This text serves as the front matter for a digital edition of Sylvia Plath's 'The Bell Jar' produced for the Public Domain Core Collection.
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The Bell Jar
The Bell Jar
SYLVIA PLATH
RYERSON UNIVERSITY
TORONTO
This work (The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath) is free of known copyright restrictions.
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Series Introduction
PUBLIC DOMAIN CORE COLLECTION TEAM
The Public Domain Core Collection consists of over 50 titles of
public domain works that have been created using Pressbooks and
made available in online, epub, pdf and editable formats. Although
the primary audience for this collection is students and faculty
members in the post-secondary education sector in Ontario, the
titles are freely available on the web to anyone who wants to read or
adapt them for their own use.
Titles were chosen for this collection based on the following
criteria:
â˘
Relevance to post-secondary courses taught in Ontario
â˘
Frequency of appearance on syllabi listed in the Open Syllabus
Project
â˘
Proposed usage in open assignments in courses at Ryerson and
Brock universities during the Fall 2021 semester
â˘
Inclusion of underrepresented voices (including titles by
BIPOC authors)
â˘
In the public domain
All texts are in the public domain (50 years after the death of the
author) in Canada as of 2021. If you are accessing these texts from
another country, please be aware that some of these works may not
be in the public domain in your country. Supplementary materials
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Creative Commons CC BY 4.0 license.
Credit Statement
Adaptations of public domain texts do not require attribution;
however, we would appreciate acknowledgement of the source of
the work as follows:
Series Introduction | 1
This work has been adapted from The Bell Jar, a title from
the eCampusOntario Public Domain Core Collection. This
work is in the Public Domain.
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4.0, and should be attributed according to Creative Commons best
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This project is made possible with funding by the Government of
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Virtual Learning Strategy visit: https://vls.ecampusontario.ca/.
2 | The Bell Jar
Introduction to the Book
PUBLIC DOMAIN CORE COLLECTION TEAM
This Public Domain Core Collection book was created using the
Faber and Faber, 1971 third printing of the 1966 edition of The Bell Jar
courtesy of Faded Page.
Introduction to the Book | 3
Accessibility Statement
PUBLIC DOMAIN CORE COLLECTION TEAM
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4 | Accessibility Statement
Known Accessibility Issues and Areas for
Improvement
There are no known accessibility issues at this time.
Let us know if you are having problems accessing this book.
If accessibility issues are stopping you from accessing the
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in
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book,
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Academic Collaboration and Urban Malaise
The text outlines accessibility standards and contact procedures for users of the Public Domain Core Collection Project.
A collaboration between Ryerson and Brock Universities focuses on using public domain texts to foster open pedagogy and student creativity.
The narrative portion begins with a woman's account of a stifling summer in New York, overshadowed by the upcoming execution of the Rosenbergs.
The protagonist describes a visceral obsession with death and electrocution, which manifests as a physical sickness and psychological burden.
The setting is portrayed as a granite canyon of heat and dust, reflecting the narrator's internal feeling of disorientation and impending collapse.
I felt as though I were carrying that cadaverâs head around with me on a string, like some black, noseless balloon stinking of vinegar.
n
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alternative formats from the bookâs home page.
4 | Accessibility Statement
Known Accessibility Issues and Areas for
Improvement
There are no known accessibility issues at this time.
Let us know if you are having problems accessing this book.
If accessibility issues are stopping you from accessing the
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This statement was last updated on February 15, 2022.
Accessibility Statement | 5
Acknowledgements
PUBLIC DOMAIN CORE COLLECTION TEAM
The Public Domain Core Collection Project would not have been
possible without the enthusiastic collaboration between staff,
faculty members and students at Ryerson and Brock universities.
We came together with a shared desire to make commonly used
public domain texts more accessible to instructors and students in
our institutions, Ontario and beyond. We also wanted to encourage
instructors to use the texts as a basis for open pedagogy
assignments with the aim of empowering students to become
knowledge creators rather than just knowledge consumers.
Core Project Team
Ryerson University
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Payton Flood, Digital Publication Coordinator
â˘
Nipuni Kuruppu, 4th year, Creative Industries student
â˘
Val Lem, Collections Lead, Faculty of Arts
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Ann Ludbrook, Research Lead, Copyright and Scholarly
Engagement Librarian
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Brock University
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Giulia Forsythe, Associate Director, Centre for Pedagogical
6 | Acknowledgements
Innovation
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Cal Murgu, Liaison and Instructional Design Librarian
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Jennifer Thiessen, Head, Liaison Services
This project is made possible with funding by the Government of
Ontario and through eCampusOntarioâs support of the Virtual
Learning Strategy. To learn more about the Virtual Learning
Strategy visit: https://vls.ecampusontario.ca.â
Acknowledgements | 7
Chapter 1
It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the
Rosenbergs, and I didnât know what I was doing in New York. Iâm
stupid about executions. The idea of being electrocuted makes me
sick, and thatâs all there was to read about in the papersâgoggle-
eyed 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 couldnât help wondering what it would be like, being
burned alive all along your nerves.
I thought it must be the worst thing in the world.
New York was bad enough. By nine in the morning the fake,
country-wet
freshness
that
somehow
seeped
in
overnight
evaporated like the tail end of a sweet dream. Mirage-grey at the
bottom of their granite canyons, the hot streets wavered in the sun,
the car tops sizzled and glittered, and the dry, tindery dust blew into
my eyes and down my throat.
I kept hearing about the Rosenbergs over the radio and at the
office till I couldnât get them out of my mind. It was like the first
time I saw a cadaver. For weeks afterwards, the cadaverâs headâor
what there was left of itâfloated up behind my eggs and bacon
at breakfast and behind the face of Buddy Willard, who was
responsible for my seeing it in the first place, and pretty soon I felt
as though I were carrying that cadaverâs head around with me on a
string, like some black, noseless balloon stinking of vinegar.
I knew something was wrong with me that summer, because all
I could think about was the Rosenbergs and how stupid Iâd been to
buy all those uncomfortable, expensive clothes, hanging limp as fish
in my closet
The Eye of the Tornado
Esther experiences a profound sense of emptiness and dissociation while participating in a prestigious New York fashion magazine internship.
She contrasts her public image as a successful scholarship student with her internal feelings of being directionless and out of control.
The narrator feels haunted by morbid thoughts, including the execution of the Rosenbergs and the memory of a cadaver's head.
Living at the Amazon, an all-female hotel, Esther and eleven other contest winners receive a constant stream of commercial gifts and beauty treatments.
Despite the excitement surrounding her, Esther describes herself as a numb trolley-bus unable to react to the glamorous opportunities provided to her.
I felt very still and very empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.
ated up behind my eggs and bacon
at breakfast and behind the face of Buddy Willard, who was
responsible for my seeing it in the first place, and pretty soon I felt
as though I were carrying that cadaverâs head around with me on a
string, like some black, noseless balloon stinking of vinegar.
I knew something was wrong with me that summer, because all
I could think about was the Rosenbergs and how stupid Iâd been to
buy all those uncomfortable, expensive clothes, hanging limp as fish
in my closet, and how all the little successes Iâd totted up so happily
at college fizzled to nothing outside the slick marble and plate-glass
fronts along Madison Avenue.
I was supposed to be having the time of my life.
I was supposed to be the envy of thousands of other college girls
Chapter 1 | 9
just like me all over America who wanted nothing more than to
be tripping about in those same size seven patent leather shoes
Iâd bought in Bloomingdaleâs one lunch hour with a black patent
leather belt and black patent leather pocket-book to match. And
when my picture came out in the magazine the twelve of us were
working onâdrinking martinis in a skimpy, imitation silver-lamĂŠ
bodice stuck on to a big, fat cloud of white tulle, on some Starlight
Roof, in the company of several anonymous young men with all-
American
bone
structures
hired
or
loaned
for
the
occasionâeverybody would think I must be having a real whirl.
Look what can happen in this country, theyâd say. A girl lives in
some out-of-the-way town for nineteen years, so poor she canât
afford a magazine, and then she gets a scholarship to college and
wins a prize here and a prize there and ends up steering New York
like her own private car.
Only I wasnât steering anything, not even myself. I just bumped
from my hotel to work and to parties and from parties to my hotel
and back to work like a numb trolley-bus. I guess I should have
been excited the way most of the other girls were, but I couldnât
get myself to react. I felt very still and very empty, the way the
eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the
surrounding hullabaloo.
There were twelve of us at the hotel.
We had all won a fashion magazine contest, by writing essays and
stories and poems and fashion blurbs, and as prizes they gave us
jobs in New York for a month, expenses paid, and piles and piles of
free bonuses, like ballet tickets and passes to fashion shows and hair
stylings at a famous expensive salon and chances to meet successful
people in the field of our desire and advice about what to do with
our particular complexions.
I still have the make-up kit they gave me, fitted out for a person
with brown eyes and brown hair: an oblong of brown mascara with
a tiny brush, and a round basin of blue eye-shadow just big enough
to dab the tip of your finger in, and three lipsticks ranging from red
to pink, all cased in the same little gilt box with a mirror on one side.
10 | The Bell Jar
I also have a white plastic sun-glasses case with coloured shells and
sequins and a green plastic starfish sewed on to it.
I realized we kept piling up these presents because it was as good
as free advertising for the firms involved, but I couldnât be cynical. I
got such a kick out of all those free gifts showering on to us. For a
long time afterwards I hid them away, but later, when I was all right
again, I brought them out, and I still have them around the house.
I use the lipsticks now and then, and last week I cut the plastic
starfish off the sun-glasses case for the baby to play with.
So there were twelve of us at the hotel, in the same wing on the
same floor in single rooms, one after the other, and it reminded me
of my dormitory at college. It wasnât a proper hotelâI mean a hotel
where there are both men and women mixed about here and there
on the same floor.
This hotelâthe Amazonâwas for women only, and they were
mostly girls my age with wealthy parents who wanted to be sure
their daughters would be living where men couldnât
Boredom and Decadence
The narrator describes her stay at the Amazon, a restrictive hotel for women where wealthy socialites wait to transition into marriage or secretarial roles.
Feeling isolated by her New England upbringing, the narrator experiences a paralyzing jealousy toward the world-weary, bored girls she encounters.
Doreen, a cynical student with a cotton candy aesthetic, forms a bond with the narrator through witty, sarcastic critiques of their surroundings.
Doreen's preference for expensive, skin-like silk and nylon attire represents a level of sophistication and decadence that both shocks and attracts the narrator.
The narrative establishes a tension between the narrator's professional respect for her boss, Jay Cee, and her fascination with Doreenâs rebellious, anti-work attitude.
