Review: The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath (Spoiler-Free)

I wondered at what point in space the silly, sham blue of the sky turned black.

I can't believe I went 22 years of my life without having read this book. I would consider myself an avid reader, yet harsh critic, of mental illness fiction, so it's wild that I waited this long to read what many consider the genre's magnum opus. And yeah. Y'all were right. This is perfection.

Sylvia Plath writes with an unbelievable degree of observation. Of course this applies to the portrait she paints of the human psyche, but it also applies to the portrait she paints of the world. She places words in places I'd never expect to see them, but keeps the prose sparse. Each sentence is a perfectly weeded bed of flowers. Nothing I write here could possibly do it justice.

I knew this book would be relatable when it came to mental illness, but I didn't realize how deeply I would connect with the main character and her general outlook on the world. No matter how many books I read, no matter how sure I am that I've finally read about every possibly relatable topic, I always manage to dive into a new book and discover that I needed it, and at that exact moment.

I also want to shout out the illustrator, Beya Rebaii, who created the most gorgeous illustrations ever for the Faber and Faber edition I read (and bought in Copenhagen!). They truly enhanced the experience.

I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.

Note: This novel was written in the 1960s, therefore it contains racist and fatphobic sentiments from the 1960s. Those sentiments are not what I am praising.