In Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar, it’s obvious that for some people, getting everything you want doesn’t necessarily make you happy. The story follows the New York escapades of relentlessly whiny Esther Greenwood, who in this semi-autobiographical novel, descends into a state of mental instability not uncommon to women of the modern era.
Her chilling and overly morbid depictions of life evoked little sympathy from me, but if you’re into the sort of self-centered and depressing writing characteristic of Plath, for instance if you enjoyed Salinger’s equally annoying Catcher in the Rye, then you should definitely read The Bell Jar. Who DOESN’T love to read entire books dedicated to the complaining, naïve, and egotistical natures of teenagers?
Even though I know very little about mental illness, I realize it’s an important issue. Depression, anxiety, bipolarity and a whole slew of other mental diseases are very real and rampant in the lives of the majority of Earth’s population. However, reading an entire novel centralized around this aspect isn’t very fun – understandably so.
The world isn’t always rainbows and unicorns and ligers. But instead of being stimulating and enlightening, this book was uncomfortable, slow, and unsettling, constantly leaving me with the feeling after I read it of eating slightly damp and moldy bread. Nasty, amiright?
I want a book to taste like a crisp apple, or a spicy Thai chicken taco. I want flavor, substance, and color. This book is super famous and commended and seemingly amazing and blah blah blah – but I don’t care. I didn’t like it and I’m not changing my opinion about famous books because of their popularity.
I read books and formulate my own opinion, as I think everyone should. I see very little value or anything truly impressive about The Bell Jar, or why people spend so much time drooling over it – there are just so many other great works of literature they could be reading.