It suggested a whole life of marvellous, elaborate decadence that attracted me like a magnet.
the sun-glasses case for the baby to play with.
So there were twelve of us at the hotel, in the same wing on the
same floor in single rooms, one after the other, and it reminded me
of my dormitory at college. It wasnât a proper hotelâI mean a hotel
where there are both men and women mixed about here and there
on the same floor.
This hotelâthe Amazonâwas for women only, and they were
mostly girls my age with wealthy parents who wanted to be sure
their daughters would be living where men couldnât get at them and
deceive them; and they were all going to posh secretarial schools
like Katy Gibbs, where they had to wear hats and stockings and
gloves to class, or they had just graduated from places like Katy
Gibbs and were secretaries to executives and junior executives and
simply hanging around in New York waiting to get married to some
career man or other.
These girls looked awfully bored to me. I saw them on the sun-
roof, yawning and painting their nails and trying to keep up their
Bermuda tans, and they seemed bored as hell. I talked with one of
them, and she was bored with yachts and bored with flying around
in aeroplanes and bored with skiing in Switzerland at Christmas and
bored with the men in Brazil.
Girls like that make me sick. Iâm so jealous I canât speak. Nineteen
years, and I hadnât been out of New England except for this trip to
New York. It was my first big chance, but here I was, sitting back and
letting it run through my fingers like so much water.
I guess one of my troubles was Doreen.
Iâd never known a girl like Doreen before. Doreen came from a
Chapter 1 | 11
society girlsâ college down South and had bright white hair standing
out in a cotton candy fluff round her head and blue eyes like
transparent agate marbles, hard and polished and just about
indestructible, and a mouth set in a sort of perpetual sneer. I donât
mean a nasty sneer, but an amused, mysterious sneer, as if all the
people around her were pretty silly and she could tell some good
jokes on them if she wanted to.
Doreen singled me out right away. She made me feel I was that
much sharper than the others, and she really was wonderfully funny.
She used to sit next to me at the conference table, and when the
visiting celebrities were talking sheâd whisper witty sarcastic
remarks to me under her breath.
Her college was so fashion-conscious, she said, that all the girls
had pocket-book covers made out of the same material as their
dresses, so each time they changed their clothes they had a
matching pocket-book. This kind of detail impressed me. It
suggested a whole life of marvellous, elaborate decadence that
attracted me like a magnet.
The only thing Doreen ever bawled me out about was bothering
to get my assignments in by a deadline.
âWhat are you sweating over that for?â Doreen lounged on my bed
in a peach silk dressing-gown, filing her long, nicotine-yellow nails
with an emery board, while I typed up the draft of an interview with
a best-selling novelist.
That was another thingâthe rest of us had starched cotton
summer nighties and quilted housecoats, or maybe terry-towel
robes that doubled as beachcoats, but Doreen wore these full-
length nylon and lace jobs you could half see through, and dressing-
gowns the colour of skin, that stuck to her by some kind of
electricity. She had an interesting, slightly sweaty smell that
reminded me of those scallopy leaves of sweet fern you break off
and crush between your fingers for the musk of them.
âYou know old Jay Cee wonât give a damn if that storyâs in
tomorrow or Monday.â Doreen lit a cigarette and let the smoke flare
slowly from her nostrils so her eyes were veiled. âJay Ceeâs ugly as
12 | The Bell Jar
sin,â Doreen went on coolly. âI bet that old husband of hers turns out
all the lights before he gets near her or heâd puke otherwise.â
Jay Cee was my boss, and I liked her a lot, in spite of what Doreen
said. She wasnât one of the fashion magazine gushers with fake
eyelashes and giddy jewellery. Jay Cee h
Between Intuition and Intellect
Esther navigates the social divide between her cynical friend Doreen and her intellectually impressive boss, Jay Cee.
The narrator expresses a sudden skepticism toward the value of mentors, feeling that traditional authority figures have nothing to teach her.
Betsy, an earnest girl from Kansas, represents a wholesome femininity that Esther rejects in favor of Doreenâs worldly sophistication.
Esther aligns herself with Doreenâs sharp intuition, finding it more authentic than the academic success of her acquaintance, Buddy Willard.
As they head out for the night, Esther feels physically inadequate and yellow compared to Doreenâs polished and spectacular appearance.
Everything she said was like a secret voice speaking straight out of my own bones.
wonât give a damn if that storyâs in
tomorrow or Monday.â Doreen lit a cigarette and let the smoke flare
slowly from her nostrils so her eyes were veiled. âJay Ceeâs ugly as
12 | The Bell Jar
sin,â Doreen went on coolly. âI bet that old husband of hers turns out
all the lights before he gets near her or heâd puke otherwise.â
Jay Cee was my boss, and I liked her a lot, in spite of what Doreen
said. She wasnât one of the fashion magazine gushers with fake
eyelashes and giddy jewellery. Jay Cee had brains, so her plug-ugly
looks didnât seem to matter. She read a couple of languages and
knew all the quality writers in the business.
I tried to imagine Jay Cee out of her strict office suit and
luncheon-duty hat and in bed with her fat husband, but I just
couldnât do it. I always had a terribly hard time trying to imagine
people in bed together.
Jay Cee wanted to teach me something, all the old ladies I ever
knew wanted to teach me something, but I suddenly didnât think
they had anything to teach me. I fitted the lid on my typewriter and
clicked it shut.
Doreen grinned. âSmart girl.â
Somebody tapped at the door.
âWho is it?â I didnât bother to get up.
âItâs me, Betsy. Are you coming to the party?â
âI guess so.â I still didnât go to the door.
They imported Betsy straight from Kansas with her bouncing
blonde pony-tail and Sweetheart-of-Sigma-Chi smile. I remember
once the two of us were called over to the office of some blue-
chinned TV producer in a pin-stripe suit to see if we had any angles
he could build up for a programme, and Betsy started to tell about
the male and female corn in Kansas. She got so excited about that
damn corn even the producer had tears in his eyes, only he couldnât
use any of it, unfortunately, he said.
Later on, the Beauty Editor persuaded Betsy to cut her hair and
made a cover girl out of her, and I still see her face now and then,
smiling out of those âP.Q.âs wife wears B.H. Wraggeâ ads.
Betsy was always asking me to do things with her and the other
girls as if she were trying to save me in some way. She never asked
Doreen. In private, Doreen called her Pollyanna Cowgirl.
âDo you want to come in our cab?â Betsy said through the door.
Chapter 1 | 13
Doreen shook her head.
âThatâs all right, Betsy,â I said. âIâm going with Doreen.â
âOkay.â I could hear Betsy padding off down the hall.
âWeâll just go till we get sick of it,â Doreen told me, stubbing out
her cigarette in the base of my bedside reading-lamp, âthen weâll go
out on the town. Those parties they stage here remind me of the
old dances in the school gym. Why do they always round up Yalies?
Theyâre so stoo-pit!â
Buddy Willard went to Yale, but now I thought of it, what was
wrong with him was that he was stupid. Oh, heâd managed to get
good marks all right, and to have an affair with some awful waitress
on the Cape by the name of Gladys, but he didnât have one speck of
intuition. Doreen had intuition. Everything she said was like a secret
voice speaking straight out of my own bones.
We were stuck in the theatre-hour rush. Our cab sat wedged in
back of Betsyâs cab and in front of a cab with four of the other girls,
and nothing moved.
Doreen looked terrific. She was wearing a strapless white lace
dress zipped up over a snug corset affair that curved her in at the
middle and bulged her out again spectacularly above and below, and
her skin had a bronzy polish under the pale dusting-powder. She
smelled strong as a whole perfume store.
I wore a black shantung sheath that cost me forty dollars. It was
part of a buying spree I had with some of my scholarship money
when I heard I was one of the lucky ones going to New York. This
dress was cut so queerly I couldnât wear any sort of a bra under
it, but that didnât matter much as I was skinny as a boy and barely
rippled, and I liked feeling almost naked on the hot summer nights.
The city had faded my tan, though. I looked yellow as a Chinaman.
Ordinarily, I would have been nervous about my dress and my odd
colou
A Night of Reckless Rebellion
Esther expresses a mix of physical insecurity and newfound cynicism as she navigates New York in an expensive dress bought with scholarship money.
An encounter with a charismatic stranger provides an escape from the restrictive, pre-planned social schedule organized by the magazine.
The act of abandoning their taxi causes a minor accident, metaphorically marking their break from the 'wedding party' of other interns.
Esther struggles with her height and self-image, feeling like a 'side-show' freak when paired with a shorter man.
The setting shifts to a dark bar where Esther observes Doreenâs effortless radiance while her own sense of self begins to blur.
I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
that cost me forty dollars. It was
part of a buying spree I had with some of my scholarship money
when I heard I was one of the lucky ones going to New York. This
dress was cut so queerly I couldnât wear any sort of a bra under
it, but that didnât matter much as I was skinny as a boy and barely
rippled, and I liked feeling almost naked on the hot summer nights.
The city had faded my tan, though. I looked yellow as a Chinaman.
Ordinarily, I would have been nervous about my dress and my odd
colour, but being with Doreen made me forget my worries. I felt
wise and cynical as all hell.
When the man in the blue lumber shirt and black chinos and
tooled leather cowboy boots started to stroll over to us from under
the striped awning of the bar where heâd been eyeing our cab, I
14 | The Bell Jar
didnât have any illusions. I knew perfectly well heâd come for Doreen.
He threaded his way out between the stopped cars and leaned
engagingly on the sill of our open window.
âAnd what, may I ask, are two nice girls like you doing all alone in
a cab on a nice night like this?â
He had a big, wide, white tooth-paste-ad smile.
âWeâre on our way to a party,â I blurted, since Doreen had gone
suddenly dumb as a post and was fiddling in a blasĂŠ way with her
white lace pocket-book cover.
âThat sounds boring,â the man said. âWhynât you both join me for
a couple of drinks in that bar over there? Iâve some friends waiting
as well.â
He nodded in the direction of several informally dressed men
slouching around under the awning. They had been following him
with their eyes, and when he glanced back at them, they burst out
laughing.
The laughter should have warned me. It was a kind of low, know-
it-all snicker, but the traffic showed signs of moving again, and I
knew that if I sat tight, in two seconds Iâd be wishing Iâd taken this
gift of a chance to see something of New York besides what the
people on the magazine had planned out for us so carefully.
âHow about it, Doreen?â I said.
âHow about it, Doreen?â the man said, smiling his big smile. To this
day I canât remember what he looked like when he wasnât smiling. I
think he must have been smiling the whole time. It must have been
natural for him, smiling like that.
