Sylvia Plath was a name I came across again and again on feminist blogs. Her poetry. Her tragic life. And perhaps more often, the ‘bell jar’. I finally read this novel.
I was a little surprised at first, both at how trivial it was and at a very racist passage. But the strength of the book is in how true the protagonist’s voice rings, and how even the daily business of living can be too much for a young woman in a misogynistic society.
It wouldn't have made one scrap of difference to me, because wherever I sat -- on the deck of a ship or at a street cafe in Paris or Bangkok -- I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air....
The air of the bell jar wadded round me and I couldn't stir.
Once, when describing how I feel when I'm battling food my body refuses to accept (I'm sensitive to gluten and lactose), I said to the Guy, "It's like I'm behind these glass walls." I guess there's more than one reason for feeling this way.