"This book is dangerous."

That's what I thought when I read the synopsis online. That's what I thought when I picked it up from the library. That's what I thought as I read the opening lines and quickly shut the book again. Two chapters in, I can't help but think it again.

The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath, is the first person chronicle of a young girl's experience in a big city. As of only two chapters in, she is unnamed but characterized by her cynicism of the city, of the other girls in her life, and of herself. She has a practiced observer's eye for detail.

I knew a little bit about this book and its author before I began reading. The Bell Jar is supposedly a fictional autobiography (a genre I have just created), which tells the author's story as a fictional narrative, placing made-up characters in her own experiences. I knew that Plath was a poet and a feminist, who suffered from suicidal tendencies and depression throughout her life, and had attempted to kill herself on multiple occasions. I also knew that she succeeded a mere three months after the publication of the very book that lies beside my computer right now.

That knowledge made me wary, but in actuality, the trepidation that grips me as I considered this book is tripartite.

The first is Sylvia's soul. From what I've read about her, depression, cynicism, and suicide followed her relentlessly. The theme of hopelessness pervaded her life. The second is Sylvia's tongue. The words I read on the pages of The Bell Jar undoubtedly sprung from a gifted writer. Plath's words are sculpted and captivating, and therefore powerful. I knew from that cursory glance at her opening sentences that it would be difficult to stop myself from reading, once I'd begun. This was a woman who knew her way around the English language. The third is nothing other than my own soul. I know the power words have on me. Plath used the beautiful vessel of her words to convey the writhing mess inside her soul. And good on her for doing it! But do I want to allow such hopelessness, regardless of the way in which it is expressed, to enter my own being? I am not invulnerable; that scares me. This book is dangerous.

I am only two chapters in. But already I have been captured. I have no conclusion yet; that will come later, and we will see what it brings.

Best wishes,
Nicole