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Der einzige Roman der großen Lyrikerin: Was macht eine hochbegabte Studentin aus ihrem Leben, wenn sie nach New York kommt, wo es auch noch andere Verlockungen gibt als gute Zensuren? Es war ein verrückter, schwüler Sommer, dieser Sommer, in dem die Rosenbergs auf den elektrischen Stuhl kamen und ich nicht wußte, was ich in New York eigentlich wollte. Esther Greenwood läßt das muffige Leben einer amerikanischen Kleinstadt und die College-Erlebnisse hinter sich und verbringt mit anderen preisgekrönten Studentinnen einen Monat als Volontärin einer New Yorker Modezeitschrift. Hin- und hergerissen zwischen widersprüchlichen Empfindungen und Träumen - der Sehnsucht nach erotischen Erfahrungen und der Angst vor Schwangerschaft, dem Wunsch, eine erfolgreiche Autorin zu werden, und dem Rückzug auf die passive Rolle der Beobachterin - gerät sie in eine tiefe Krise: Als man bei ihr einen Nervenzusammenbruch diagnostiziert und sie zum Psychiater schickt, fühlt sie sich αunter einer Glasglocke±, auf sich selbst wartend.… (mehr)
I have great respect for the way the theme of mental illness is harshly portrayed in this book, only I wish it had been a little less abrupt in its execution. Mental illness is a lifelong battle (I would know), and although I understand it wasn't always well understood (and still isn't, really), I just think Esther Greenwood a bit too spiteful in the handling of her situation. If she were a more active participant in her healing, she might have met with better results. ( )
Durante más o menos la mitad de la novela, uno no entiende por qué es tan famosa. Parecen las aventurillas de una chica que, gracias a una beca, consigue pasar del Medio oeste a una universidad-residencia de señoritas bien de Nueva York, y las cosas que le pasan, básicamente relacionadas con los hombres y las fiestas. Pero, sin muchas explicaciones, al finalizar el curso la protagonista parece haber entrado en una depresión que rápidamente deriva en auténtica enfermedad mental, A partir de ahí la novela cambia y se me ha hecho mucho más sugestiva. Ella afirma sentirse como en una "campana de cristal" que impide toda comunicación efectiva con el exterior. Oye y entiende perfectamente lo que le dicen, y también habla con normalidad con los demás, pero, de algún modo, no consigue transmitir lo que de verdad siente a nadie. Le someten a una dura terapia de electroshock que le deja peor, pero luego cambia de psiquiatra y la nueva (el primero era un hombre) combina esta técnica con un trato más razonable y otros tratamientos para que, al final, la "campana" se levante y se quede como suspendida por encima de la protagonista, que puede así comunicarse verdaderamente con su entorno.
La novela es en gran medida autobiográfica y, por lo visto, lo de las terapias de choque causó mucho impacto en su momento, hacia mitad de los años 50, porque estaban muy de moda en Estados Unidos. Hoy no nos impresiona tanto, porque la autora no narra las sesiones, sino que apenas alude a ellas. También pasa por ser esta una novela feminista pero, más allá de algunos comentarios más o menos circunstancias y más o menos agudos tampoco me ha parecido que eso sea lo importante. Lo que más me ha gustado es el tratamiento de la enfermedad mental desde la propia enferma, que generalmente tampoco sabe muy bien qué demonios está pasando. ( )
Not what I was expecting at all! Way more fun (except of course for some parts) and exceptionally good. The novel is in two parts, the first is a bit like a very Americanised version of writers like Penelope Lively set in 1950's New York, and later Boston. Witty, droll, brilliant Esther begins her tale as an intern at a fashion magazine in New York, going out to fabulous dinners and parties. Esther observes the world and the people around her with cutting insight and takes it all as natural, its privilege doesn’t seem to occur to her. There is very little other than what seemed perfectly normal misgivings for such a brilliant mind in the first half of the novel, along with cutting insight into societal and corporate burdens on women. Men do not fare well in general, all of the strong characters and positive roles are women, though not all women fare well. The end of this NY period, some uncertainties, and a period of prolonged insomnia trigger a rapid and terrifying onset of mental illness; the decent of the bell jar. The second story, essentially the entire the second half of the novel, describes the illness, inept and barbaric ‘treatment’, and an incredibly fortunate rescue from these circumstances. Lobotomies and electroshock were the tools of the times, even a nurse Rached type character has a cameo. As our heroine slowly recovers you can feel her wit, sauciness and piecing intellect reemerging from the frozen fog. It is told by our narrator describing her past, so even in the darkest times is very calm and if anything told in a mildly curious tone, as though more amazed by what she went through rather than torn up by it. Just an amazing read from such a tragic shooting star. 4.5 ( )
Esther Greenwood's account of her year in the bell jar is as clear and readable as it is witty and disturbing. It makes for a novel such as Dorothy Parker might have written if she had not belonged to a generation infected with the relentless frivolity of the college- humor magazine. The brittle humor of that early generation is reincarnated in "The Bell Jar," but raised to a more serious level because it is recognized as a resource of hysteria.