âWell, all right,â Doreen said to me. I opened the door, and we
stepped out of the cab just as it was edging ahead again and started
to walk over to the bar.
There was a terrible shriek of brakes followed by a dull thump-
thump.
âHey you!â Our cabby was craning out of his window with a
furious, purple expression. âWaddaya think youâre doinâ?â
He had stopped the cab so abruptly that the cab behind bumped
Chapter 1 | 15
smack into him, and we could see the four girls inside waving and
struggling and scrambling up off the floor.
The man laughed and left us on the kerb and went back and
handed a bill to the driver in the middle of a great honking and some
yelling, and then we saw the girls from the magazine moving off in
a row, one cab after another, like a wedding party with nothing but
bridesmaids.
âCome on, Frankie,â the man said to one of his friends in the group,
and a short, scrunty fellow detached himself and came into the bar
with us.
He was the type of fellow I canât stand. Iâm five feet ten in my
stocking feet, and when I am with little men I stoop over a bit and
slouch my hips, one up and one down, so Iâll look shorter, and I feel
gawky and morbid as somebody in a side-show.
For a minute I had a wild hope we might pair off according to size,
which would line me up with the man who had spoken to us in the
first place, and he cleared a good six feet, but he went ahead with
Doreen and didnât give me a second look. I tried to pretend I didnât
see Frankie dogging along at my elbow and sat close by Doreen at
the table.
It was so dark in the bar I could hardly make out anything except
Doreen. With her white hair and white dress she was so white she
looked silver. I think she must have reflected the neons over the bar.
I felt myself melting into t
Identity and Invisibility
Esther feels invisible and insignificant in the bar, describing herself as a 'negative' compared to Doreenâs radiant silver appearance.
Lacking experience with hard liquor, Esther orders a plain vodka because it looks clear and pure in advertisements.
The group meets Lenny Shepherd, a self-proclaimed famous disc jockey who is immediately captivated by Doreen.
Esther adopts the pseudonym Elly Higginbottom to protect her real identity and background from the evening's events.
The narrator experiences a sense of social detachment, judging her date Frankie harshly for his clothing and height.
I felt myself melting into the shadows like the negative of a person Iâd never seen before in my life.
ould line me up with the man who had spoken to us in the
first place, and he cleared a good six feet, but he went ahead with
Doreen and didnât give me a second look. I tried to pretend I didnât
see Frankie dogging along at my elbow and sat close by Doreen at
the table.
It was so dark in the bar I could hardly make out anything except
Doreen. With her white hair and white dress she was so white she
looked silver. I think she must have reflected the neons over the bar.
I felt myself melting into the shadows like the negative of a person
Iâd never seen before in my life.
âWell, whatâll we have?â the man asked with a large smile.
âI think Iâll have an Old-Fashioned,â Doreen said to me.
Ordering drinks always floored me. I didnât know whisky from
gin and never managed to get anything I really liked the taste of.
Buddy Willard and the other college boys I knew were usually too
poor to buy hard liquor or they scorned drinking altogether. Itâs
amazing how many college boys donât drink or smoke. I seemed to
know them all. The farthest Buddy Willard ever went was buying us
a bottle of Dubonnet, which he only did because he was trying to
prove he could be ĂŚsthetic in spite of being a medical student.
16 | The Bell Jar
âIâll have a vodka,â I said.
The man looked at me more closely. âWith anything?â
âJust plain,â I said. âI always have it plain.â
I thought I might make a fool of myself by saying Iâd have it with
ice or soda or gin or anything. Iâd seen a vodka ad once, just a glass
full of vodka standing in the middle of a snowdrift in a blue light, and
the vodka looked clear and pure as water, so I thought having vodka
plain must be all right. My dream was some day ordering a drink and
finding out it tasted wonderful.
The waiter came up then, and the man ordered drinks for the four
of us. He looked so at home in that citified bar in his ranch outfit I
thought he might well be somebody famous.
Doreen wasnât saying a word, she only toyed with her cork place-
mat and eventually lit a cigarette, but the man didnât seem to mind.
He kept staring at her the way people stare at the great white
macaw in the zoo, waiting for it to say something human.
The drinks arrived, and mine looked clear and pure, just like the
vodka ad.
âWhat do you do?â I asked the man, to break the silence shooting
up around me on all sides, thick as jungle grass. âI mean what do you
do here in New York?â
Slowly and with what seemed a great effort, the man dragged his
eyes away from Doreenâs shoulder. âIâm a disc jockey,â he said. âYou
probâly must have heard of me. The nameâs Lenny Shepherd.â
âI know you,â Doreen said suddenly.
âIâm glad about that, honey,â the man said, and burst out laughing.
âThatâll come in handy. Iâm famous as hell.â
Then Lenny Shepherd gave Frankie a long look.
âSay, where do you come from?â Frankie asked, sitting up with a
jerk. âWhatâs your name?â
âThis hereâs Doreen.â Lenny slid his hand around Doreenâs bare
arm and gave her a squeeze.
What surprised me was that Doreen didnât let on she noticed what
he was doing. She just sat there, dusky as a bleached blonde negress
in her white dress and sipped daintily at her drink.
Chapter 1 | 17
âMy nameâs Elly Higginbottom,â I said. âI come from Chicago.â After
that I felt safer. I didnât want anything I said or did that night to be
associated with me and my real name and coming from Boston.
âWell, Elly, what do you say we dance some?â
The thought of dancing with that little runt in his orange suede
elevator shoes and mingy T-shirt and droopy blue sports coat made
me laugh. If thereâs anything I look down on, itâs a man in a blue
outfit. Black or grey, or brown, even. Blue just makes me laugh.
âIâm not in the mood,â I said coldly, turning my back on him and
hitching my chair over nearer to Doreen and Lenny.
Those two looked as if theyâd known each other for years by now.
Doreen was spooning up the hunks of fruit at the bottom of her
glass with a spindly silver spoon, and Lenny was grunting each time
she li
The Voyeuristic Spectator
Esther discovers that vodka provides her with a sense of god-like power, likening the sensation to a sword-swallower's sword.
After Lenny pays Frankie ten dollars to leave, the narrator decides to accompany Doreen to maintain her role as a detached observer.
The narrator confesses to a compulsion for watching 'crucial situations,' such as accidents or lab specimens, to learn about the world.
Lennyâs apartment is revealed as a bizarre, ranch-themed New York flat, complete with taxidermy and a built-in radio booth.
Doreen uses Esther as a safety buffer against Lenny's advances, even as Esther continues to hide behind a false identity.
If there was a road accident or a street fight or a baby pickled in a laboratory jar for me to look at, Iâd stop and look so hard I never forgot it.
nd mingy T-shirt and droopy blue sports coat made
me laugh. If thereâs anything I look down on, itâs a man in a blue
outfit. Black or grey, or brown, even. Blue just makes me laugh.
âIâm not in the mood,â I said coldly, turning my back on him and
hitching my chair over nearer to Doreen and Lenny.
Those two looked as if theyâd known each other for years by now.
Doreen was spooning up the hunks of fruit at the bottom of her
glass with a spindly silver spoon, and Lenny was grunting each time
she lifted the spoon to her mouth, and snapping and pretending to
be a dog or something, and trying to get the fruit off the spoon.
Doreen giggled and kept spooning up the fruit.
I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didnât taste like
anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword-
swallowerâs sword and made me feel powerful and god-like.
âI better go now,â Frankie said, standing up.
I couldnât see him very clearly, the place was so dim, but for the
first time I heard what a high, silly voice he had. Nobody paid him
any notice.
âHey, Lenny, you owe me something. Remember, Lenny, you owe
me something, donât you, Lenny?â
I thought it odd Frankie should be reminding Lenny he owed him
something in front of us, and we being perfect strangers, but Frankie
stood there saying the same thing over and over until Lenny dug
into his pocket and pulled out a big roll of green bills and peeled one
off and handed it to Frankie. I think it was ten dollars.
âShut up and scram.â
For a minute I thought Lenny was talking to me as well, but then I
heard Doreen say âI wonât come unless Elly comesâ. I had to hand it
to her the way she picked up my fake name.
âOh, Ellyâll come, wonât you, Elly?â Lenny said, giving me a wink.
18 | The Bell Jar
âSure Iâll come,â I said. Frankie had wilted away into the night, so
I thought Iâd string along with Doreen. I wanted to see as much as I
could.
I liked looking on at other people in crucial situations. If there was
a road accident or a street fight or a baby pickled in a laboratory jar
for me to look at, Iâd stop and look so hard I never forgot it.
I certainly learned a lot of things I never would have learned
otherwise this way, and even when they surprised me or made me
sick I never let on, but pretended thatâs the way I knew things were
all the time.
Chapter 1 | 19
Chapter 2
I wouldnât have missed Lennyâs place for anything.
It was built exactly like the inside of a ranch, only in the middle
of a New York apartment house. Heâd had a few partitions knocked
down to make the place broaden out, he said, and then had them
pine-panel the walls and fit up a special pine-panelled bar in the
shape of a horseshoe. I think the floor was pine-panelled, too.
Great white bearskins lay about underfoot, and the only furniture
was a lot of low beds covered with Indian rugs. Instead of pictures
hung up on the walls, he had antlers and buffalo horns and a stuffed
rabbit head. Lenny jutted a thumb at the meek little grey muzzle and
stiff jackrabbit ears.
âRan over that in Las Vegas.â
He walked away across the room, his cowboy boots echoing like
pistol shots. âAcoustics,â he said, and grew smaller and smaller until
he vanished through a door in the distance.
All at once music started to come out of the air on every side.
Then it stopped, and we heard Lennyâs voice say âThis is your twelve
oâclock disc jock, Lenny Shepherd, with a round-up of the tops in
pops. Number Ten in the wagon train this week is none other than
that little yaller-haired gal you been hearinâ so much about lately âŚ
the one anâ only Sunflower!â
I was born in Kansas, I was bred in Kansas,
And when I marry Iâll be wed in KansasâŚ
âWhat a card!â Doreen said. âIsnât he a card?â
âYou bet,â I said.
âListen, Elly, do me a favour.â She seemed to think Elly was who I
really was by now.
âSure,â I said.
âStick around, will you? I wouldnât have a chance if he tried
anything funny. Did you see that muscle?â Doreen giggled.
Lenny popped out of the back room. âI
A Demoralizing Spectacle
Lenny showcases his recording equipment and plays his own music, creating an atmosphere of self-absorption and excess.
The narrator, Esther, feels completely isolated and describes her drink as tasting increasingly like dead water.
