Tag Archives: Poetry

Sylvia Plath and The Bell Jar

Loved this book and really admire the writing, flair and spirit in it. My thoughts are my own.

Poetry is not my passion, so I’ve never read much or studied poets and their output. However, Sylvia describes incidents in a way that captured my interest. She uses the word “ptomaine poisoning” to describe an outbreak of shellfish poisoning which happened to her and ten of the girls on her secondment as an assistant editor to a prestigious New York Magazine. Ptomaine is now an outdated term , but so powerful, I can almost taste the crab.

As “The Bell Jar” is Plath’s only published prose book and is regarded as  semi autobiographical, I came to it with a freshness and curiosity, with my ears ready to listen to a story and I was not disappointed.

I found myself fact checking some of the details in the book . Sylvia Plath was indeed a straight A student and I believe had the potential to have been a top academic if she had  wanted. The Physics class she took reluctantly and excelled in then used her success to persuade her college that while she would attend Chemistry classes(which she hated) there was no need to sit an exam. Only someone who knew how to play the academic system could have done that so successfully and with such aplomb.

I suppose it was the era that she was born in that defined her view on relationships with the opposite sex. A ” woman’s role” to keep house, have children and worship her husband (the main bread winner) seems like something that she would grow to hate. Perhaps she did or perhaps she didn’t. The scene in the bell jar where the the diamond pin man tries to rape her and she sticks her stiletto heel in his thigh and leaves him to search around in the grounds for the diamond pin that he gave her and then insisted she gave him back was classic sassy woman. Sylvia could give as good as she got when she needed to .

I love the descriptions of her mother, whom with such a talented daughter , verging on genius as a writer had to support her both emotionally and financially taking into account Sylvia’s sensitivities. I appreciate Sylvia’s honesty in describing how her mother made her feel, but my overall impression was that she knew she was loved and also that she had many people around her that cared for her too.

What strikes me as sad, is it was all based on competitive writing, she wanted to win competitions , earn money for short stories from Publishers of Magazines , win , win , win. She could do it to, really she was invincible and curious and had a lot to offer the World. Did she stop winning, or did she stop believing she could win.

I don’t think those times were easy, there was not much money floating about. I love her frankness in saying that her family would run out of financial sympathy for her and she would be moved from expensive private psychiatric hospitals to public facilities where her treatments would be inferior. She wanted to get better before that happened. Which indeed she did,as at the end of the book she does return to college and eventually goes to Europe, the rest is history.

I will return to the Bell Jar again and again, because it’s language, it’s descriptions and it’s story are absolutely fascinating, so much better than J.D. Salinger’s “Catcher in the Rye” which as a coming of age novel left me slightly doubtful of it’s characters. Plath’s writing was heartfelt and visceral and frank. There was nothing phoney about her.

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Filed under Short Stories

A Stone Passage to a Circular Stairway
I descend the stairway; my finger tips seek the wall,
The nerve endings discharge my potency,
My mettle seeps through the cold and porous stone,
Fingernails scuff the crumbling slabs,
My dream of escape crushed by the dank smell,
What heinous fate awaits me?
A ray of sunshine through the loophole,
Warmth, Life, a return to the Living,
I must make that journey into the Darkness,
If I am to have any chance of flight,
It is worse than Hell, where can it end?
The Sun, The Sun, it will give me warmth on my return;
My foot moves, and I take another step.
The scabrous mortar causes the stairway to crumble,
I stumble forward and pitch head first into the circular wall.
A disturbed arachnid leaves his mossy lair,
The Passage Way, the smell of Earth and Fear,
I cannot see and my fearfulness rises to a Crescendo,
My heart beats; the blood in my ears pounds;
Tears run from my eyes.
I must continue. I must see him. The Devil or worse.

I step forward; the Circular Stairway a spectre,
I am fearful; the graveyard inert and long ago abandoned,
Evidently fresh soil has been exhumed,
The Chapel is derelict, it’s fabric untended,
Where are the Christians now!
Oh God why have thou forsaken this spot?
Surely it was once hallowed ground;
Desecration, death and an unholy dread fills me,
I retreat into self pity,
O God why have thou forsaken me!
I cannot bear this ghastly torment:
I behold the ancient vaults. There are three stairways.
I must not go back, I must look and witness whatever is there,
Boxes, Boxes of fresh earth and fragments of old coffins,
The Count, The Count.
I stare in Horror for he is neither dead nor alive,
Lying on a mound of Fresh Earth.
There is no breath or heartbeat, but a faint odour of fresh blood,
The contrasting vigour of his face and his deathly pallor,
Those eyes , Those eyes. Open and Questioning,
The Red Ruby Labia curl around the protruding canine teeth,
Saliva and dried blood stain the monsters mouth,
I cannot bear to touch him; the thought is unbearable,
I cannot bear to search his body for the key,
The key that will allow me to leave my prison room.
The eyes remain staring upwards;
This is my moment. I reach down. The Count’s eyes turn and look directly at me.
I fail and run towards the window,
I care not if I fall, for true Death would be a rescue ,
I climb and remember no more:
I wake in my prison bed knowing Night will bring him to me.

1 Comment

October 15, 2012 · 9:06 pm