For many people, November is a very special month for one very specific reason. It’s National Novel Writers Month, or NaNoWriMo. During this time, writers challenge themselves to write a novel over the course of a month, moving from the outline into perceivably a first draft. As someone who is addicted to deadlines, I understand the appeal of doing this. For one, it forces you to be focused on getting through the process in a streamlined way. It’s also one of the few times that draws attention to writers and finds a support system to openly express their struggles. While I don’t personally take part in the month, I feel like it’s a good opportunity to explore writers who bore their soul through writing and, amid vulnerability, shifted the conversation in a meaningful way.
One of the authors that come immediately to mind is Sylvia Plath and her lone novel “The Bell Jar.” It’s true that she had a storied career writing great poetry, but there is something about her book that is arguably more interesting. She’s said many times that it was designed to be a boilerplate novel that appealed to wide audiences. On the one hand, she achieved her goal. However, it was mostly to people who want a very cathartic and personal story about depression that is horrifyingly real. There’s no reason to argue against the idea that Plath either attempted or studied the various forms of suicide mentioned in this book because you can feel the pain in protagonist Esther Greenwood’s soul. The gradual slide into sadness feels ominous, especially given that Plath died not too long after this book was released.
If you study literature enough, you’ll begin to see the parallels between prose and manic depression. While this isn’t inherent in every writer, there is something about the stories of authors like Emily Dickinson, Virginia Woolf, and Plath that becomes upsetting. Writing is designed as a unifying experience, and yet it’s done mostly through observation, done in seclusion so that one can be focused on their thoughts. The story of the novel not respected is pretty much a trope at this point, and it all paints a picture that makes people like Plath feel unfortunately symbolic.
Some of us write to ward off that fear, the inability to express ourselves to the greater world. It’s the hope that our story will reach that one person who understands and reaches out. One of the great things about contemporary writing is that there are supportive online communities. Even then, the struggle to find self-worth and keep writing is a common problem that you’re out of ideas. Another thing that I’m thankful for is that we’re living in a time where mental illness is more culturally accepted and that there’s work to treat it, making it easier to feel less alone in the world. It’s not a perfect cure (and if you’re struggling, I want you to seek help because you deserve happiness), but there is optimism in knowing that your struggles are not yours alone.
Which may be why “The Bell Jar” connects with me on a personal level. Reading the history of these older authors, you feel some remorse. There is that wish that they could understand what made them great because it’s evident. Reading this book you’re immediately drawn in to how Plath reflects the idea of depression without ever having to talk about herself. Esther’s opening chapter features a morbid fascination with a news story, finding empathy with a tragic event that has no outcome on her story but speaks to her magnet for darkness in the world. Even in the corners of the novel, Plath’s prose tends to side with negative connotations, suggesting that even in a joyful scene, she is constantly battling something invisible.
For the first half especially, the depression feels like a manageable supporting character. It isn’t impossible to ignore, but they feel cribbed into other aspects of the story. Like Plath herself, Esther earns a job out of college for a prestigious magazine. As she understudies, she discovers this world that feels fascinating and alive, giving her a chance to earn the respect of her peers.
Even then, she suffers from the all-too-common imposter syndrome. Whenever she is not observing the actions of her peers, she is questioning why she is even there. She is alone in a hotel room, watching people laughing it up around her. They have this promiscuous lifestyle, and she doesn’t feel engaged by it. Everything feels false, and it builds into anxiety as she begins to comment on her own years in school, where her grades never felt like they were good enough. To the reader, she has an enviable intellect that makes her feel perfect for the role. And yet, it’s not just the struggle to get 100% on the test. It’s the struggle to believe that it was earned, that she can continue to meet these demands of others who judge her for these academic achievements.
It’s a pain that provides some of the most heartbreaking commentaries yet for Esther. It’s not just a story that suggests that she is sad because she is inadequate. It’s evidence that people can have this severe pain inside even amid potential success, feeling like everything could go wrong. No amount of success can make them happy, realizing that they’ve worked so hard to achieve something that lacks fulfillment.
As the third act reveals, Esther feels like her whole life is being observed through a bell jar. In one small image, she perfectly captured the symbolism of how depression can feel to the outside world. The transparent glass makes everything underneath look normal, but for the contents inside it’s suffocating, feeling trapped, and like they’re helpless to change their trajectory. When the bell jar is lifted, there is some relief, but there’s always the fear that it will return, ready to cloud their brains and cause a claustrophobic panic to kick back in. The only difference is that the hypothetical bell jar is so transparent to the real world that it may be difficult to ever truly remove for some people.
There is some fun irony in Plath claiming that this was going to be an accessible novel, reflecting her feelings of the overbearing nature of the patriarchy. While that may have been the starting point, exploring how personal relationships crumble as she begins to doubt herself, it’s far from where things ended up. What followed was a story about self-destruction that slowly unwinds with terrible amounts of detail. For those who feel uncomfortable watching a character explore their own mortality, “The Bell Jar” will be a painful read. For anyone who has had even passing thoughts about suicide, it may read as something more familiar.
Because what Plath achieves is the sensation of morbid curiosity. It’s the temptation to view the darkness and understand the components of an incident. For some, the idea of studying murder is in some ways an attempt to understand their pain, what the absence of life actually accomplishes. It’s a form of escapism that is like being at death’s door, even if the world around you thinks that it’s fine. The way that Plath writes about these moments is so tender and provoking, always treating it as an authentic perspective. It’s the slow trail to eventual action that is plausible that, like the bell jar, many probably don’t see it coming.
The suicide attempt itself is uncomfortable but sets the bar for a middle stretch where she winds up in the hospital. Everything feels so personal that you can believe that Plath was in there, sitting in a bed and discovering the impact of ingesting so many pills. She understands the physical pain, her internal finally becoming external. More importantly, she tosses in a small sense of optimism during this part, believing that there are people out there that want to help her get better. There’s the belief that she will get there, even if this isn’t the last time that a morbid symbolism will occur in the story.
Plath doesn’t suggest that depression is escapable, but that it causes great pain. The whole experience has this shocking realism to it that makes it feel autobiographical like a rare peek into Plath’s personal life. It’s hard to know how much is true, but it’s rewarding to have this book in existence, if just for how perfectly it conveys the mentality of depression. It’s not always a snap judgment. Sometimes it builds off of years of disappointing expectation, incorporated from misleading relationships. It’s horrifying to think where depression doesn’t come from, and I think that few novels have captured it better.
I will take this opportunity to suggest that my experience with sadness has never been as severe as this. I have known people who attempted suicide that I care about deeply, and I feel a certain sadness in that connection. Still, Plath has small traces of personality and humor that keep from being a total bummer. It’s also a reflection of the shields we put up in hopes of keeping out the pain. I have done it a few times, though I recognize that my experience is milder, often more manageable and I’m thankful for that. It’s upsetting to see people I love suffer and I wish they could understand that I love them. Then again, as Plath will be the first to tell you, there’s saying that and having them realize it. Sometimes it’s a battle of the self, and there’s little you can do but listen.
I want to believe that I’ll be supportive of those who need somebody to listen to. It’s important to have compassion and know that sometimes we feel alone. We need to do our part to make others feel like they’re loved and respected, especially in an era where anxiety is high and the world sometimes feels catastrophic. In a world of bullies, try and be somebody who looks at “The Bell Jar” and feels concerned. If you recognize yourself in those pages, you’ll know why. Even if you don’t, do know that a small act of kindness has the chance to brighten anyone’s day. We could all use that right now.
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