevant these topics still are today. Specifically with suicide, and specifically about the virtue and pureness of women compared to men.

So I guess that is why The Bell Jar is often compared to The Catcher in the Rye, with it's discussions and writings of often controversial titles. Setting off a new generation of writers, styles, and people. Another book also came to mind as I was reading, and that was The Perks of Being a Wallflower. There are moments when I could make a few direct comparisons between the two. With Esther slowly seperating herself from socialization and sinking deeper into her own thoughts and depression. Analyzing things that go on around her and her surroundings. Very reminscent of Perks.

If you feel you're suffering from depression, madness, confusion about topics pertaining to society and sex, or just looking for a good read, The Bell Jar is definetly the book for you. I also advise, if you're seriously suffering from depression, to get help for yourself. There is no shame in it, and getting help is better than ending your life. Even if you need to go on medication, DO NOT feel ashamed, especially if it's going to help you even more. ...more

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Jan 04, 2013 Madeleine rated it really liked it · review of another edition

Shelves: head-in-the-clouds-nose-in-a-book, our-libeary, maybe-it-s-time-to-live, 2013, blogophilia

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 lurk 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.

I should probably also apologize for referring to every pair of oven mitts I've ever owned as a pair of Sylvias but I think the lady scribe in question was too mired in real problems to care all that much about my sick amusement's crass reduction.

"The Bell Jar," packed as it was with bleak truths, difficult topics and wryly dark humor, was not at all what I was expecting. Old biases die hard: I couldn't help but brace myself for a trivial tribute to mental imbalances, White Girl Problems and petty complaints disguised as life-ruining moments. What I got was an utter lack of histrionics and a sincere, to-the-point road map of one talented young lady's fight against her inner demons. Sylvia's alter ego Esther Greenwood (let's all take a second to appreciate the sly cleverness of trading "Sylvia" for the fictional surname "Greenwood") is so straightforward in addressing her despair that I couldn't help but extend more sympathy than I thought I could muster to her understated suffering. If nothing else, this book taught me that my own bouts of the blues are simply me being human and could be so much more debilitating: For that clarity of self-awareness alone, I am grateful.

Reading this as I neared the "Infinite Jest" finish line offered necessary perspective that helped me get a better idea of what it must have been like inside such a messy head. The relative ease with which IJ's depressed cast could self-medicate in secret or seek refuge where at least someone was trying to understand the extent of such gaping psychological wounds offered a jarring contrast to the way Sylvia/Esther seemed truly isolated from those who couldn't see how awful it was to live inside herself. While she encountered precious little understanding in both her personal life (Mrs. Greenwood's inability to see her daughter's problem as her daughter's problem instead of wondering what she did wrong just rubbed my modern sensibilities the wrong way) and from the medical professionals who were tasked with helping her rise above the sinking despair she couldn't escape, I finished this fictionalized semi-autobiography 50 years after its publication with a keener understanding of what Sylvia Plath endured than I'm comfortable with. ...more

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Apr 10, 2007 karen rated it liked it

Shelves: books-everyone-loves-but-me, littry-fiction

there once was a girl from the bay state
who tried to read finnegan's wake.
it made her so ill,
she took loads of pills.
james joyce has that knack to frustrate.

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Nov 08, 2012 Scarlet rated it really liked it

Shelves: classics, depressing, rich-prose, it-stays-with-you, best-of-2013, for-my-future-library

There is this scene in Chapter 10 of The Bell Jar where Esther Greenwood decides to write a novel.

"My heroine would be myself, only in disguise. She would be called Elaine. Elaine. I counted the letters on my fingers. There were six letters in Esther, too. It seemed a lucky thing."

I cannot help wondering, is that what Sylvia Plath thought when she wrote The Bell Jar? Did she, like Esther, sit on a breezeway in an old nightgown waiting for something to happen? Is that why she chose the name Est ...more

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Sep 02, 2013 Garima rated it it was amazing

Shelves: favorites, to-re-read, its-not-you-its-meta-or-gfhrytyt, no-kidding, funny-funsome-sarcasome, my-2-cents, wehmut

Everything she said was like a secret voice speaking straight out of my own bones.

A light at the end of a tunnel? May be! A flicker of hope? Perhaps. A cloud with a silver lining? Possibly. Eventually it’s the doubt that remains a constant companion while one is busy gathering shreds of a life which apparently turns into something unexpected, something frail, something blurred, something sour, something like sitting under a Bell Jar. There are no promises to keep and no expectations to be fulfi
Everything she said was like a secret voice speaking straight out of my own bones.

A light at the end of a tunnel? May be! A flicker of hope? Perhaps. A cloud with a silver lining? Possibly. Eventually it’s the doubt that remains a constant companion while one is busy gathering shreds of a life which apparently turns into something unexpected, something frail, something blurred, something sour, something like sitting under a Bell Jar. There are no promises to keep and no expectations to be fulfilled except a small desire survives somewhere, a desire wishing for wings of freedom to gather their strength again to soar high in the sky and letting the old brag of heart to leap out and declare in a booming voice – I am, I am, I am.

Another book, another writer and another winner. I simply loved The Bell Jar. I approached it weighing under the burden of my hollow prejudices and expected a story that won’t surprise me in any remarkable way but Sylvia Plath! She gave me a valuable gift in the form of this book. I’ll probably come across as heavily drenched in my emotions here but it’s not every day one finds something which perfectly vocalizes the suppressed whispers of one’s past and an immediate present. Another case of deep connection? Not exactly. Just the right amount of shared feelings and a long awaited consolation that I’m not the only one.

