I sat outside the Beehive next to two women kanoodling over coffee and an unopened copy of Potter. I was reading Sylvia Plath with Sleater-Kinney blaring through my ear buds. I am Jack’s riot grrrl lesbian sister. Tomorrow, I’m auditioning for a Heavens to Betsy tribute band.

I kid. Sort of.

I’m struggling with what I want to say about this book. You don’t need me to tell you it’s a spectacular piece of writing. It is feminist canon for a reason. It is also, perhaps, one of the most brilliant recollections of mental illness and depression. Plath is also witty and wry and wonderful.

Her Esther, and Plath by extension, would be a chore of a person to care about but I’d like to think I’d get her. Not that it would help anything.

[I’ve written and deleted a paragraph here three times. We’re going to leave it deleted and start fresh.]

Suicide has been a prominent part of my life. I get those who ponder and attempt it. They call and announce their pain. They, generally, don’t want to end their lives. They want help. Or to be heard. Whether doing suicide hotline in college or with friends and family in extremely hard times, those people have reached out to me.

Those who are successful at suicide…don’t. They dissapear. They simply show up dead.

The two times I’ve felt intimately involved with someone who has committed suicide, I perceived them as intelligent and special as Esther is written. They saw the world differently. They found absurdity in what most of us consider normalcy. Their response to seemingly “normal” situations were generally so far outside expectation as to be both mesmerizing and often insufferable.

They also had incredible bouts of sadness and solitude. They came up with extreme ways to solve what they considered to be the problems of their lives and the world. They failed to get their desired changes at every turn.

And then they were gone.

I have a friend like that right now. This is her favorite book. She’s the reason I read it.

And, I worry.

I wouldn’t ever want to be trapped in the bell jar but it’s not much easier being on the outside of it either unable to uncork it, smash it, or otherwise break free.

For the insight into what that mindset might be like alone, it is highly recommended.

For the style and skill with which Plath composes her signature work, it is a must.

This, by itself, is an engaging read. But the fact that it is semi-autobiographical makes it all the more fascinating.

We human beings just have this perverse fascination for suffering/tortured fellow souls, don’t we? At least, I think I enjoyed this very much largely because I am such a human being—one with an inherent perverse fascination for our twisted side.

The Bell Jar was excellent! I thought it was a great book. I strongly recommend it. I suggest doing a little research about Sylvia Plath before reading the book…it makes the story much more interesting!