The Bell Jar is not a book I would recommend to everyone. It is not for the faint of heart. Which why I was surprised that my mother was the one to recommend this book to me (she has a selective memory). It is dark and emotional and self-deprecating. Plath’s novelization of her memoir is beautifully written and is self-aware of the reality of the story. It knows it is dark and is unapologetic of it.
I read this book in high school and fell in love with it partially because somewhere inside me, I identified with the sentiments of this story, but also because of the honesty. It was at that point, arguably because of this book, that I realized art can still be art if it is honest. I could write honestly and it didn’t have to be “journaling” or “ramblings” or something angsty that I deemed “unpublishable.” It was still art.
The Bell Jar helped me find my own voice in my writing and deem it worthy of being called art, even if it did so in an unconventional way.
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