I felt dreadfully inadequate. The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it... I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone.

No self-pity or depressing delusions, just plain simple confession which born out of the realization after an official entry into the real world. The Bell Jar is about Esther Greenwood but I would like to view that name as some sort of anagram which encompasses everyone of us within it, maybe not in its entirety but in bits and parts. In all likelihood, nothing is there in a name and surely I can’t speak for everyone else but I know that there’s something in the writing style of Sylvia which holds the power of drawing readers in her tale and no matter how much one tries to break free from her words (because they hurt!) it’s almost impossible to do so. Esther made me laugh with her honest descriptions of the world and the people around her. She made me her accomplice in her jokes and in her secrets and she made me empathized with her and her plights but at the same time, I was grateful that she was able to share her pain without appearing miserable or demanding any form of solace. She is. She is. She is. That’s how I cheered for her.

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.

Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one's ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.
...more

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Aug 04, 2007 Randy rated it really liked it · review of another edition

Shelves: fiction

It's weird how dated books often get remembered for completely different reasons than the author could've possibly intended. I doubt Sylvia Plath thought to herself, "This semi-autobiographical novel will be a poignant look into my adolescence once I attain a cult following for sticking my head in an oven." Or, "I hope my book becomes regarded as a seminal work of postwar ennui and oppressive gender roles."

In The Savage God, A. Alvarez says Sylvia spoke of The Bell Jar "with some embarrassment It's weird how dated books often get remembered for completely different reasons than the author could've possibly intended. I doubt Sylvia Plath thought to herself, "This semi-autobiographical novel will be a poignant look into my adolescence once I attain a cult following for sticking my head in an oven." Or, "I hope my book becomes regarded as a seminal work of postwar ennui and oppressive gender roles."

In The Savage God, A. Alvarez says Sylvia spoke of The Bell Jar "with some embarrassment as an autobiographical apprentice-work which she had to write in order to free herself from the past." I can forgive her for being so severe on herself. When you're writing the poems that later become Ariel, it's hard not to consider everything you've written before a steaming pile of crap. But there's an element of truth to her self-criticism.

I give it three stars on its own merits. The woman clearly knew how to write, and the imagery is utterly mind-blowing. With so much misinformation about depression being a primitive pity-fest--and the fact that there are so many pills you can take for it now--not many people realize what an expansive and inexplicable experience depression can be. You can't demean or diminish depression after you've read The Bell Jar.

I give it another star for cultural and historical relevance. This book could be read in a history class on the 1950s. While Betty Freidan was writing about "the problem that has no name," Sylvia Plath was creating a character that was acting it out. And Plath's poetic rendering of depression has taken on increased significance given the explosion of incidence rates since 1980.

But the book is very dated, in social setting, cultural references (she mentions the Rosenbergs in the first sentence to set the mood), and to a lesser extent language. These limitations wouldn't necessarily be problematic if the themes were more universal (cf. The Catcher in the Rye), but to some extent the resonance of the book is limited by its roots in specific social contexts (e.g., the gender roles) and its emphasis on describing a state of mind that is very hard to communicate and to which few people can relate directly (e.g., the depression). Although she does an amazing job translating such a specific experience into a novel that can be appreciated by anyone, she's right to point out that it's too rooted in specific themes and events to be as universally applicable as some of her later poems.

But there's no question that it's still worth everybody's time, and it's held up for me over multiple readings. She was a hell of an author.
...more

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Nov 10, 2013 Huda Yahya added it · review of another edition

Shelves: novels_novellas, psychology, i-wouldnt-dare-rate-these

وكانت فكرة أن أقتل نفسي قد رسخت في عقلي بهدوء مثل شجرة أو زهرة
ـــــــــــــــــ

في عام 1963 كانت سيلفيا بلاث قد حسمت أمرها
أطلت على طفليها اللذين لا يبلغ عمر أكبرهما العامين بعد
أطعمتهما وتركت مزيدا من الطعام واللبن
فتحت النوافذ عن آخرها
ثم تهادت بخفة إلى المطبخ
وسدت كل منافذ الهواء
وفتحت صمامات الغاز
وأرقدت رأسها المعذّب المختنق بناقوسه الزجاجي في الفرن
وتركت نفسها تتسرب ببطء إلى العالم الآخر

;;;;;;;;;;;

من الصعب أن تقرأ كتابا لكاتب انتحر دون أن تبحث به
عن كل الاشارات التي قد تدل على أنه سيفعلها قر

وكانت فكرة أن أقتل نفسي قد رسخت في عقلي بهدوء مثل شجرة أو زهرة
ـــــــــــــــــ

في عام 1963 كانت سيلفيا بلاث قد حسمت أمرها‏
أطلت على طفليها اللذين لا يبلغ عمر أكبرهما العامين بعد
أطعمتهما وتركت مزيدا من الطعام واللبن ‏
فتحت النوافذ عن آخرها
ثم تهادت بخفة إلى المطبخ
وسدت كل منافذ الهواء
وفتحت صمامات الغاز‏
وأرقدت رأسها المعذّب المختنق بناقوسه الزجاجي‏ في الفرن
‏ وتركت نفسها تتسرب ببطء إلى العالم الآخر‏

;;;;;;;;;;;