Esther experiences a profound sense of alienation, comparing her loneliness to watching a city recede from an express caboose.
The evening takes a violent and chaotic turn when Doreen bites Lenny's ear and he physically retaliates by swinging her around.
I felt myself shrinking to a small black dot against all those red and white rugs and that pine-panelling. I felt like a hole in the ground.
tle yaller-haired gal you been hearinâ so much about lately âŚ
the one anâ only Sunflower!â
I was born in Kansas, I was bred in Kansas,
And when I marry Iâll be wed in KansasâŚ
âWhat a card!â Doreen said. âIsnât he a card?â
âYou bet,â I said.
âListen, Elly, do me a favour.â She seemed to think Elly was who I
really was by now.
âSure,â I said.
âStick around, will you? I wouldnât have a chance if he tried
anything funny. Did you see that muscle?â Doreen giggled.
Lenny popped out of the back room. âI got twenty grandâs worth
20 | Chapter 2
of recording equipment in there.â He ambled over to the bar and set
out three glasses and a silver ice-bucket and a big pitcher and began
to mix drinks from several different bottles.
âŚto a true-blue gal who promised she would waitâ
Sheâs the sunflower of the Sunflower State.
âTerrific, huh?â Lenny came over, balancing three glasses. Big
drops stood out on them like sweat, and the ice-cubes jingled as
he passed them round. Then the music twanged to a stop, and we
heard Lennyâs voice announcing the next number.
âNothing like listening to yourself talk. Say,â Lennyâs eye lingered
on me, âFrankie vamoosed, you ought to have somebody, Iâll call up
one of the fellers.â
âThatâs okay,â I said. âYou donât have to do that.â I didnât want to
come straight out and ask for somebody several sizes larger than
Frankie.
Lenny looked relieved. âJust soâs you donât mind. I wouldnât want
to do wrong by a friend of Doreenâs.â He gave Doreen a big white
smile. âWould I, honeybun?â
He held out a hand to Doreen, and without a word they both
started to jitterbug, still hanging on to their glasses.
I sat cross-legged on one of the beds and tried to look devout and
impassive like some businessmen I once saw watching an Algerian
belly-dancer, but as soon as I leaned back against the wall under
the stuffed rabbit, the bed started to roll out into the room, so I sat
down on a bearskin on the floor and leaned back against the bed
instead.
My drink was wet and depressing. Each time I took another sip
it tasted more and more like dead water. Around the middle of the
glass there was painted a pink lasso with yellow polka dots. I drank
to about an inch below the lasso and waited a bit, and when I went
to take another sip, the drink was up to lasso-level again.
Out of the air Lennyâs ghost voice boomed, âWye oh wye did I ever
leave Wyoming?â
The two of them didnât even stop jitterbugging during the
intervals. I felt myself shrinking to a small black dot against all those
Chapter 2 | 21
red and white rugs and that pine-panelling. I felt like a hole in the
ground.
There is something demoralizing about watching two people get
more and more crazy about each other, especially when you are the
only extra person in the room.
Itâs like watching Paris from an express caboose heading in the
opposite directionâevery second the city gets smaller and smaller,
only you feel itâs really you getting smaller and smaller and lonelier
and lonelier, rushing away from all those lights and that excitement
at about a million miles an hour.
Every so often Lenny and Doreen would bang into each other and
kiss and then swing back to take a long drink and close in on each
other again. I thought I might just lie down on the bearskin and go
to sleep until Doreen felt ready to go back to the hotel.
Then Lenny gave a terrible roar. I sat up. Doreen was hanging on
to Lennyâs left earlobe with her teeth.
âLeggo, you bitch!â
Lenny stooped, and Doreen went flying up on to his shoulder, and
her glass sailed out of her hand in a long, wide arc and fetched up
against the pine-panelling with a silly tinkle. Lenny was still roaring
and whirling round so fast I couldnât see Doreenâs face.
I noticed, in the routine way you notice the colour of somebodyâs
eyes, that Doreenâs breasts had popped out of her dress and were
swinging out slightly like full brown melons as she circled belly-
down on Lennyâs shoulder, thrashing her legs in the air and
screeching, and then they bo
Isolation in the City
Esther flees the chaotic scene at Lennyâs apartment after witnessing Doreenâs wild and undignified behavior.
She undertakes a solitary forty-eight-block walk through the oppressive New York heat to return to her hotel.
Upon reaching her room, Esther is struck by her own 'used-up' reflection and feels a sense of frustration with her physical confinement.
She experiences a profound psychological alienation, describing a 'silence' that makes the vibrant city feel flat and unreachable.
The segment ends with her reflecting on the hollow social expectations and potential blind dates arranged by Buddy Willard's mother.
The city hung in my window, flat as a poster, glittering and blinking, but it might just as well not have been there at all, for all the good it did me.
is shoulder, and
her glass sailed out of her hand in a long, wide arc and fetched up
against the pine-panelling with a silly tinkle. Lenny was still roaring
and whirling round so fast I couldnât see Doreenâs face.
I noticed, in the routine way you notice the colour of somebodyâs
eyes, that Doreenâs breasts had popped out of her dress and were
swinging out slightly like full brown melons as she circled belly-
down on Lennyâs shoulder, thrashing her legs in the air and
screeching, and then they both started to laugh and slow up, and
Lenny was trying to bite Doreenâs hip through her skirt when I
let myself out the door before anything more could happen and
managed to get downstairs by leaning with both hands on the
banister and half sliding the whole way.
I didnât realize Lennyâs place had been air-conditioned until I
wavered out on to the pavement. The tropical, stale heat the
sidewalks had been sucking up all day hit me in the face like a last
insult. I didnât know where in the world I was.
For a minute I entertained the idea of taking a cab to the party
22 | The Bell Jar
after all, but decided against it because the dance might be over
by now, and I didnât feel like ending up in an empty barn of a
ballroom strewn with confetti and cigarette-butts and crumpled
cocktail napkins.
I walked carefully to the nearest street corner, brushing the wall
of the buildings on my left with the tip of one finger to steady
myself. I looked at the street sign. Then I took my New York street
map out of my pocket-book. I was exactly forty-three blocks by five
blocks away from my hotel.
Walking has never fazed me. I just set out in the right direction,
counting the blocks under my breath, and when I walked into the
lobby of the hotel I was perfectly sober and my feet only slightly
swollen, but that was my own fault because I hadnât bothered to
wear any stockings.
The lobby was empty except for a night clerk dozing in his lit
booth among the key-rings and the silent telephones.
I slid into the self-service elevator and pushed the button for my
floor. The doors folded shut like a noiseless accordion. Then my
ears went funny, and I noticed a big, smudgy-eyed Chinese woman
staring idiotically into my face. It was only me, of course. I was
appalled to see how wrinkled and used-up I looked.
There wasnât a soul in the hall. I let myself into my room. It was full
of smoke. At first I thought the smoke had materialized out of thin
air as a sort of judgement, but then I remembered it was Doreenâs
smoke and pushed the button that opened the window vent. They
had the windows fixed so you couldnât really open them and lean
out, and for some reason this made me furious.
By standing at the left side of the window and laying my cheek
to the woodwork, I could see downtown to where the UN balanced
itself in the dark, like a weird, green, Martian honeycomb. I could
see the moving red and white lights along the drive and the lights of
the bridges whose names I didnât know.
The silence depressed me. It wasnât the silence of silence. It was
my own silence.
I knew perfectly well the cars were making a noise, and the people
Chapter 2 | 23
in them and behind the lit windows of the buildings were making a
noise, and the river was making a noise, but I couldnât hear a thing.
The city hung in my window, flat as a poster, glittering and blinking,
but it might just as well not have been there at all, for all the good it
did me.
The china-white bedside telephone could have connected me up
with things, but there it sat, dumb as a deathâs head. I tried to think
of people Iâd given my phone number to, so I could make a list of all
the possible calls I might be about to receive, but all I could think of
was that Iâd given my phone number to Buddy Willardâs mother so
she could give it to a simultaneous interpreter she knew at the UN.
I let out a small, dry laugh.
I could imagine the sort of simultaneous interpreter Mrs Willard
would introduce me to when all the time she wanted me
Purification in a Hot Bath
Esther reflects on her resistance to the traditional path laid out by Buddy Willard's mother, who wanted her to work at a TB sanatorium.
The narrator describes a ritualistic approach to bathing, viewing extreme heat as a meditative and transformative 'cure' for emotional distress.
While submerged, Esther feels the people and events of the nightâDoreen, Lenny, and the grime of New Yorkâdissolving away until she feels 'pure' again.
She likens the hot bath to a secular baptism, claiming it restores her sense of self and erases the 'sticky' influence of the city.
Her moment of peace is shattered when a drunken Doreen arrives at her door, calling her by a different name and forcing a return to social reality.
I donât believe in baptism or the waters of Jordan or anything like that, but I guess I feel about a hot bath the way those religious people feel about holy water.
up
with things, but there it sat, dumb as a deathâs head. I tried to think
of people Iâd given my phone number to, so I could make a list of all
the possible calls I might be about to receive, but all I could think of
was that Iâd given my phone number to Buddy Willardâs mother so
she could give it to a simultaneous interpreter she knew at the UN.
I let out a small, dry laugh.
I could imagine the sort of simultaneous interpreter Mrs Willard
would introduce me to when all the time she wanted me to marry
Buddy, who was taking the cure for TB somewhere in upper New
York State. Buddyâs mother had even arranged for me to be given
a job as a waitress at the TB sanatorium that summer so Buddy
wouldnât be lonely. She and Buddy couldnât understand why I chose
to go to New York City instead.
The mirror over my bureau seemed slightly warped and much too
silver. The face in it looked like the reflection in a ball of dentistâs
mercury. I thought of crawling in between the bed-sheets and
trying to sleep, but that appealed to me about as much as stuffing a
dirty, scrawled-over letter into a fresh, clean envelope. I decided to
take a hot bath.
There must be quite a few things a hot bath wonât cure, but I
donât know many of them. Whenever Iâm sad Iâm going to die, or so
nervous I canât sleep, or in love with somebody I wonât be seeing for
a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: âIâll go take a hot
bath.â
I meditate in the bath. The water needs to be very hot, so hot you
can barely stand putting your foot in it. Then you lower yourself,
inch by inch, till the waterâs up to your neck.
I remember the ceilings over every bathtub Iâve stretched out in. I
remember the texture of the ceilings and the cracks and the colours
24 | The Bell Jar
and the damp spots and the light fixtures. I remember the tubs, too:
the antique griffin-legged tubs, and the modern coffin-shaped tubs,
and the fancy pink marble tubs overlooking indoor lily ponds, and I
remember the shapes and sizes of the water taps and the different
sorts of soap-holders.
