I spent a while–probably a year or so–being quite intrigued by Sylvia Plath before I finally picked up this book.  If you don’t know, Plath was a prominent poet in the 1950’s/60’s.  She was married to Ted Hughes, and had a history of depression.  (I’d probably be depressed, too, if I was married to Ted Hughes.  Have you seen that guy?)  In 1963 she published The Bell Jar, a semi-autobiographical novel.  Three weeks later, she stuck her head in an oven.  Like so many suffering artists, she gained more fame in death than she ever had while alive–in 1982, she won the Pulitzer Prize for The Collected Poems.

The Bell Jar is narrated by Esther Greenwood, a Smith College student who has won a summer internship at a women’s magazine in New York City.  She quickly discovers that city life isn’t all she’d hoped for, and furthermore that she is far from living up to her own standards.  Esther spirals into suicidal depression, and is institutionalized.  With her loved ones keeping a close eye on her, Esther has to decide if life is worth living.

I had one of my professors tell me that knowledge of poetry will immensely improve one’s prose.  Well, Sylvia Plath was a poet first and foremost, and it definitely shows in her writing.  She uses a lot of metaphor, but manages to do it without being flowery or pretentious.  The bell jar alluded to in the title, for instance, is used as a metaphor for the stagnance that she feels in her life, and the lives of those around her.

I also appreciated how well she was able to make the book flow.  Throughout the book, Plath deviates often from present events to give background stories, and background stories of background stories.  Yet these tangents aren’t distracting.  They fit quite smoothly and naturally into the overall story.

I had mentioned in the first paragraph that this was a semi-autobiographical novel.  Well, they say to write what you know, and Plath did so.  Many events related in the book were inspired by true events in the author’s life.  The internship in New York, her broken leg, her first suicide attempt, and the boyfriend with tuberculosis  were all drawn from Sylvia Plath’s real life.

So the language and imagery were beautifully exectuted.  I found this novel to be nearly flawless.  Yet I wasn’t totally drawn in by the plot.  I kept expecting more dramatic events that were never really delivered.  I can’t say that I was disappointed, because I don’t know what I really expected.  But even with all its good points, I don’t see it being particularly memorable plot-wise.  An example of impeccable writing, yes.  But I wasn’t left thinking about Esther Greenwood for days afterward, as has happened to me with characters in the novels I’ve loved the most.

I think that anyone who is really interested in writing should read this book.  Let Sylvia Plath show you how it’s done.