من الصعب أن تقرأ كتابا لكاتب انتحر دون أن تبحث به ‏
عن كل الاشارات التي قد تدل على أنه سيفعلها قريبا
رغم أن ذلك يبدو طفوليا وساذجا

لا يمكنك أن تفصل بين الرواية وسيلفيا‏
لا يمكنك تقييمها تقييما أدبيا محايدا ‏
فهي شهقات سيلفيا الأخيرة قبل اقدامها على الانتحار

;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

‏-أتعرفين ما هي القصيدة يا إستر؟
‏-لا ، ما القصيدة؟
‏-إنها شيء من الغبار
ــــــــــــــــــ

الناقوس الزجاجي
هذا العالم المشوه الذي ينتج عن مرض الادراك الحسي الفصامي
بأعراضه المدمرة
بغلافه الزجاجي الذي يحرق ويمزق ويميت‏

أن تموت الأبجدية أمام شاعرة
فتستحيل الحروف طلاسمًا ‏
وكل ما حولها يبدو خطرا وغير حقيقي
فهل لك أن تتخيل أن تتهاوى الأبجدية أمام شاعرة فلا تستطيع الامساك بها؟
بل تخرج لها لسانها في تحد وسخرية بينما ترقد هي تتعاطى صدمات الكهرباء ومرارة الخوف؟؟
هكذا حاولت سيلفيا تصوير عالمها والناس فيه مثلما رأته في العدسة المشوهة للناقوس الزجاجي -على حد قولها

;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

كل شيء يبدو أكثر حدة مع أوجاعك النفسية
تغدو أعصابك عارية
كل تفاعل يمر بك يتشوه بداخلك
كل مشكلة حياتية تغدو لغزاً فلسفيًا ولعنة من السماء

وطبيعة إستر التي تتشقق –على حد قول سيلفيا تحت الضغط ‏
حتى تبدو وجهة نظرها المنحرفة عن العالم المحيط بها
هي الطريقة التي تنظر بها للأشياء
ويصير الانهيار العصبي وجلسات الكهرباء وقتا شديد السواد
كما جحيم العقل الانساني

هي نفسها التي لسيلفيا
هي نفسها سيلفيا في وقت ما من حياتها
‏-لاحظ حتى أن الأسماء سيلفيا ، إستر ‏
ثم إيلين الشخصية التي تتخيلها إستر في روايتها
كلهن تتطابق حروف أسمائهن في الإنجليزية
كلهن سيلفيا

تقع إستر –بطلة روايتنا فريسة لمرض
يحيط دماغها المسكين بشرائح زجاجية ‏
تصبحٍ كل ذكرياتها
المصهورة بألف لون وطعم ورائحة
هي منظرها الطبيعي ‏
وليست الألوان المشبعة بها الطبيعة الخضراء
التي قد تبدو لنظرها سخيفة
وفي كل مرة طريقة جديدة وفشل في اتقانها
حتى كانت اللحظة التي شقت فيها رسغيها
واختبأت لتموت في قبو المنزل

;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

لا شيء يوطّد عرى صداقتك مع شخص آخر أكثر من التقيؤ في حضوره
ــــــــــــــــــ

وكانت سيلفيا بخفة دم غريبة تتحدث عن أفكارها عن الانتحار وعما قد يعوقها عنه فلا تملك إلا أن تقع في حبها
كأن تقطع شرايينها في ماء دافئ فيكون الماء أكثر برودة مما ينبغي مثلا‏
‎:D

لسيلفيا عالمها الرائع الخاص بها وحدها
وستكتشفه بعمق مع قصائدها المذهلة

أكره الأفلام الملونة حيث يبدو كل شخص وكأنه مضطر لارتداء أزياء رهيبة في كل مشهد جديد
والوقوف في الجوار كمنشر الغسيل
ــــــــــــــــــ

;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

قرب النهاية قال بدي لإستر ببساطة :‏
‏ أتساءل من ستتزوجين الآن يا إستر وقد كنتِ...هنا –يقصد المصحة
وعندما تشابك قدري سيلفيا وتيد ‏
لم تكن تعلم أنه بشهوته لمطاردة النساء واتخاذ عشيقات ‏
قد سطر الحرف الأخير في حلم سعادتها ‏
‏ الذي انتهى سريعا كشهاب في حياتها القصيرة البائسة‏

كما تشابهت الجملة التي قالها بدي لإستر
"هل هناك شيء في يحيل النساء مجنونات؟"‏
بحياة تيد نفسه بطريقة مثيرة للاستغراب
فقد انتحرت زوجته ثم عشيقته كلتاهما بالغاز
‏" فهل هناك شيئاً في تيد يجعل النساء تقدمن على الانتحار وبالغاز تحديدا؟؟!!"‏

دعنا نحاول الجواب هنا
رسائل عيد الميلاد..ديوان تيد هيوز إلى سيلفيا بلاث
;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

‏"كان علي أن أكتب لأتحرر من الماضي"‏
هل استرجعت سيلفيا الماضي وغاصت فيه مجددا؟ ‏
هل تحولت تجربة الكتابة إلى استعادة الوجع كله
بدلا من أن تكون طريقة شافية ناجحة؟
ألم تستطع اغلاق صفحة الماضي وتتطلع إلى حياة أكثر استقرارا؟؟

يبدو أنها أجابتنا عن هذا السؤال
‏.......‏

هامش#‏

الأخطاء في اللترجمة لا تغتفر ‏
أحببت أن أمر على الترجمة كي أنقل منها بعض السطور للاقتباسات هنا
‏ فوجدتني مندهشة من الأخطاء الغريبة ‏
واللامبالاة التي صيغت بها الرواية
كما لفت نظري هذه الطريقة الغبية في وضع أقواس للكلمات التوضيحية الزائدة
‏ التي لم ترد في الرواية وكتابة كل اسم ورد فيها بعد العربية ‏
وأصبحت بعض الصفحات ممتلئة بأسماء انجليزية بشكل مشوه وغبي ‏
وكأنني أقرأ كتابا علميا كان ضروريا فيه المصطلحات‏
!!

