The Bell Jar is Sylvia Plath's celebrated semi-autobiographical account of a descent into clinical depression and its treatment, of the failures of human relationships to secure stability and so much more besides. The struggles of Esther Greenwood (the main character) reflect deep disquiet with the social position of women, parental failures and much more. The lie that love and sex are the same thing is devastatingly exploded.
The writing has a cool objectivity that many have admired but is ultimately deeply disconcerting. The degree of detachment from the pain being described bears too much of the hallmarks of ongoing morbid fascination (or so it seems to me). There is not a shred of triumph here.
I've read this book probably three or four times. The first occasion was in early 1983 and co-incided with great depths of pain; I think for that reason I never made it all the way through the book. Returning to it some years later, and making it the whole way, left me thankful I'd put it down when I did. The sadness is unrelenting, all hope is qualified and life is demarkated as loss.