I never feel so much myself as when Iâm in a hot bath.
I lay in that tub on the seventeenth floor of this hotel for-women-
only, high up over the jazz and push of New York, for near on to an
hour, and I felt myself growing pure again. I donât believe in baptism
or the waters of Jordan or anything like that, but I guess I feel about
a hot bath the way those religious people feel about holy water.
I said to myself: âDoreen is dissolving, Lenny Shepherd is
dissolving, Frankie is dissolving, New York is dissolving, they are all
dissolving away and none of them matter any more. I donât know
them, I have never known them and I am very pure. All that liquor
and those sticky kisses I saw and the dirt that settled on my skin on
the way back is turning into something pure.â
The longer I lay there in the clear hot water the purer I felt, and
when I stepped out at last and wrapped myself in one of the big, soft,
white, hotel bath-towels I felt pure and sweet as a new baby.
I donât know how long I had been asleep when I heard the
knocking. I didnât pay any attention at first, because the person
knocking kept saying âElly, Elly, Elly, let me inâ, and I didnât know
any Elly. Then another kind of knock sounded over the first dull,
bumping knockâa sharp tap-tap, and another, much crisper voice
said âMiss Greenwood, your friend wants you,â and I knew it was
Doreen.
I swung to my feet and balanced dizzily for a minute in the middle
of the dark room. I felt angry with Doreen for waking me up. All I
stood a chance of getting out of that sad night was a good sleep,
and she had to wake me up and spoil it. I thought if I pretended to
be asleep the knocking might go away and leave me in peace, but I
waited, and it didnât.
âElly, Elly, Elly,â the first voice mumbled, while the other voice
Chapter 2 | 25
went
on
hissing
âMiss
Greenwood,
Miss
Greenwood,
Miss
Greenwood,â as if I had a split personality or something.
I opened the door and blin
The Moral Threshold
Esther is awakened by a stern night maid delivering a severely intoxicated and incapacitated Doreen to her room.
The encounter triggers a sense of fractured identity as Esther hears her names being called, feeling caught between different versions of herself.
After Doreen vomits and passes out in the hallway, Esther decides to leave her there to avoid the burden and "dirty nature" of her friend's behavior.
This event leads to a pivotal internal resolution where Esther rejects Doreenâs cynical influence in favor of the more conventional and "innocent" character of Betsy.
By the following morning, the physical evidence of the night's mess has been scrubbed away, leaving only a faint stain that Esther views as a personal testimony.
I had the impression it wasnât night and it wasnât day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end.
room. I felt angry with Doreen for waking me up. All I
stood a chance of getting out of that sad night was a good sleep,
and she had to wake me up and spoil it. I thought if I pretended to
be asleep the knocking might go away and leave me in peace, but I
waited, and it didnât.
âElly, Elly, Elly,â the first voice mumbled, while the other voice
Chapter 2 | 25
went
on
hissing
âMiss
Greenwood,
Miss
Greenwood,
Miss
Greenwood,â as if I had a split personality or something.
I opened the door and blinked out into the bright hall. I had the
impression it wasnât night and it wasnât day, but some lurid third
interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never
end.
Doreen was slumped against the door-jamb. When I came out, she
toppled into my arms. I couldnât see her face because her head was
hanging down on her chest and her stiff blonde hair fell from its
dark roots like a hula fringe.
I recognized the short, squat, moustached woman in the black
uniform as the night maid who ironed day-dresses and party-frocks
in a crowded cubicle on our floor. I couldnât understand how she
came to know Doreen or why she should want to help Doreen wake
me up instead of leading her quietly back to her own room.
Seeing Doreen supported in my arms and silent except for a few
wet hiccups, the woman strode away down the hall to her cubicle
with its ancient Singer sewing-machine and white ironing-board.
I wanted to run after her and tell her I had nothing to do with
Doreen, because she looked stern and hard-working and moral as
an old-style European immigrant and reminded me of my Austrian
grandmother.
âLemme lie down, lemme lie down,â Doreen was muttering.
âLemme lie down, lemme lie down.â
I felt if I carried Doreen across the threshold into my room and
helped her on to my bed I would never get rid of her again.
Her body was warm and soft as a pile of pillows against my arm
where she leaned her weight, and her feet, in their high, spiked
heels, dragged foolishly. She was much too heavy for me to budge
down the long hall.
I decided the only thing to do was to dump her on the carpet and
shut and lock my door and go back to bed. When Doreen woke up
she wouldnât remember what had happened and would think she
must have passed out in front of my door while I slept, and she
would get up of her own accord and go sensibly back to her room.
26 | The Bell Jar
I started to lower Doreen gently on to the green hall carpet, but
she gave a low moan and pitched forward out of my arms. A jet of
brown vomit flew from her mouth and spread in a large puddle at
my feet.
Suddenly Doreen grew even heavier. Her head drooped forward
into the puddle, the wisps of her blonde hair dabbling in it like tree
roots in a bog, and I realized she was asleep. I drew back. I felt half-
asleep myself.
I made a decision about Doreen that night. I decided I would
watch her and listen to what she said, but deep down I would have
nothing at all to do with her. Deep down, I would be loyal to Betsy
and her innocent friends. It was Betsy I resembled at heart.
Quietly, I stepped back into my room and shut the door. On
second thoughts, I didnât lock it. I couldnât quite bring myself to do
that.
When I woke up in the dull, sunless heat the next morning, I
dressed and splashed my face with cold water and put on some
lipstick and opened the door slowly. I think I still expected to see
Doreenâs body lying there in the pool of vomit like an ugly, concrete
testimony to my own dirty nature.
There was nobody in the hall. The carpet stretched from one end
of the hall to the other, clean and eternally verdant except for a
faint, irregular dark stain before my door as if somebody had by
accident spilled a glass of water there, but dabbed it dry again.
Chapter 2 | 27
Chapter 3
Arrayed on the Ladiesâ Day banquet table were yellow-green
avocado pear halves stuffed with crabmeat and mayonnaise, and
platters of rare roast beef and cold chicken, and every so often a
cut-glass bowl heaped with black caviar.
The Banquet at Ladies' Day
The protagonist attends a luxurious banquet at the Ladies' Day Food Testing Kitchens, surrounded by rich foods like caviar and crabmeat.
She reflects on her voracious appetite and her penchant for ordering the most expensive items on menus while others around her are dieting.
A sharp contrast is drawn between the lavish expense-account lifestyle of New York and her grandmother's frugal, guilt-inducing cooking at home.
While the editors and staff present a polished image in the hygienic kitchens, the protagonist observes the deceptive tricks used to make food look perfect for magazines.
Doreen's absence from the luncheon signifies her growing detachment from the magazine's structured activities in favor of her relationship with Lenny Shepherd.
I hope you enjoy that, it cost forty-one cents a pound,â which always made me feel I was somehow eating pennies instead of Sunday roast.
in the hall. The carpet stretched from one end
of the hall to the other, clean and eternally verdant except for a
faint, irregular dark stain before my door as if somebody had by
accident spilled a glass of water there, but dabbed it dry again.
Chapter 2 | 27
Chapter 3
Arrayed on the Ladiesâ Day banquet table were yellow-green
avocado pear halves stuffed with crabmeat and mayonnaise, and
platters of rare roast beef and cold chicken, and every so often a
cut-glass bowl heaped with black caviar. I hadnât had time to eat
any breakfast at the hotel cafeteria that morning, except for a cup
of over-stewed coffee so bitter it made my nose curl, and I was
starving.
Before I came to New York Iâd never eaten out in a proper
restaurant. I donât count Howard Johnsonâs, where I only had French
fries and cheeseburgers and vanilla frappes with people like Buddy
Willard. Iâm not sure why it is, but I love food more than just about
anything else. No matter how much I eat, I never put on weight.
With one exception Iâve been the same weight for ten years.
My favourite dishes are full of butter and cheese and sour cream.
In New York we had so many free luncheons with people on the
magazine and various visiting celebrities I developed the habit of
running my eye down those huge, handwritten menus, where a
tiny side-dish of peas costs fifty or sixty cents, until Iâd picked the
richest, most expensive dishes and ordered a string of them.
We were always taken out on expense accounts, so I never felt
guilty. I made a point of eating so fast I never kept the other people
waiting who generally ordered only chefâs salad and grapefruit juice
because they were trying to reduce. Almost everybody I met in New
York was trying to reduce.
âI want to welcome the prettiest, smartest bunch of young ladies
our staff has yet had the good luck to meet,â the plump, bald master-
of-ceremonies wheezed into his lapel microphone. âThis banquet is
just a small sample of the hospitality our Food Testing Kitchens here
on Ladiesâ Day would like to offer in appreciation for your visit.â
A delicate, ladylike spatter of applause, and we all sat down at the
enormous linen-draped table.
28 | Chapter 3
There were eleven of us girls from the magazine, together with
most of our supervising editors, and the whole staff of the Ladiesâ
Day Food Testing Kitchens in hygienic white smocks, neat hair-nets
and flawless make-up of a uniform peach-pie colour.
There were only eleven of us, because Doreen was missing. They
had set her place next to mine for some reason, and the chair
stayed empty. I saved her place-card for herâa pocket mirror with
âDoreenâ painted along the top of it in lacy script and a wreath of
frosted daisies around the edge, framing the silver hole where her
face would show.
Doreen was spending the day with Lenny Shepherd. She spent
most of her free time with Lenny Shepherd now.
In the hour before our luncheon at Ladiesâ Dayâthe big womenâs
magazine that features lush double-page spreads of technicolour
meals, with a different theme and locale each monthâwe had been
shown around the endless glossy kitchens and seen how difficult it
is to photograph apple pie Ă la mode under bright lights because
the ice-cream keeps melting and has to be propped up from behind
with toothpicks and changed every time it starts looking too soppy.
The sight of all the food stacked in those kitchens made me dizzy.
Itâs not that we hadnât enough to eat at home, itâs just that my
grandmother always cooked economy joints and economy meat-
loafs and had the habit of saying, the minute you lifted the first
forkful to your mouth, âI hope you enjoy that, it cost forty-one cents
a pound,â which always made me feel I was somehow eating pennies
instead of Sunday roast.
While we were standing up behind our chairs listening to the
welcome speech, I had bowed my head and secretly eyed the
position of the bowls of caviar. One bowl was set strategically
between me and Doreenâs empty chair.