...more

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May 10, 2008 Taylor rated it did not like it · review of another edition

I've never shied away from depressing material, but there's a difference between the tone serving the story, and a relentlessly depressing work that goes entirely nowhere. I know it can be viewed as a glimpse into Plath's mind, but I would rather do a lot of things, some quite painful, than read this again. It hurt to get through it, and I think it's self-indulgent and serves no real artistic purpose. Which is truly a shame, as I love a lot of Plath's poetry.

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Jan 16, 2017 J.L. Sutton rated it it was amazing

It’s been a number of years since I last read Sylvia Plath’s 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. What is amazing about this writing is its immersive quality; ...more

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Feb 01, 2017 Florencia rated it it was amazing · review of another edition

Recommended to Florencia by: Waqas' review

Shelves: favorites, the-loneliest-shelf

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.
— Franz Kafka; January 27, 1904

I saw my life branching out before me like th

...more

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Jan 25, 2014 Jen rated it really liked it

Shelves: own

This is a disturbingly frightening journey through the mind of a young girl suffering from depression in the 1950's. How far we have come in the last few decades in recognizing depression as a mental illness and treating it with much less radical techniques than electric shock.
Ester Greenwood is 19 and her future is just starting to unfold. Yet, day by day, she is questioning herself: her capabilities, her confidence, who she is, and what does it mean. Her thoughts turn dark and helplessness en ...more

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Nov 21, 2011 Aubrey rated it really liked it · review of another edition

Shelves: 4-star, reviewed, reality-check, regeneration, life-after-life, 1-read-on-hand, feminista, r-2013, 500-wm, r-goodreads, antidote-think-twice-read, antidote-think-twice-all

Man has no foothold that is not also a bargain. So be it!

-Djuna Barnes, Nightwood

I’ve been side-eyeing this book for a very long time, much as I warily circle any piece of work whose chosen topics happen to lie close to deeply personal experiences of mine. It’s difficult to tell what I fear more from these bundles of paper and ink. The chance of severe disappointment? The possibility of debilitating resonance? Either one would weigh much too heavily on my sensibilities and result in time lost to regaining equilibrium.

Not that I grate against having to go through such measures to regain normal functioning in society, mind you. The fact that I have found such measures is a matter that I treasure greatly. It’s just that I would prefer to be careful with the reading material from the start, a methodology which helps me funnel the eventual after-effects into something rewarding with a quick recovery time. This review, for example.

What I found in this book was not what I had been expecting. I didn’t even like it at first, the flat and formless prose bleating mundanities and rarely breaking out into the creative bents of lurid glory that I had assumed would compose the entirety. My opinion changed as I went on, as it often does, and I have come to see this straightforward dropping of facts and opinions as a boon, a mark of brilliance almost when it comes to presenting content such as this.

For mental illness continues to have a horrid stigma in this society of ours, and it was a mere few years ago that one of my friends was forcefully taken away from a dorm room by a cop to a ‘psychiatric boot camp’, which lasted for a week and ended with her furious and shaken and landed with a bill for $8,000. All for having mentioned to her university granted and 'confidential' therapist that she had considered killing herself. As she discussed the events leading up to it, I saw the similarities between her thoughts and mine, and thought about how easily I could have found myself in the same horrible situation.

I didn’t realize it then, but this event would play a major role in my eventual dropping out of college, as well as propel me on my way to find my own method of coping with life. For I am defiantly stubborn when it comes to justifying my existence, and refuse to let anyone or anything force me on a path of ‘fixing’ me. In choosing that, I have been much more fortunate than Esther Greenwood, as I have had the time and the space to come to conclusions about my own particular brand of troubles as a female bred for academic success, and how to best deal with them. How life is full of countless little dissatisfactions, and how the mind is so wonderful at subconsciously accumulating each and every one, and how splintered it can become when it is led to believe that happiness is found one way, and then another, as it is betrayed again, and again, and again. How practical one can be in the face of all this, right alongside the absurd choices that rail against every measure of ‘practicality’ defined by everyone and everything around you that simply aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

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.

It is all too easy to think oneself into a box of ‘if I just did this everything would be alright’ and ‘why can’t I do all this like everyone else is’ and ‘oh I can’t do that because it costs money/wastes time/breaks off the path that is supposed to work for all’. It is all too easy to subconsciously realize how all these ‘proper’ pathways have failed and have led to the simple urge to end it all, when one can see all too clearly how any effort to prolong anything 'proper' is destined for failure. The hard part is figuring out exactly what you want and need. The frontier of the unknown is whether you will be given the means to achieve it.