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for Elizabeth and David
Erste Worte
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You might think that classics like The Bell Jar are immediately recognized the moment they reach a publisher's office. But publishing history is rife with stories about classic novels that barely squeaked into print, from Nightwood to A Confederacy of Dunces, and The Bell Jar is one of them. -Introduction, Frances McCullough
It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I don't know what I was doing in New York. I'm stupid about executions. The idea of being electrocuted makes me sick, and that's all there was to read about in the paper - goggle-eyes headlines staring up at me on every street corner and at the fusty, peanut-smelling mouth of every subway. It had nothing to do with me, but I couldn't help wondering what it would be like, being burned alive all along your nerves. -Chapter 1
Zitate
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That's one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket. (p. 69)
The trouble was, I hated the idea of serving men in any way.
"We'll take it up where we left off, Esther," she had said, with her sweet, martyr's smile. "We'll act as if all of this were a bad dream" A bad dream. To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream. A bad dream. I remembered everything. I remembered the cadavers and Doreen and the story of the fig tree and Marco's diamond and the sailor on the Common and Doctor Gordon's wall-eyed nurse and the broken thermometers and the Negro with his two kinds of beans and the twenty pounds I gained on insulin and the rock that bulged between sky and sea like a gray skull. Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were part of me. They were my landscape. (p. 181)
I took a deep breath, and listened to the old bray of my heart: I am, I am, I am.
I began to think that maybe it was true that when you were married and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterward you went about numb as a slave in some private, totalitarian state. (p. 70)
I wanted to tell her that if only something was wrong with my body it would be fine, I would rather have anything wrong with my body than something wrong with my head, but the idea seemed so involved and wearisome that I didn't say anything. (p. 140)
I smelt a mingling of Pablum and sour milk and salt-codstinky diapers and felt sorrowful and tender. How easy having babies seemed to the women around me! Why was I so unmaternal and apart? Why couldn't I dream of devoting myself to baby after fat puling baby like Dodo Conway? If I had to wait on a baby all day, I would go mad. (p. 170)
I felt myself melting into the shadows like the negative of a person I'd never seen before in my life.
If Mrs Guinea had given me a ticket to Europe, or a round-the-world cruise, it wouldn't have made one scrap of difference to me, because wherever I sat - on the deck of a ship or at a street cafe in Paris or Bangkok - I would be sitting in the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream.
I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
Letzte Worte
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The eyes and the faces all turned themselves towards me, and guiding myself by them, as by a magical thread, I stepped into the room.
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▾Buchbeschreibungen
Der einzige Roman der großen Lyrikerin: Was macht eine hochbegabte Studentin aus ihrem Leben, wenn sie nach New York kommt, wo es auch noch andere Verlockungen gibt als gute Zensuren? Es war ein verrückter, schwüler Sommer, dieser Sommer, in dem die Rosenbergs auf den elektrischen Stuhl kamen und ich nicht wußte, was ich in New York eigentlich wollte. Esther Greenwood läßt das muffige Leben einer amerikanischen Kleinstadt und die College-Erlebnisse hinter sich und verbringt mit anderen preisgekrönten Studentinnen einen Monat als Volontärin einer New Yorker Modezeitschrift. Hin- und hergerissen zwischen widersprüchlichen Empfindungen und Träumen - der Sehnsucht nach erotischen Erfahrungen und der Angst vor Schwangerschaft, dem Wunsch, eine erfolgreiche Autorin zu werden, und dem Rückzug auf die passive Rolle der Beobachterin - gerät sie in eine tiefe Krise: Als man bei ihr einen Nervenzusammenbruch diagnostiziert und sie zum Psychiater schickt, fühlt sie sich αunter einer Glasglocke±, auf sich selbst wartend.
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Zusammenfassung in Haiku-Form
Nachlassbibliothek: Sylvia Plath
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