I figured the gir
The Art of Social Arrogance
The narrator reflects on her upbringing, contrasting her mother's obsession with the cost of food against her grandfather's career as a head waiter who introduced her to gourmet delicacies.
During a magazine luncheon, Esther hoards a bowl of caviar, using the silence and social distance to indulge in a childhood passion for expensive food.
She explains her theory on social grace: that performing a breach of etiquette with confidence or 'arrogance' can make a person appear original and witty rather than poorly bred.
This philosophy was inspired by watching a famous poet disregard formal dining rules by eating salad with his fingers in an upscale restaurant.
Despite the luxury of the event, Esther experiences a sense of homesickness when eating avocados, remembering how her grandfather taught her to eat them with a specific sauce.
I paved my plate with chicken slices. Then I covered the chicken slices with caviar thickly as if I were spreading peanut-butter on a piece of bread.
d economy joints and economy meat-
loafs and had the habit of saying, the minute you lifted the first
forkful to your mouth, âI hope you enjoy that, it cost forty-one cents
a pound,â which always made me feel I was somehow eating pennies
instead of Sunday roast.
While we were standing up behind our chairs listening to the
welcome speech, I had bowed my head and secretly eyed the
position of the bowls of caviar. One bowl was set strategically
between me and Doreenâs empty chair.
I figured the girl across from me couldnât reach it because of the
mountainous centrepiece of marzipan fruit, and Betsy, on my right,
would be too nice to ask me to share it with her if I just kept it
out of the way at my elbow by my bread-and-butter plate. Besides,
Chapter 3 | 29
another bowl of caviar sat a little way to the right of the girl next to
Betsy, and she could eat that.
My grandfather and I had a standing joke. He was the head waiter
at a country club near my home town, and every Sunday my
grandmother drove in to bring him home for his Monday off. My
brother and I alternated going with her, and my grandfather always
served Sunday supper to my grandmother and whichever of us was
along as if we were regular club guests. He loved introducing me to
special titbits, and by the age of nine I had developed a passionate
taste for cold vichyssoise and caviar and anchovy paste.
The joke was that at my wedding my grandfather would see I had
all the caviar I could eat. It was a joke because I never intended
to get married, and even if I did, my grandfather couldnât have
afforded enough caviar unless he robbed the country club kitchen
and carried it off in a suitcase.
Under cover of the clinking of water goblets and silverware and
bone china, I paved my plate with chicken slices. Then I covered
the chicken slices with caviar thickly as if I were spreading peanut-
butter on a piece of bread. Then I picked up the chicken slices in my
fingers one by one, rolled them so the caviar wouldnât ooze off and
ate them.
Iâd discovered, after a lot of extreme apprehension about what
spoons to use, that if you do something incorrect at table with a
certain arrogance, as if you knew perfectly well you were doing it
properly, you can get away with it and nobody will think you are
bad-mannered or poorly brought up. They will think you are original
and very witty.
I learned this trick the day Jay Cee took me to lunch with a famous
poet. He wore a horrible, lumpy, speckled brown tweed jacket and
grey pants and a red-and-blue checked open-throated jersey in a
very formal restaurant full of fountains and chandeliers, where all
the other men were dressed in dark suits and immaculate white
shirts.
This poet ate his salad with his fingers, leaf by leaf, while talking
to me about the antithesis of nature and art. I couldnât take my eyes
30 | The Bell Jar
off the pale, stubby white fingers travelling back and forth from the
poetâs salad bowl to the poetâs mouth with one dripping lettuce leaf
after another. Nobody giggled or whispered rude remarks. The poet
made eating salad with your fingers seem to be the only natural and
sensible thing to do.
None of our magazine editors or the Ladiesâ Day staff members
sat anywhere near me, and Betsy seemed sweet and friendly, she
didnât even seem to like caviar, so I grew more and more confident.
When I finished my first plate of cold chicken and caviar, I laid out
another. Then I tackled the avocado and crabmeat salad.
Avocados are my favourite fruit. Every Sunday my grandfather
used to bring me an avocado pear hidden at the bottom of his
briefcase under six soiled shirts and the Sunday comics. He taught
me how to eat avocados by melting grape jelly and French dressing
together in a saucepan and filling the cup of the pear with the
garnet sauce. I felt homesick for that sauce. The crabmeat tasted
bland in comparison.
âHow was the fur show?â I asked Betsy, when I was no longer
worried about competition over my caviar. I scraped the last fe
Dropping Out of the Race
The narrator experiences a moment of sensory nostalgia for her grandfather's avocado recipe, revealing her internal disconnect from the high-society meals she now attends.
Hilda is introduced as an enigmatic and physically striking hat-maker who stands in contrast to the narrator's more literary social group.
Following a critique from her editor Jay Cee, the protagonist suffers a crisis of confidence, feeling that her lifelong streak of academic success is finally ending.
The narrator describes a state of total paralysis, finding herself unable to maintain her professional responsibilities or fully commit to a life of carefree rebellion.
A missed social event at a fur show becomes a focal point for the narratorâs guilt and her evolving tendency to lie about her own desires.
After nineteen years of running after good marks and prizes and grants of one sort and another, I was letting up, slowing down, dropping clean out of the race.
it. Every Sunday my grandfather
used to bring me an avocado pear hidden at the bottom of his
briefcase under six soiled shirts and the Sunday comics. He taught
me how to eat avocados by melting grape jelly and French dressing
together in a saucepan and filling the cup of the pear with the
garnet sauce. I felt homesick for that sauce. The crabmeat tasted
bland in comparison.
âHow was the fur show?â I asked Betsy, when I was no longer
worried about competition over my caviar. I scraped the last few
salty black eggs from the dish with my soup spoon and licked it
clean.
âIt was wonderful,â Betsy smiled. âThey showed us how to make
an all-purpose neckerchief out of mink tails and a gold chain, the
sort of chain you can get an exact copy of at Woolworthâs for a
dollar ninety-eight, and Hilda nipped down to the wholesale fur
warehouses right afterwards and bought a bunch of mink tails at a
big discount and dropped in at Woolworthâs and then stitched the
whole thing together coming up on the bus.â
I peered over at Hilda, who sat on the other side of Betsy. Sure
enough, she was wearing an expensive-looking scarf of furry tails
fastened on one side by a dangling gilt chain.
I never really understood Hilda. She was six feet tall, with huge,
slanted, green eyes and thick red lips and a vacant, Slavic
expression. She made hats. She was apprenticed to the Fashion
Editor, which set her apart from the more literary ones among us
Chapter 3 | 31
like Doreen and Betsy and I myself, who all wrote columns, even if
some of them were only about health and beauty. I donât know if
Hilda could read, but she made startling hats. She went to a special
school for making hats in New York and every day she wore a new
hat to work, constructed by her own hands out of bits of straw or
fur or ribbon or veiling in subtle, bizarre shades.
âThatâs amazing,â I said. âAmazing.â I missed Doreen. She would
have
murmured
some
fine,
scalding
remark
about
Hildaâs
miraculous furpiece to cheer me up.
I felt very low. I had been unmasked only that morning by Jay Cee
herself, and I felt now that all the uncomfortable suspicions I had
about myself were coming true, and I couldnât hide the truth much
longer. After nineteen years of running after good marks and prizes
and grants of one sort and another, I was letting up, slowing down,
dropping clean out of the race.
âWhy didnât you come along to the fur show with us?â Betsy
asked. I had the impression she was repeating herself, and that sheâd
asked me the same question a minute ago, only I couldnât have been
listening. âDid you go off with Doreen?â
âNo,â I said, âI wanted to go to the fur show, but Jay Cee called
up and made me come into the office.â That wasnât quite true about
wanting to go to the show, but I tried to convince myself now that it
was true, so I could be really wounded about what Jay Cee had done.
I told Betsy how I had been lying in bed that morning planning
to go to the fur show. What I didnât tell her was that Doreen had
come into my room earlier and said, âWhat do you want to go to that
assy show for, Lenny and I are going to Coney Island, so why donât
you come along? Lenny can get you a nice fellow, the dayâs shot to
hell anyhow with that luncheon and then the film première in the
afternoon, so nobodyâll miss us.â
For a minute I was tempted. The show certainly did seem stupid. I
have never cared for furs. What I decided to do in the end was to lie
in bed as long as I wanted to and then go to Central Park and spend
the day lying in the grass, the longest grass I could find in that bald,
duck-ponded wilderness.
32 | The Bell Jar
I told Doreen I would not go to the show or the luncheon or the
film première, but that I would not go to Coney Island either, I would
stay in bed. After Doreen left, I wondered why I couldnât go the
whole way doing what I should any more. This made me sad and
tired. Then I wondered why I couldnât go the whole way doing what
I shouldnât, the way Doreen did, and this made me even sa
The Hollow Cart Horse
Esther experiences a paralyzing sense of lethargy, feeling unable to commit to either conventional duty or Doreen's rebellious lifestyle.
A stern phone call from her editor, Jay Cee, breaks Esther's isolation and forces her to confront her lack of professional direction.
Despite a lifetime of academic excellence and high-profile achievements, Esther finds herself suddenly unable to maintain her previous momentum.
During a tense office meeting, Esther realizes her verbal assurances of interest sound fraudulent and lack any real conviction.
The physical silence of the hotel and the pressure of the internship begin to overwhelm Esther, manifesting as a literal weight or tension.
The words fell with a hollow flatness on to Jay Ceeâs desk, like so many wooden nickels.
the day lying in the grass, the longest grass I could find in that bald,
duck-ponded wilderness.
32 | The Bell Jar
I told Doreen I would not go to the show or the luncheon or the
film première, but that I would not go to Coney Island either, I would
stay in bed. After Doreen left, I wondered why I couldnât go the
whole way doing what I should any more. This made me sad and
tired. Then I wondered why I couldnât go the whole way doing what
I shouldnât, the way Doreen did, and this made me even sadder and
more tired.
I didnât know what time it was, but Iâd heard the girls bustling and
calling in the hall and getting ready for the fur show, and then Iâd
heard the hall go still, and as I lay on my back in bed staring up at the
blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger
until I felt my eardrums would burst with it. Then the phone rang.
I stared at the phone for a minute. The receiver shook a bit in its
bone-coloured cradle, so I could tell it was really ringing. I thought
I might have given my phone number to somebody at a dance or
a party and then forgotten clean, about it. I lifted the receiver and
spoke in a husky, receptive voice.