I promised myself a long time ago that when it came to choosing whether to go back to the path that was guaranteed to end in me jumping off a bridge, or to live, I would choose the latter. Every single time. It’s required breaking off a lot of social connections, it’s required sitting down on random sidewalk curbs filled with busy pedestrians until I’ve finished my latest piece of writing, it’s required bursting into tears while reading To the Lighthouse in the middle of a university library because I could see so clearly that the only chance for happiness I had was nowhere on the path that I had been and was expected to lead my whole life on. It’s required a lot of banal events of the same flavor as the ones described in this book, and it’s ultimately required a lot of nonsensical shit that would have landed me in that ‘psychiatric boot camp’ many times over, much of which I can recognize within these pages. And while the events described in this book happened long ago, the attitude towards mental illness today is still one of distrustful hysterics, and I'll be damned if I put my faith in the impositions of the public before I've exhausted every possibility within my own voluntary grasp.

You know what? I will never be ‘fixed’, so long as I choose to live. Each day has a chance of containing small wonders, small horrors, small acts of weirdness that keep me going and really don’t oppress anyone or anything else, so long as no one thinks themselves capable of interfering ‘for my own good’ without my completely informed permission. There will be no final day where I find myself capable of living like ‘normal’ people. But so long as I can see a future that compels me on, a future that adheres much more to my own sense of worth than what society and its denizens would like me to believe, I can keep going.

To me, that’s all that really matters. And I am grateful to this book for giving me the chance to express it. ...more

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Nov 08, 2012 Samadrita rated it really liked it · review of another edition

Shelves: cherished, feminism-feminist-undertones, psychology-psychological, in-by-about-america, 1001-and-more, autobiographical-biography-memoir, by-women-who-matter, health-medicine, gender-studies-sexuality, the-untamed-mind, 500gbbw

At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.

These chilling lines from 'Daddy' played inside my head time and again like the grim echoes of a death knell as I witnessed Esther's struggle to ward off the darkness threatening to converge on her. And despite my best efforts to desist from searching for the vestiges of Sylvia in Esther, I failed. I could not help noting how effortlessly Plath must have slipped into the mind of an ingenue like Esther, a thinly veiled version of her younger self, while letting her true disenchantment with life and its unkept promises manifest itself in the iconic poems of Ariel. That she could work up the intellectual rigour to create a body of work unanimously regarded as her very best during a period of tremendous upheaval in the domestic sphere is a testament to her artistic spirit. The personal lives of very few writers have been subjected to a scrutiny as unsparing as Plath's life invited after her suicide and yet her creations have managed to wrest the spotlight from more sensational subjects like a bad marriage and her lifelong battle with a fatal depression.

People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn't see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick and couldn't sleep.

I had expected a kind of solipsistic navel-gazing to occupy the thematic core of this semi-autobiographical novel but instead what I found was a masterful portrayal of a shared reality of many women of the 50s. For instance, this is evident in Plath's depiction of an attempted rape scene which she describes as drolly as conceivable, with nary a mention of a word suggestive of sexual assault. Such must have been the way of life before second wave feminism wedged its way forcefully into the 20th century zeitgeist.

Thus, the bell jar does not merely symbolize death or even the decay of intellectual faculties of an artist which Esther Greenwood equates with death. It also represents the metaphorical prison that Esther and undoubtedly many of her compeers may have wanted to escape - the dilemma between attempting to preserve selfhood at the cost of defying societal conventions and submitting to the patriarchal injunction against female autonomy.

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.

Even though Esther lacks Plath's cold fury and resentment as reflected in many of the 'Ariel' poems, she betrays a subliminal fear of her own sexuality and the world she has only just begun unravelling like a mystery. In the last stretch when she contemplates likely methods of ending her life without much ado she does so with an unnerving ease, emotionless as a wax sculpture. Death is like the ultimate remedy to the problem at hand - her inability to cope with her own life any longer. Death also saves her from the tyranny of indecision.

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.

'The Bell Jar' is deeply reminiscent of Susanna Kaysen's Girl, Interrupted, a recent read, which also contains a very disturbing but matter-of-fact autobiographical account of a young girl's brush with the American mental healthcare system. Sadly the parallels between both narratives end at Kaysen's adoption of a distinctly TBJ-esque mode of narration. While Kaysen eventually managed to silence the voices inside her head and went on to pursue a fulfilling writing career, Plath couldn't stand life long enough to leave behind a more voluminous, more enriched oeuvre.

All the heat and fear had purged itself. I felt surprisingly at peace. The bell jar hung, suspended, a few feet above my head. I was open to circulating air.

...more

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Oct 07, 2015 Lizzy rated it really liked it

Shelves: classics-literay-fiction, read-years-ago, stars-4

“The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.”
The Bell Jar is honest, disturbing, powerful, and poignant. It opens with "the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs," as if it were an omen of what is to come. Conspicuous and beautiful, it tells a story of despair as a young woman falls to the pitfalls of depression.

“The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.”
Sylvia Plath's death haunts every page as depair vanqu
“The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.”
The Bell Jar is honest, disturbing, powerful, and poignant. It opens with "the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs," as if it were an omen of what is to come. Conspicuous and beautiful, it tells a story of despair as a young woman falls to the pitfalls of depression.

“The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.”
Sylvia Plath's death haunts every page as depair vanquishes life. Was there ever hope for Esther/Sylvia? Perhaps... However, helplessness and doubts drifts all over as a constant companion while she tries to hold to shreds of her life.

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.”
So, there remains a small desire to survive, a desire for freedom to gather strength again to sail with the wind and fly away. And, fragments of realization that we are not alone in our despair.

