In The Bell Jar
(Entry below was handwritten on 1/30/2002)
While reading ‘The Bell Jar” and being hit in the face with its vivid illuminations, I started to wonder how many more women out there are like me and Sylvia Plath. She practically ripped some of those words and thoughts right out of my brain and heart. I wondered, are there a whole race of us out there? A whole group of frail, thin, awkward, tall women with spidery fingers, hollow, vacant eyes, and longing limbs?
If there was such a group, were we all witchy and frightening? Or we some just unassuming and sweet?
I began to transcribe some of her quotes and passages into my journal, but they’ve become far too numerous. Sylvia is another one of my kindred souls. So I wonder, what if the madness descends on me and I end up committing suicide at age 30? Critics say Plath’s only novel did more in her death than it ever would had she lived. What if I end up with a novel written, published journals that make me famous the world over and I become part of the literary canon? And I wouldn’t be alive to enjoy it?
Maybe I’d reach another struggling, young, internally frantic woman who will realize that someone can identify. Someone she didn’t and couldn’t know, but who spoke what could never be said, who revealed the truth far beneath all daily artifice.
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