âHello?â
âJay Cee here,â Jay Cee rapped out with brutal promptitude. âI
wondered if you happened to be planning to come into the office
today?â
I sank down into the sheets. I couldnât understand why Jay Cee
thought Iâd be coming into the office. We had these mimeographed
schedule cards so we could keep track of all our activities, and we
spent a lot of mornings and afternoons away from the office going
to affairs in town. Of course, some of the affairs were optional.
There was quite a pause. Then I said meekly, âI thought I was
going to the fur show.â Of course I hadnât thought any such thing,
but I couldnât figure out what else to say.
âI told her I thought I was going to the fur show,â I said to Betsy.
âBut she told me to come into the office, she wanted to have a little
talk with me, and there was some work to do.â
âOh-oh!â Betsy said sympathetically. She must have seen the tears
that plopped down into my dessert dish of meringue and brandy
ice-cream, because she pushed over her own untouched dessert
Chapter 3 | 33
and I started absently on that when Iâd finished my own. I felt a bit
awkward about the tears, but they were real enough. Jay Cee had
said some terrible things to me.
When I made my wan entrance into the office at about ten oâclock,
Jay Cee stood up and came round her desk to shut the door, and
I sat in the swivel chair in front of my typewriter table facing her,
and she sat in the swivel chair behind her desk facing me, with the
window full of potted plants, shelf after shelf of them, springing up
at her back like a tropical garden.
âDoesnât your work interest you, Esther?â
âOh, it does, it does,â I said. âIt interests me very much.â I felt like
yelling the words, as if that might make them more convincing, but
I controlled myself.
All my life Iâd told myself studying and reading and writing and
working like mad was what I wanted to do, and it actually seemed to
be true, I did everything well enough and got all Aâs, and by the time
I made it to college nobody could stop me.
I was college correspondent for the town Gazette and editor of
the literary magazine and secretary of Honour Board, which deals
with academic and social offences and punishmentsâa popular
office, and I had a well-known woman poet and professor on the
faculty
championing
me
for
graduate
school
at
the
biggest
universities in the east, and promises of full scholarships all the way,
and now I was apprenticed to the best editor on any intellectual
fashion magazine, and what did I do but balk and balk like a dull cart
horse?
âIâm very interested in everything.â The words fell with a hollow
flatness on to Jay Ceeâs desk, like so many wooden nickels.
âIâm glad of that,â Jay Cee said a bit waspishly. âYou can learn a lot
in this month on the magazine, you know, if you just roll up your
shirt-cuffs. T
The Hollow Future
Esther Greenwood feels a growing sense of inadequacy and apathy despite her high-achieving academic background and prestigious internship.
A routine career discussion with her editor, Jay Cee, triggers a sudden and shocking realization that Esther has lost her sense of direction.
Jay Cee emphasizes the cutthroat nature of New York publishing, urging Esther to master multiple languages to avoid being run-of-the-mill.
Esther experiences a profound mental block toward learning German, associating the language's appearance with a visceral sense of restriction.
Despite her success as an interesting experiment for her college deans, Esther feels overwhelmed by the specialized requirements of her honors program.
What I didnât say was that each time I picked up a German dictionary or a German book, the very sight of those dense, black, barbed-wire letters made my mind shut like a clam.
iggest
universities in the east, and promises of full scholarships all the way,
and now I was apprenticed to the best editor on any intellectual
fashion magazine, and what did I do but balk and balk like a dull cart
horse?
âIâm very interested in everything.â The words fell with a hollow
flatness on to Jay Ceeâs desk, like so many wooden nickels.
âIâm glad of that,â Jay Cee said a bit waspishly. âYou can learn a lot
in this month on the magazine, you know, if you just roll up your
shirt-cuffs. The girl who was here before you didnât bother with any
of the fashion show stuff. She went straight from this office, on to
Time.â
âMy!â I said, in the same sepulchral tone. âThat was quick!â
34 | The Bell Jar
âOf course, you have another year at college yet,â Jay Cee went on
a little more mildly. âWhat do you have in mind after you graduate?â
What I always thought I had in mind was getting some big
scholarship to graduate school or a grant to study all over Europe,
and then I thought Iâd be a professor and write books of poems or
write books of poems and be an editor of some sort. Usually I had
these plans on the tip of my tongue.
âI donât really know,â I heard myself say. I felt a deep shock, hearing
myself say that, because the minute I said it, I knew it was true.
It sounded true, and I recognized it, the way you recognize some
nondescript person thatâs been hanging around your door for ages
and then suddenly comes up and introduces himself as your real
father and looks exactly like you, so you know he really is your
father, and the person you thought all your life was your father is a
sham.
âI donât really know.â
âYouâll never get anywhere like that.â Jay Cee paused. âWhat
languages do you have?â
âOh, I can read a bit of French, I guess, and Iâve always wanted
to learn German.â Iâd been telling people Iâd always wanted to learn
German for about five years.
My mother spoke German during her childhood in America and
was stoned for it during the First World War by the children at
school. My German-speaking father, dead since I was nine, came
from some manic-depressive hamlet in the black heart of Prussia.
My younger brother was at that moment on the Experiment in
International Living in Berlin and speaking German like a native.
What I didnât say was that each time I picked up a German
dictionary or a German book, the very sight of those dense, black,
barbed-wire letters made my mind shut like a clam.
âIâve always thought Iâd like to go into publishing.â I tried to
recover a thread that might lead me back to my old, bright
salesmanship. âI guess what Iâll do is apply at some publishing
house.â
âYou ought to read French and German,â Jay Cee said mercilessly,
Chapter 3 | 35
âand probably several other languages as well, Spanish and
Italianâbetter still, Russian. Hundreds of girls flood into New York
every June thinking theyâll be editors. You need to offer something
more than the run-of-the-mill person. You better learn some
languages.â
I hadnât the heart to tell Jay Cee there wasnât one scrap of space
on my senior year schedule to learn languages in. I was taking
one of those honours programmes that teaches you to think
independently, and except for a course in Tolstoy and Dostoevsky
and a seminar in advanced poetry-composition, I would spend my
whole time writing on some obscure theme in the works of James
Joyce. I hadnât picked out my theme yet, because I hadnât got round
to reading Finneganâs Wake, but my professor was very excited
about my thesis and had promised to give me some leads on images
about twins.
âIâll see what I can do,â I told Jay Cee. âI probably might just fit
in one of those double-barrelled, accelerated courses in elementary
German theyâve rigged up.â I thought at the time I might actually do
this. I had a way of persuading my Class Dean to let me do irregular
things. She regarded me as a sort of interesting experiment.
At college I had to take a required course in physics and
chemistry. I had already taken a cour
The Disgust of Formulas
The narrator reflects on her academic success in botany, finding beauty in the tangible, visual details of the natural world and its scientific terminology.
She experiences a visceral, negative reaction to physics, describing the shift from descriptive language to abstract mathematical formulas as intellectual death.
Despite her profound hatred for the subject, she earns the only straight A in the physics class through a grueling effort of willpower.
To avoid the perceived 'madness' of chemistry, she manipulates her Class Dean into letting her audit the course without exams by framing it as a pursuit of content over form.
Instead of leaf shapes and enlarged diagrams of the holes the leaves breathe through and fascinating words like carotene and xanthophyll on the blackboard, there were these hideous, cramped, scorpion-lettered formulas in Mr Manziâs special red chalk.
thesis and had promised to give me some leads on images
about twins.
âIâll see what I can do,â I told Jay Cee. âI probably might just fit
in one of those double-barrelled, accelerated courses in elementary
German theyâve rigged up.â I thought at the time I might actually do
this. I had a way of persuading my Class Dean to let me do irregular
things. She regarded me as a sort of interesting experiment.
At college I had to take a required course in physics and
chemistry. I had already taken a course in botany and done very
well. I never answered one test question wrong the whole year, and
for a while I toyed with the idea of being a botanist and studying the
wild grasses in Africa or the South American rain forests, because
you can win big grants to study off-beat things like that in queer
areas much more easily than winning grants to study art in Italy or
English in England, thereâs not so much competition.
Botany was fine, because I loved cutting up leaves and putting
them under the microscope and drawing diagrams of bread mould
and the odd, heart-shaped leaf in the sex cycle of the fern, it seemed
so real to me.
The day I went into physics class it was death.
A short dark man with a high, lisping voice, named Mr Manzi,
stood in front of the class in a tight blue suit holding a little wooden
36 | The Bell Jar
ball. He put the ball on a steep grooved slide and let it run down to
the bottom. Then he started talking about let a equal acceleration
and let t equal time and suddenly he was scribbling letters and
numbers and equals signs all over the blackboard and my mind went
dead.
I took the physics book back to my dormitory. It was a huge book
on porous mimeographed paperâfour hundred pages long with no
drawings or photographs, only diagrams and formulasâbetween
brick-red cardboard covers. This book was written by Mr Manzi to
explain physics to college girls, and if it worked on us he would try
to have it published.
Well, I studied those formulas, I went to class and watched balls
roll down slides and listened to bells ring and by the end of the
semester most of the other girls had failed and I had a straight A. I
heard Mr Manzi saying to a bunch of the girls who were complaining
that the course was too hard, âNo, it canât be too hard, because one
girl got a straight A.â âWho is it? Tell us,â they said, but he shook his
head and didnât say anything and gave me a sweet little conspiring
smile.
Thatâs what gave me the idea of escaping the next semester of
chemistry. I may have made a straight A in physics, but I was panic-
struck. Physics made me sick the whole time I learned it. What
I couldnât stand was this shrinking everything into letters and
numbers. Instead of leaf shapes and enlarged diagrams of the holes
the leaves breathe through and fascinating words like carotene and
xanthophyll on the blackboard, there were these hideous, cramped,
scorpion-lettered formulas in Mr Manziâs special red chalk.
I knew chemistry would be worse, because Iâd seen a big chart of
the ninety-odd elements hung up in the chemistry lab, and all the
perfectly good words like gold and silver and cobalt and aluminium
were shortened to ugly abbreviations with different decimal
numbers after them. If I had to strain my brain with any more of that
stuff I would go mad. I would fail outright. It was only by a horrible
effort of will that I had dragged myself through the first half of the
year.
Chapter 3 | 37
So I went to my Class Dean with a clever plan.
My plan was that I needed the time to take a course in
Shakespeare, since I was, after all, an English major. She knew and I
knew perfectly well I would get a straight A again in the chemistry
course, so what was the point of my taking the exams, why couldnât
I just go to the classes and look on and take it all in and forget about
marks or credits? It was a case of honour among honourable people,
and the content meant more than the form, and marks were really
a bit silly anyway, werenât they, when you kn
The Chemistry Deception
Esther successfully petitions to audit her chemistry course without taking exams, framing her request as a desire for pure learning rather than grades.