Sylvia Plath with her superb, alluring and somber writing, holds the reader spellbound and has the power of drawing us into her tale. Her words may hurt, it’s almost impossible not to do so. But Esther/Sylvia also made me laugh with her honest descriptions of the world and the people around her. She made me her accomplice in her hilaraty, in her secrets and in her honesty. Thus, the reader empathizes and is grateful to share with her her pain without appearing miserable or demanding any form of solace.

“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.”

The beauty of The Bell Jar, packed with bleak truths, difficult topics and wryly dark humor surprises and teaches us that our sorrows are simply us being human. This uncovering, if nothing else, should make us grateful.
___ ...more

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Mar 19, 2012 B0nnie rated it really liked it · review of another edition

The Bell Jar is a first person narrative about one woman's total alienation - from the self, from society, from the world - with the cold war as a backdrop (the references to the the Rosenbergs, the UN, Russians). She is a sort of female 'underground man' of the new age.

The story is told simply, though complex in structure and themes. Sylvia Plath writes with a clear direct style that is ironic, funny, and poetic.

Esther, a young woman of the 1950s, is in New York for a brief, glamourous job The Bell Jar is a first person narrative about one woman's total alienation - from the self, from society, from the world - with the cold war as a backdrop (the references to the the Rosenbergs, the UN, Russians). She is a sort of female 'underground man' of the new age.

The story is told simply, though complex in structure and themes. Sylvia Plath writes with a clear direct style that is ironic, funny, and poetic.

Esther, a young woman of the 1950s, is in New York for a brief, glamourous job at a magazine. New York! the centre of the world, the jazz and push of New York, the dark heart of New York. Clothes and parties and men. Esther finds no excitement in this: her mind is on the Rosenbergs, and "being burned alive all along your nerves." She feels empty. It is a crisis of identity, but of course it is more than that. Her sense is that society has placed her under a bell jar, where she is stifled and unable to act.

Magazines, the media of the day, had a large influence on women and their self image. On the one hand, they showed how exiting life could be with a career and travel. Yet they also sanctified motherhood and the good wife. Esther uses an allegory to show how this type of doublethink fragments and paralyzes her :

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.

The moment of total alienation comes when she crawls into the underground - a dark gap in a cellar - to take her own life. From this lowest point she is rescued and brought to recovery, and again able to listen to the old brag of her heart, "I am, I am, I am".

She can breathe and live. The bell jar is lifted, at least for a time.
...more

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Dec 27, 2016 PattyMacDotComma rated it it was amazing

Shelves: ebook-ol, bio-autobio, fiction-adult, calibre

5★
If you are inclined to bouts of depression, find another book. If you've lived with or are fond of someone followed by the Black Dog, this describes the intensity of the feelings (and the treatment) well.

Countless critics and reviewers have written about this sad 'memoir' (written as fiction and first published under a pseudonym) about depression, but it is also full of funny anecdotes and perfect insight into American East Coast college girls in the 1950s.

Knowing that it’s autobiographical ma ...more

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Sep 26, 2016 Matthias rated it liked it · review of another edition

Shelves: my-reviews

I'm really struggling with writing a review for this one, given the unique nature of the book and the sad reality that surrounds it. Every book is a testament of its author in one way or another, but with this semi-fictional autobiography it's difficult not to equate the book with its tragic author, making the reviewing of it an exercise in the kind of delicacy I'm not very well versed in. A delicacy that, frankly, I don't really enjoy employing.

So what is one to do when he didn't really like " I'm really struggling with writing a review for this one, given the unique nature of the book and the sad reality that surrounds it. Every book is a testament of its author in one way or another, but with this semi-fictional autobiography it's difficult not to equate the book with its tragic author, making the reviewing of it an exercise in the kind of delicacy I'm not very well versed in. A delicacy that, frankly, I don't really enjoy employing.

So what is one to do when he didn't really like "The Bell Jar"? Tread very carefully through the thorny bushes, knowing many in the Goodreads populace have a special place in their heart for this sensitive book. I decided on a respectful three-star rating even though my less delicate self would probably give it only two. It gets three because of its importance, because of its needing to be heard, but my heart of hearts doesn't care all that much about importance. It cares about being lifted up while this story mainly seemed to try and drag it down.

I called this book an "autobiography", but with the important difference that autobiographies put the emphasis on a life fully lived, while in this book life seems pretty empty and the story was mostly about reasons for and ways of ending it. This book reads very much like a cry for help, and cries for help don't generally make for pleasant reading. The fact I felt useless as I heard that cry, the dread that comes with seeing a person consumed by fires I can't put out and other such merry sentiments make it hard for me to say I enjoyed this book. Everybody who reads this classic also knows about the tragic fate of the author, making the cry for help all the more chilling and making it akin to the reading of an elaborate suicide note. In short: I'd be surprised if this makes it on any "best beach reads" lists. I realise that even if this isn't a pleasant read that doesn't mean that it's not a good read, or a meaningful one, so let me elaborate on my mediocre rating for a book so highly praised by many others.

I normally don't go for books dealing with depression, telling of a darkness with which I'm unfamiliar and quite uncomfortable, but reading is also about getting outside of your comfort zone. Also, I've got a severe gender inequality problem going on in my 2016 reading list and this book, hailed as an important womanly novel, caught my attention through promises of profundity and humor. The profound is there, in the intentions of the author to tell this deeply personal story, but I found most of the observations made in the book surprisingly superficial. The humor, while there in the earlier parts, felt like vinegar to a thirsty mouth. A perfectly enjoyable riff on the tipping system in New York in one of the earlier chapters gets a bitter taste by the end of the book, becoming a denouncement of one of the many things that are wrong with this world.

