The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
This is going to sound absolutely bonkers, but this is the book I go to when I'm feeling sad, depressed and unbelievably listless. I knew something was wrong with me when I thought this book ended on a happy note (I was sixteen. Deal with it).
I don't think I'm Sylvia Plath's original audience...
There's something strangely comforting to me about this book. Maybe it's the coming-of-age, no idea where my life is headed tone of the book. I get it. I'm there. I'm not doing what everyone thinks I should be doing, either. I relate to that part of the story more than I'd rather admit.
Or, maybe it's Schadenfreude: taking pleasure at other's misfortunes. I really can't say why I love this book so much. I just do.
Plath is extremely descriptive and her visions of what she saw are exactly what I think of when I think of late 1950's New York and elsewhere. The book is very sensory, which I love. I wrote a paper in college (that I wish I still had) about all the different descriptions she used.
I break this book out at least once a year, and read through it within a day. I feel like I can almost quote it. It's comforting to look back at my notes throughout the years (another reason I like reading this book), like an old journal to find where I am. Maybe I'll be able to do what Esther Greenwood couldn't and find out where I'm going.
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