With a rotten spine: �The Bell Jar� still a classic

Cleaning out the attic this summer in the sweltering heat was a filthy job, but someone had to do it. Since I was the individual who envisioned living under the steeply pitched roof, the job fell mainly to me.
Since my parents are fanatics of the written word as well as old metal coffee cans (the Singer heirlooms), there was never a dull moment. My mother had many stories to tell and book recommendations to make.


By Athena Singer,
Senior Staff Writer
Cleaning out the attic this summer in the sweltering heat was a filthy job, but someone had to do it. Since I was the individual who envisioned living under the steeply pitched roof, the job fell mainly to me.
Since my parents are fanatics of the written word as well as old metal coffee cans (the Singer heirlooms), there was never a dull moment. My mother had many stories to tell and book recommendations to make.
None too subtle hints led me to crack the weary, dry rotted spine of Sylvia Plath’s �The Bell Jar.�
Plath is widely known and well regarded for her poetry, but she is also the author of six prose works including �Letters Home and Johnny Panic� and �The Bible of Dreams,� as well as five children’s stories.
She showed promise at a very early age, getting a poem published at just eight years old.
Unfortunately, she suffered severe bouts of depression throughout her life.
�The Bell Jar� is a semi-biographical novel based on a mental breakdown she experienced while in her junior year at Smith College.
The copy I possess is the Bantan edition printed in 1972 with my mothe�rs maiden name printed neatly inside the front cover.
The book itself is nondescript, however, I was intrigued by the words of Robert Scholes, The New York Times Book Review: � �The Bell Jar� is a novel about the events of Sylvia Plath’s twentieth year; about how she tried to die, and how they stuck her together with glue. It is a fine novel, as bitter and remorseless as her last poems – the kind of book Salinger’s Franny would have written about herself ten years later, if she had spent those ten years in Hell.�
The comparison to �Franny and Zooey� is quite accurate. The description of the day-to-day life of an ordinary person who finds herself dissatisfied is addicting in the pure humanity of her prose.
Plath accurately describes the constant flow of thoughts rolling like a river through the heads of every individual.
The beginning starts out a little slow, much like a meandering stream with a few rocks but nothing unordinary. Then the pace quickens and all of a sudden, Elly finds herself at a precipice. She plummets quickly, yearning for death.
If not for the prose, �The Bell Jar� allows a glimpse into the period of time that our parents grew up in – a time when depression was an embarrassment and was treated with electro-shock therapy on a regular basis. Those who appear to have it all are hiding the most.
Although the price tag quotes the price at only $1.50 new, I think it was worth a thorough read.
Plath’s ability to bare her soul to the world is commendable.
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