I have always loved timepieces. In my opinion, when done correctly, there is nothing better than a slice of fiction deeply rooted within time other than ours. It gives us a glimpse into our past, and how the world operated, for better or worse. When done correctly, they can make way for stellar political commentary, or deeply nuanced perspectives which hold levels of morbid irony within modern contexts.
When it comes to fictional timepieces in general, it has never gotten better than Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. Beautifully written practically in prose, The Bell Jar gorgeously narrates Esther’s descent into madness.
The easiest way to explain The Bell Jar is to imagine the novel as a metaphorical ball of yarn, representing Esther’s mental state. From the start, Esther is not the epitome of mental health, but is relatively able to hold herself together. By the end of the novel, we see Esther’s own brain eating away at her psyche, driving her to downright frightening levels of mental illness.
It is also important to remember The Bell Jar was published shortly before author Sylvia Plath’s suicide. This novel is almost entirely autobiographical, with minor changes in the names of characters. Although consistently proving herself an unreliable narrator, all members of The Bell Jar’s cast are based upon previously living people.
As a man, I will never understand the deep intricacies that come with living as a woman, much less one in the 1950s. Compared to women some time ago, and even now, I am relatively able to pursue my dreams and ambitions unabashedly, and without question from others. My female peers however, are unlikely to say the same. I can personally count story upon story of just my loved ones experiencing unnecessary discrimination or bias simply upon the basis of gender.
This is why novels like The Bell Jar remain important societally. Much to the objection of many, we still face discriminatory bias in society, and it is our job to recognize it.
After reading The Bell Jar, I understood why Esther, or Sylvia Plath went insane; I cannot say I’d blame her.