Despite the lack of living up to what was promised, not all was bad with this book. Plath had the gift of prose, with elegant metaphors and the creation of immersive settings, evoking indelible images like of Esther sitting in the breezeway trying to write a book or a pair of boots pointing to the ocean. She's got a poetic stroke that mixes very well with her cynical side, resulting in a reading experience that was artistically and aesthetically pleasing. It's sad that this first novel is also her last, because the markings of true talents, with a lot of potential to be further developed, were clearly visible.

I'm sad for Sylvia Plath and for everyone who shared and shares her plight. I have a great yet tender respect for her, writing this book, which must have cost her a tremendous effort given all the dark clouds in her heavy mind, trapped under a bell jar. But it was not for nothing, because as she was heaving up the bell jar with every word she wrote, trudging along with it in order to be heard, she created something that would make her message heard, then, now and far into the future. Go on, Sylvia Plath, and rest in peace. Your bell will keep resounding, maybe not on sunlit beaches, but definitely in your readers' hearts.

...more

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Sep 05, 2014 Annie rated it it was amazing · review of another edition

Shelves: read-in-2015, the-big-read

I remember reading this short story in Asimov’s magazine about a very young girl who suffers from autism. She moves at her own pace, dragging herself at the heels of the rushing time and existing in that void where her consciousness treads a gravelly path only to arrive at the destination to find that everyone else had already moved on. So that when she answers her mother to a question that was asked of her three weeks ago, her mother doesn’t really understand her because she had already moved on from that question. For the life of me, I can’t seem to be able to remember the name of the story. But it probably was the best darnest short story I will ever read. And it seemed to wave, lazy like a flag in a winter night with the trifle of winds, in the nook in the behind of my head that was spared by the brutal voice of Esther Greenwood, throughout my reading of The Bell Jar. I failed to grasp at the significance of this remembrance until I came across this line that helped put everything in blinding focus:

I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo

For The Bell Jar is an account of Sylvia Plath’s own experiences, Esther a fait accompli , a flesh that she constructed of her own imagination , to allow a look into her own life through a ‘a curtain of clear water’. Or a bell jar.

It is an anxious and unsettling novel. On one hand there is a young girl who a younger me, stripped of the vagaries of time and experiences, nodded along with vigorously and vehemently and found a winning kinship with. A world away from my own childhood, yet the voice of Esther spoke of the dawn of youth with such clarity and a bluntness that can only be expected off the mouth of a child. And then the descent of the bell jar, the glassy apparition that separated her from the world into her own, looming like a black cloud, slowly and sleathily crept in. She feels separate from the rest of the world, so disassociated that it feels to her as though even the air that she breathes is separate and ‘sour’. The unflinching prospect of death as the final destination causes her to question the merit of the frivolities of everyday life, the depression finally pushes her to try and take her own life.

My reading of this book was a sad one. Knowing that it was not just a story, knowing that the haunting witticisms was a result of a Schizophrenia (although she was never officially diagnosed) and in full possession of the knowledge of the finality that ripped this brilliant voice at the young age of thirty. Yet, knowing full well, how the story really ends, shouldn’t drive one to perceive this as a book about depression. Although it deals with the part of Plath’s life that romanced with death with her many attempts at suicide, it is also the voice of a girl who refused to conform. The Bell Jar is also a text on social critique. Set in the 50’s with it’s strict societal constraints , Plath shreds the accepted notions of what it was she was supposed to be, and attempts to replace them with what she wanted to be. No wonder that it became one of the centrepieces of feminism.

But, in the end what really gripped me was her brutal honesty and the genius that she potrayed in evoking reality through her prose. For when she wrote:

The Silence depressed me. It wasn’t the silence of silence. It was my own silence.

I realised how stifling it must have felt to have realised such glaring truths in her own alienated world, separate in her understanding and alone in her trials.

Update(14/11/2015) : The short story I mention is Movement by Nancy Fulda.I read it last year while sitting on a bench in a bus station waiting to come back home after a particularly intense and gruelling internship. The bus was late by hours due to floods and it was cold and rainy and just one of those particularly miserable winter nights that make you miss your bed and your mom's special 'cold day' dish.I remember reading this story from an old, badly dog eared copy of the Asimov magazine and the moment of inner silence that follows the completion that tells you that this is a book that is going to remain with you. I distinctly remember the details in the story, and the shadow of silence that descended as I made my way through this. But, soon after the bus arrived and I forgot the copy of the magazine. I left it behind on the bench and ever since, try as I might, I couldn't bring the name of this story to my mind. It was lost like the magazine. Until I mention it here, and two wonderful people tell me the issue, the title, the author... Ah! I love Goodreads! Thank you to Kim and Joe for helping clear the mist!

...more

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Apr 17, 2008 Tracy Elizabeth rated it did not like it

Recommends it for: my ex

I only had to read it once. I never read it for or with pleasure. I prefer childbirth.

