This is it, the book to end all books for the overemotional teen.  Sylvia Plath was emo before there was any such thing (her memoir was first published in 1963).  It still stands as a paean to melodrama and self-loathing.  I recently re-read "The Bell Jar" because it happened to fall out of a box I was shifting, and I realized I hadn't cracked it for at least fifteen years.

One thing that struck me about reading it now, in the year 2009, is that it is essentially contemporary with "Mad Men."  This gave me an entirely different perspective on it, thinking of it as taking place in an era with so much institutionalized sexism and racism.  I was mildly surprised to recall that the whole thing starts when the narrator (Esther Greenwood) gets an internship with a New York City magazine.  Watching "Mad Men," it seems impossible that a woman would get any job at a high profile magazine, aside from secretary or steno pool.

I also spent a lot more time rolling my eyes this time through, compared to reading it when I myself had just left home for college.  Esther's crisis is basically precipitated by being a privileged suburban kid who throws herself into the competitive fray of the big city, and finds it… well, competitive.  Life is HARD!  It's true.  

On the other hand, Esther turns to novel writing because she rejects the other two careers which society makes available to her: secretary or breeder/housewife.  Well, it's hard to fault her for that, and a lot of women have taken the same route, publishing their books pseudonymously or under just their initials.  

I was confused anew at the bleeding incident after Esther loses her virginity.  She starts bleeding, and based on the telling, she must have practically bled to death before the emergency room doctor finally chuckles knowingly and stops the bleeding.  Why?  How?  Is that a real thing?  It terrified me at the time, and I still find the entire episode disturbing.  It seems so unlikely that I'm inclined to frame it as a story of a miscarriage, which Plath simply relocates in the timeline.  Or straight up metaphor.  

Ultimately, The Bell Jar is dated by its own diagnosis.  Although it's tempting to blame one's depression on the weight of the world, the unrealistic expectations of one's peers and oneself, and the cruelty of life in general, the truth is that clinical depression is a chemical imbalance in the brain.  Today, Plath would have been prescribed a round of antidepressants.  Which would have robbed The Bell Jar of its power, certainly, but would have left us a Sylvia Plath who was clear of mind and spirit, and didn't commit suicide after her first novel.  Plath was a powerful writer and a gifted poet, and the world would have been a better place if she'd stuck around to see it.

Speaking of Plath's suicide, I have often wondered if The Bell Jar would have been as powerful if Plath hadn't offed herself shortly after its publication. Let's face it, it's basically a snuff film, which does the story a real disservice.  Plath's suicide also lends the story a sinister authority that I don't think helps matters.  It seemed very tragic and Real to me the first time I read it.  Now it just seems needlessly sad and frustrating.  But maybe that's the process of growing up, in a nutshell.