The Bell Jar

is now one of my favorite books. It's definitely on the top 10 list. I found the book at an old, used bookstore near my house as I went on a poetry and play binge. I already scanned for Tennessee Williams (and found a fabulous book with several of my favorite plays; this excited me), Dickinson and I slowly made my way over to the 'P' section for Plath. I wanted a collection of poems, but found a tiny book. You know how I like small things. So I picked out the book and read the title, The Bell Jar. I had never heard of it before, but I liked the title and cover. I basically judged a book based on its cover and impulsively bought it.

I guess it's one of her most famous works. I like Plath's poems, but hadn't really researched anything about her novels. It's supposed to be a semi-autobiographical account of her own mental breakdown and suicide attempt. I found it quite odd and eerie that I related to the character so much. Esther Greenwood (the main character) is much more intense and dramatic, but I understood the core of her emotions and thoughts. I suppose many early-twenty-somethings dissatisfied with society's expectations may also relate to the character and argue that this is their story, but that's probably why this book is so popular. Kristine said it's supposed to be the girl version of The Catcher in the Rye. I can see the similarities, but I like The Bell Jar more (maybe because I'm a girl).

Here are a few quotes I liked (or more accurately put: stuff I wish I was brilliant enough to have thought of first and written):

• If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I'm neurotic as hell. I'll be flying back and forth between one mutually exclusive thing and another for the rest of my days.
• ...I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.
• How did I know that someday - at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere - the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn't descend again?