8/10/22
[TW: references to suicide]
I’ve never connected with a novel as immediately as I did The Bell Jar.
I read it for the first time last summer. Whenever I go to a thrift store or an estate sale or McKay’s, I always pile up any classic lit that I can find, and they fill the wall behind my bed, sit in stacks around my room. I couldn’t tell you when or where I bought the novel nor could I tell you how long I owned it before I finally read it – but I’m thrilled that I did.
The Bell Jar was written by Sylvia Plath, a writer I could talk about all day. Plath was one of the pioneers of confessional poetry or “the poetry of the personal” – her works are filled with explicit references to private experiences (relationships, death, trauma, depression). It’s a link, a carefully crafted digging into the psychological. This style of writing changed the landscape of American poetry.
The Bell Jar was the only novel published by Plath (well, originally it was under a pseudonym) because she died by suicide a month after it was published. Plath was chronically depressed and was originally diagnosed after her first attempted suicide at 20 years old. The novel is considered to be semi-autobiographical – so much so that her mother wanted to block its publication. The novel follows Esther Greenwood, an aspiring writer, through an insidious mental decline that mirrors many of Plath’s difficulties. Interestingly, Plath utilizes a first person point-of-view, which puts the reader within the lens of Greenwood as she declines – making her thoughts, feelings, and struggles seem quite rational at times.
I think that this novel is significant to me because it’s real. It’s beautifully written. It’s emotionally compelling. And when I learned about the heart of the writer, about the troubles she faced by simply existing, it drew me in deeper.
My favorite line is this one:
I took a deep breath and listened to to the old brag of my heart.
I am, I am, I am.
Every morning that my eyes open – I am, I am. Every day, waiting on a moment to see someone, to connect again to the ground under my two feet – I am, I am. Every wail and woe, every moment of indecision, of disappointment – I am, I am.
Life is arduous at times. Heavy. Sometimes you may feel as if you’re suffocating underneath a bell jar – I know I have. But I can’t say enough how much you matter. I can’t say enough the difference made by your walking and talking. By your art. By your point-of-view. Take a deep breath. Listen to the old brag of your heart –
I am, I am.
Lightly,
Leah
Leah Kepley, M.Ed. 