I’ve read my little 1976 Bantam Books copy of The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath three times, each time not realizing until halfway through that I had read it as a youth.
I always end up finishing it but this time I put it down when I saw my penciled notes from previous reads in the margins. When I read a book more than once, I sometimes find more reasons to love the book, but more so nowadays, I find more critiques and criticisms.
That’s what I’m afraid is happening with this book. While it is dated and not as applicable to me as a male, I’ve always enjoyed how the story develops and the descriptions of old New York. I had previously felt something about the devolution of a youth full of hope and promise, “a talented woman” as described on the yellowed back cover, into a sadness she couldn’t possibly begin to understand, especially given the setting.
This read through, I saw her as an entitled woman whose mother did everything she could to advance the narrator forward in life, whose friends and mentors took exception with her given her differences only to be judged harshly behind their backs, whose condition only worsened by her unwillingness, her stubbornness, to accept the help and care she needed. So I put it down.
I put it down because it almost sounds more like a contemporary book. Youth pigeonholed into career paths and meaningless education because your role models tell you that it’s the “right thing to do”. I see the stubbornness to change, stubbornness to take advice from people who, while more successful than you, have squandered their passions and, sadly, sacrificed their mental health.
How can I be critical of the book? Because here we are in a time where this book is more true than ever, and we are all Esther right now.
yousharknotpass
turnnoffyourmind
tangentwithtanner
romaincrisis
amandla
izzy806
gummygunk
stormborns
