Sylvia Plath. The name doesn't get any bigger when it comes to post second world war poetry. The bitch was a genius, a phenomenon in modern prose, a descended equal to the rank in the court of Milton, Alighieri, Rimbaud and Eliot. Anyone who has read Ariel can understand its stark matter of fact electro shock elegance.
The Bell Jar is just as sweet and as sour as existence is when your a genius like Sylvia Plath was. I read Plaths only novel sitting on a train and didn't stop reading until the conductor kicked me off. He said, 'get the fuck off my train you looser.' Perhaps i should have done a plath and jumped infront of the next oncoming train but there wasn't any oncoming trains, it was 1 am. Plath's novel is crazy. If anyone wants a lesson in first person intimate narration look past Salinger to Plath. Plath is as miticulous as a gorden orb spider. Her paragraphs are sexy shit.
The story concerns this young lady called Esther who is a little like us all in that she doesn't know what she's doing. It begins in New York and even from the start you get the feeling something is wrong with this little lady. Shes like an orphan to time or something, its hard to put, she fitts in but feels strange, uneasy, the world makes her... Constantly the things make her sick.
Then by the middle of the book she's returned the swamps of Massachusetts and everything is beginning to go wrong for her. Thats when she goes and sees this Doctor Gordan. Look i dont want to spoil it because it is a very pritty book as well as a fucked up nightmare vision of what can happen to you if your a genuis like Sylvia Plath was.
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