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Feb 07, 2016 Nicole~ rated it it was amazing · review of another edition

Shelves: poetry, feminist, autobio-fiction, mental-illness, pulitzer-prize-poetry-laureate, suicide, 1950-s

"I saw my life branching out before me like a 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 was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor.."(TBJ)

Esther Greenwood's story is told in flashbacks, shifting in time as rhythmically as the rise and fall of her moods, as she narrates her young adult exper ...more

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Nov 28, 2008 Manny rated it really liked it

Shelves: too-sexy-for-maiden-aunts

Warning: this review contains major spoilers for the movie Melancholia

The paradox at the heart of The Bell Jar is that Esther, the narrator, comes across as an engaging and indeed admirable person. She's smart, funny, perceptive and seems to have everything going for her. But she feels less and less connected with life, and in the end just wants to kill herself. Evidently, there must be something wrong with her. Perhaps she would have been okay if only she'd been prescribed the appropriate kind ...more

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Feb 03, 2016 Maxwell rated it really liked it · review of another edition

Shelves: i-own-it, classics, audiobook, 2016

Unlike a lot of people, I wasn't required to read The Bell Jar in school. It's one of the most influential and recognizable novels of modern American literature, and so I figured it was about time I read it. And I loved it.

Now, I might be a bit in love with it mostly because I listened to the audiobook narrated by the fantastic Maggie Gyllenhaal. (Seriously, her voice is perfect for Esther's dark & alluring narrative). Regardless of Gyllenhaal's narrative prowess, I thought the story was eng ...more

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Mar 08, 2014 Carol rated it it was amazing

Shelves: classics, ebook, mental-health, death, read-2015, dark

Don't be scared.......yeah right.

Esther Greenwood's story actually begins a bit comical describing the details of a free trip to New York City with a group of college girls. While recounting the activities of her strange new friends and blind date disasters, one in particular pertaining to a turkey neck and gizzards gave me a laugh-out-loud moment I will not forget although there's not much else in this terribly depressing novel to bring joy to the reader.

This semi-autobiographical novel was fir

...more

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Jun 22, 2009 Agnieszka rated it really liked it · review of another edition

Shelves: own, reviewed, 2015

When we are young we used to think that we are unbreakable, more, that we are immortal. That whatever we touch it’ll turn into gold, that we can change the world. And then … life just happens to us.

They say about this book as a feminist manifesto. I understand why but completely do not care about this tag. The only thing I'm interested in is Esther and her desperate fight for remaining on surface, her attempt to get out of bell jar. I can easily see her when dressed up with her best clothes att ...more

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Sep 06, 2008 Madeline rated it it was amazing

Shelves: the-list, all-time-favorites

"It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York. I'm stupid about executions. The idea of being electrocuted makes me sick, and that's all there was to read about in the papers - goggle-eyed headlines staring up at me on every street corner and at the fusty, peanut-smelling mouth of every subway. It had nothing to do with me, but I couldn't help wondering what it would be like, being burned alive all along your nerves.
I ...more

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Dec 12, 2015 kohey rated it it was amazing · review of another edition

Shelves: home-library

Sometimes it is hard for me to judge what books are good or bad,when I have to rate them,so this time I let my gut feeling do this.
This is a great growing up story with many beautiful yet heart-wrenching scenes hard for me to describe.
Esther,the main charcter,makes me laugh,feel happy,sad and think about what “to grow up and face the world”really means.Her attitude is biased by what she sees through her eyes and she lives for the day as if her life would depend on every moment of it,which affect ...more

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Dec 27, 2014 Mike Puma rated it really liked it · review of another edition

Shelves: 2015

What to say? What to say? This one leaves me at a loss.

The Bell Jar is an important title. It’s taught in schools, high schools and secondary schools. I imagine it’s included in comprehensive Women’s Studies programs where there’s an emphasis on the Humanities. The title matters.

But Why, exactly? At least, that’s what I kept wondering. What is its place in the Literary World? Is there something about the title which merits its consideration alongside the women writers we’ve come to expect on lis

...more

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Dec 22, 2014 Joe Valdez rated it it was amazing · review of another edition

Shelves: fiction-general

I feel the way about The Bell Jar that other readers feel about Catcher in the Rye. Rather than J.D. Salinger's anti-hero Holden Caulfield labeling everything in sight as "phony", my preference is Sylvia Plath's thinly veiled account of her summer in New York, interning as a guest editor at Mademoiselle and her descent into depression and the mental health system that fall, with Plath's vivacious wit plunging me into the almost sheer terror of looming adulthood.

Published in England in January 1 ...more

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Feb 02, 2016 W Perry rated it really liked it

Shelves: libri-classici

Song of Chaos and Eternal Night
"To the person in the bell jar, ... the world itself is a bad dream." S. Plath, The Bell Jar

"I'm only faking when I get it right
Cause I fell on Black Days.
How would I know
That this could be my fate"
Soundgarden, "Fell on Black Days," 1995

One cannot read this novel without reading into it Sylvia Plath's tragic life. She based the novel loosely on a year or so of her life in college and as a summer intern at a NYC publishing house. In the novel, Esther Greenwood, wh ...more

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Apr 18, 2014 Hailey (HaileyInBookland) rated it it was amazing · review of another edition

Shelves: classics, mental-health, read-in-2016

4.5*

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About Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath was an American poet, novelist, and short story writer.

Known primarily for her poetry, Plath also wrote a semi-autobiographical novel, The Bell Jar, under the pseudonym Victoria Lucas. The book's protagonist, Esther Greenwood, is a bright, ambitious student at Smith College who begins to experience a mental breakdown while interning for a fashion magazine in New York. The plot paralle ...more

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“If you expect nothing from somebody you are never disappointed.” — 7280 likes

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.” — 6505 likes

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