Why Did Sylvia Plath Write The Bell Jar?

This is the ending of the book, and it is about the burden of insight. The world looks very different when viewed from underneath the bell jar of distortion and suffocation. Now that Esther has had a glimpse of clarity she cannot turn back to her former way of perceiving things. She knows that the world can look that way too. This realization brings with it isolation, for the other girls at the asylum had received shock treatment, and returned home to become adjusted members of society, their jars removed from under their eyes. Esther's jar remains firmly in place, for she is a very critical, poetic person. The price that she and others like her pay for their artistic nature and high intelligence is the constant awareness of their mental illness, the knowledge that for them, mental clarity and mental illness are intertwined. And getting better for them means struggling to come to terms with this.

This 1961 novel by the late, prolific poet Sylvia Plath has had a profound effect on many readers. Much of the book is autobiographical and thereby a culturally valuable window to the author’s particular time in life and in history, but at its best the book is also simply and effectively written. Plath drew upon her own experiences as a young woman, struggling to come to terms with the pressures placed upon her by the expectations of others as well as by her own growing mental instability. A time capsule of 1950s America for readers to see how wonderful domesticity was portrayed by 1950s society while denying any real avenues for women’s full participation. The scenes of Esther’s electroshock therapy are particularly horrifying as they show how much damage could be done to someone suffering from mental illness by the treatments prescribed by psychiatry at the time. Every generation can relate to feeling trapped in some sense – by pressures to conform, by their own thoughts, or by the world around them. This is why The Bell Jar remains a must-read so many decades after it was written. It’s not just literature – it’s a guide for those of us struggling to survive as misfits.

I was a bit hit-or-miss with the new illustrations, some were wonderful (like the new version of the fig tree), but some felt like rehashes of better ideas. But, even when the pictures weren’t so great, Plath’s words were great enough to carry the new version. It’s a good choice for something to hold while reading about the poet, but it’s not going to be for everyone. The unillustrated version is still the best.

However it is said that writing found Murakami, he said that the baseball game story was easily found. But what interests me more is how his way of life has nurtured his work. His years spent running a jazz bar must have been like fieldwork where he observed the many idiosyncrasies of human behavior. A drunk salaryman humming ‘My Funny Valentine’ down a street or a couple having a row in a coffee shop, these were all stored up like colors. The process of translating works of Western literature, particularly works by such authors as Salinger, has helped Murakami develop his unique writing style. Perhaps this is why so many of his main characters are drawn to ‘The Beatles’ or Listens-to-Gatsby, as he calls them. Their influences are woven into the fabric of the story much like the offbeat rhythms of a Coltrane sax solo are woven into the development of a musical piece.

The Beauty in Beauty and the Beast doesn’t have a last name, and I just found out via Google that Disney has never confirmed a last name for Belle. I assumed that there would be some obscure piece of Disney merch or art book that included Belle’s last name, but nope. Instead there’s been a whole pile of fan theories on this topic, with ‘Beaumont’ being the most commonly accepted last name for Belle based on the author of the fairy tale she reads. Some fans even believe that her last name is ‘Bonnet’ given that she’s from a French-inspired village. I love that so many fanfics create their own last names for Belle, ranging from aristocratic (DeVille) to simple (Martin). I almost hope she never had a last name at all, because she’s too busy reading to worry about filling out paperwork. Her mystery is just one of the things that makes her so lovable.

Much of the power of The House on Mango Street comes from outside of Esperanza’s personal growth. The author saw how the women on Mango Street were controlled by marriage, by poverty, by culture and looked to tell their stories in order to document their circumstances and assist in their flight from those circumstances through the use of narrative and the development of a totally new self. Rafela, Sally and Mamacita are all portrayed as roles for women in order to teach lessons to Esperanza about how to grow up to be a woman. Each chapter of the book portrays a different female character and therefore the book is a study of the limited roles that women have been given to fill in cultures similar to the author’s. Although the book is critical of these roles, Cisneros portrays each of the female characters with sympathy and complexity and therefore her work does not read as a angry or negative rant. Rather the work is a series of portraits that collectively argue for a woman’s right to create her own life and to have her own space, starting with the space that she has in her own home.

A lot of what stays with me from Beauty and the Beast is its take on loneliness. In the story, Belle is not a sapery or sorry character for being different. In fact, her solitude or aloneness is the source of her power. She finds joy in her own company, and can therefore see the potential in the Beast when so many others cannot. I also find that the Beauty and the Beast’s enchanted objects (i.e. Lumière and Cogsworth) teach a very important lesson: even in broken things there is life to be rediscovered. The story is not just a love story; it is also a story about finding home in unexpected places.

The ending of 'Sybil' is one of those moments that lingers in your mind long after you've turned the last page or watched the final scene. Sybil Dorsett's journey through her dissociative identity disorder is harrowing yet deeply moving, and the resolution of her story feels like a fragile, hard-won peace. After years of therapy with Dr. Cornelia Wilbur, Sybil gradually integrates her sixteen distinct personalities into a single, cohesive identity. It's not a sudden, magical cure—it's a slow, painful process filled with setbacks and breakthroughs. The integration symbolizes her ability to confront the traumatic childhood abuse that fractured her psyche in the first place. One of the most poignant aspects of the ending is how Sybil's personalities don't 'disappear' so much as they merge, each contributing something to her whole self. Peggy, Vicky, Marsha, and the others aren't erased; their traits, memories, and strengths become part of Sybil. It's bittersweet, really. There's relief in her newfound stability, but also a sense of loss for the 'people' who helped her survive. The final scenes leave you with a quiet hope for her future, though the scars of her past remain. It's a testament to the resilience of the human mind, even if the road to healing is anything but straightforward. I always find myself reflecting on how the story challenges the idea of identity. Sybil's ending isn't tidy or Hollywood-perfect—it's messy and real, which is why it sticks with me. The book (and later adaptations) sparked so much debate about the nature of dissociation and therapy, but at its core, it's a story about survival. Sybil's personalities were her armor, and in the end, she learns to live without them, though never forgetting what they did for her.

This young boy is struggling to find his place in the world. He is a child who needs to be cared for but is left to care for others. His 5 year old brother Gus, and often his mother. He has grown up far too quickly and is already playing the role of an adult. This young boy is learning important life skills such as negotiation, protection, and the management of complex emotions. However, there are some things that he is not growing up too quickly to do, such as riding a bike. This young boy is carrying a heavy weight on his shoulders and it is affecting him greatly. In moments where he is able to be a child again, whether it be playing with his brother, or coming up with funny one-liners, his true age is apparent once again.

This book was inspired by Young’s own desperation. She was bedridden with chronic illness and felt far from God in her traditional prayers. She began to write on paper, sometimes with Jesus sitting beside her, and what she wrote would become these love letters to the Jesus she wanted to believe was near. These are not theology books, but a man and woman struggling to find God in the midst of their deep pain. And that makes their work so powerful – desperation often creates the best art.