The faculty views her decision as a sign of intellectual maturity, unaware that she is actually paralyzed by the subject and desperate to escape it.
While her professor performs experiments, Esther ignores the science entirely, using the class time to write sonnets and villanelles in her notebook.
Later, while working at a magazine internship, Esther recalls the deception and feels a sudden wave of guilt for misleading her kind professor.
The narrative shifts to Esther's editorial duties under Jay Cee, where she critiques manuscripts and glimpses the lucrative world of professional writers.
I shut his voice out of my ears by pretending it was only a mosquito in the distance and sat back enjoying the bright lights and the coloured fires and wrote page after page of villanelles and sonnets.
as that I needed the time to take a course in
Shakespeare, since I was, after all, an English major. She knew and I
knew perfectly well I would get a straight A again in the chemistry
course, so what was the point of my taking the exams, why couldnât
I just go to the classes and look on and take it all in and forget about
marks or credits? It was a case of honour among honourable people,
and the content meant more than the form, and marks were really
a bit silly anyway, werenât they, when you knew youâd always get an
A? My plan was strengthened by the fact that the college had just
dropped the second year of required science for the classes after
me anyway, so my class was the last to suffer under the old ruling.
Mr Manzi was in perfect agreement with my plan. I think it
flattered him that I enjoyed his classes so much I would take them
for no materialistic reason like credit and an A, but for the sheer
beauty of chemistry itself. I thought it was quite ingenious of me
to suggest sitting in on the chemistry course even after Iâd changed
over to Shakespeare. It was quite an unnecessary gesture and made
it seem I simply couldnât bear to give chemistry up.
Of course, I would never have succeeded with this scheme if I
hadnât made that A in the first place. And if my Class Dean had
known how scared and depressed I was, and how I seriously
contemplated desperate remedies such as getting a doctorâs
certificate that I was unfit to study chemistry, the formulas made
me dizzy and so on, Iâm sure she wouldnât have listened to me for a
minute, but would have made me take the course regardless.
As it happened, the Faculty Board passed my petition, and my
Class Dean told me later that several of the professors were touched
by it. They took it as a real step in intellectual maturity.
I had to laugh when I thought about the rest of that year. I went
to the chemistry class five times a week and didnât miss a single one.
Mr Manzi stood at the bottom of the big, rickety old amphitheatre,
making blue flames and red flares and clouds of yellow stuff by
pouring the contents of one test-tube into another, and I shut his
voice out of my ears by pretending it was only a mosquito in the
38 | The Bell Jar
distance and sat back enjoying the bright lights and the coloured
fires and wrote page after page of villanelles and sonnets.
Mr Manzi would glance at me now and then and see me writing,
and send up a sweet little appreciative smile. I guess he thought
I was writing down all those formulas not for exam time, like the
other girls, but because his presentation fascinated me so much I
couldnât help it.
Chapter 3 | 39
Chapter 4
I donât know just why my successful evasion of chemistry should
have floated into my mind there in Jay Ceeâs office.
All the time she talked to me, I saw Mr Manzi standing on thin air
in back of Jay Ceeâs head, like something conjured up out of a hat,
holding his little wooden ball and the test-tube that billowed a great
cloud of yellow smoke the day before Easter vacation and smelt of
rotten eggs and made all the girls and Mr Manzi laugh.
I felt sorry for Mr Manzi. I felt like going down to him on my hands
and knees and apologizing for being such an awful liar.
Jay Cee handed me a pile of story manuscripts and spoke to me
much more kindly. I spent the rest of the morning reading the
stories and typing out what I thought of them on the pink Interoffice
Memo sheets and sending them into the office of Betsyâs editor to
be read by Betsy the next day. Jay Cee interrupted me now and then
to tell me something practical or a bit of gossip.
Jay Cee was going to lunch that noon with two famous writers,
a man and a lady. The man had just sold six short stories to the
New Yorker and six to Jay Cee. This surprised me, as I didnât know
magazines bought stories in lots of six, and I was staggered by the
thought of the amount of money six stories would probably bring
in. Jay Cee said she had to be very careful at this lunch, because the
lady wri
Mothers and Benefactresses
Jay Cee navigates the complex social hierarchies of the literary world, balancing the egos of a successful male writer and a less acclaimed female author.
The narrator experiences a sense of displacement, wishing for a mentor figure like Jay Cee to replace the practical, safety-focused influence of her own mother.
Esther reflects on her mother's insistence on learning shorthand as a practical skill, a suggestion born from the financial hardship following her father's death.
The narrator recalls her relationship with Philomena Guinea, the wealthy novelist whose scholarship allows her to escape a commuting life for a college campus.
A contrast is drawn between the narrator's earnest literary aspirations and the melodramatic, commercial style of her benefactressâs popular novels.
When I put the napkin back on the table a fuzzy pink lip-shape bloomed right in the middle of it like a tiny heart.
xt day. Jay Cee interrupted me now and then
to tell me something practical or a bit of gossip.
Jay Cee was going to lunch that noon with two famous writers,
a man and a lady. The man had just sold six short stories to the
New Yorker and six to Jay Cee. This surprised me, as I didnât know
magazines bought stories in lots of six, and I was staggered by the
thought of the amount of money six stories would probably bring
in. Jay Cee said she had to be very careful at this lunch, because the
lady writer wrote stories too, but she had never had any in the New
Yorker and Jay Cee had only taken one from her in five years. Jay
Cee had to flatter the more famous man at the same time as she was
careful not to hurt the less famous lady.
When the cherubs in Jay Ceeâs French wall-clock waved their
wings up and down and put their little gilt trumpets to their lips and
pinged out twelve notes one after the other, Jay Cee told me Iâd done
enough work for the day, and to go off to the Ladiesâ Day tour and
banquet and to the film première, and she would see me bright and
early tomorrow.
40 | Chapter 4
Then she slipped a suit jacket over her lilac blouse, pinned a hat
of imitation lilacs on the top of her head, powdered her nose briefly
and adjusted her thick spectacles. She looked terrible, but very wise.
As she left the office, she patted my shoulder with one lilac-gloved
hand.
âDonât let the wicked city get you down.â
I sat quietly in my swivel chair for a few minutes and thought
about Jay Cee. I tried to imagine what it would be like if I were Ee
Gee, the famous editor, in an office full of potted rubber plants and
African violets my secretary had to water each morning. I wished I
had a mother like Jay Cee. Then Iâd know what to do.
My own mother wasnât much help. My mother had taught
shorthand and typing to support us ever since my father died, and
secretly she hated it and hated him for dying and leaving no money
because he didnât trust life insurance salesmen. She was always on
to me to learn shorthand after college, so Iâd have a practical skill as
well as a college degree. âEven the apostles were tent-makers,â sheâd
say. âThey had to live, just the way we do.â
I dabbled my fingers in the bowl of warm water a Ladiesâ Day
waitress set down in place of my two empty ice-cream dishes. Then
I wiped each finger carefully with my linen napkin which was still
quite clean. Then I folded the linen napkin and laid it between my
lips and brought my lips down on it precisely. When I put the napkin
back on the table a fuzzy pink lip-shape bloomed right in the middle
of it like a tiny heart.
I thought what a long way I had come.
The first time I saw a finger-bowl was at the home of my
benefactress. It was the custom at my college, the little freckled lady
in the Scholarships Office told me, to write to the person whose
scholarship you had, if they were still alive, and thank them for it.
I had the scholarship of Philomena Guinea, a wealthy novelist who
went to my college in the early nineteen-hundreds and had her first
novel made into a silent film with Bette Davis as well as a radio serial
that was still running, and it turned out she was alive and lived in a
large mansion not far from my grandfatherâs country club.
Chapter 4 | 41
So I wrote Philomena Guinea a long letter in coal-black ink on
grey paper with the name of the college embossed on it in red. I
wrote what the leaves looked like in autumn when I bicycled out into
the hills, and how wonderful it was to live on a campus instead of
commuting by bus to a city college and having to live at home, and
how all knowledge was opening up before me and perhaps one day I
would be able to write great books the way she did.
I had read one of Mrs Guineaâs books in the town libraryâthe
college library didnât stock them for some reasonâand it was
crammed from beginning to end with long, suspenseful questions:
âWould Evelyn discern that Gladys knew Roger in her past?
wondered Hector feverishlyâ and âHow coul
Social Blunders and Cinematic Nausea
Esther reflects on her scholarship from Philomena Guinea, a wealthy but intellectually mediocre novelist whose books are filled with melodramatic suspense.
A flashback highlights Esther's social inexperience when she mistakenly consumes the water and flowers from a finger-bowl during a lunch with her patron.
The narrator describes the oppressive New York rain and her resentment at being herded into group activities by the magazine staff.
While watching a formulaic Technicolor movie, Esther experiences an overwhelming sense of physical illness and existential disgust toward the crowd.
I looked round me at all the rows of rapt little heads with the same silver glow on them at the front and the same black shadow on them at the back, and they looked like nothing more or less than a lot of stupid moon-brains.
to live on a campus instead of
commuting by bus to a city college and having to live at home, and
how all knowledge was opening up before me and perhaps one day I
would be able to write great books the way she did.
I had read one of Mrs Guineaâs books in the town libraryâthe
college library didnât stock them for some reasonâand it was
crammed from beginning to end with long, suspenseful questions:
âWould Evelyn discern that Gladys knew Roger in her past?
wondered Hector feverishlyâ and âHow could Donald marry her
when he learned of the child Elsie, hidden away with Mrs Rollmop
on the secluded country farm? Griselda demanded of her bleak,
moonlit pillow.â These books earned Philomena Guinea, who later
told me she had been very stupid at college, millions and millions of
dollars.
Mrs Guinea answered my letter and invited me to lunch at her
home. That was where I saw my first finger-bowl.
The water had a few cherry blossoms floating in it, and I thought
it must be some clear sort of Japanese after-dinner soup and ate
every bit of it, including the crisp little blossoms. Mrs Guinea never
said anything, and it was only much later, when I told a debutante I
knew at college about the dinner, that I learned what I had done.
When we came out of the sunnily-lit interior of the Ladiesâ Day
offices, the streets were grey and fuming with rain. It wasnât the nice
kind of rain that rinses you clean, but the sort of rain I imagine they
must have in Brazil. It flew straight down from the sky in drops the
size of coffee saucers and hit the hot sidewalks with a hiss that sent
clouds of stream writhing up from the gleaming, dark concrete.
My secret hope of spending the afternoon alone in Central Park
died in the glass egg-beater of Ladiesâ Dayâs revolving doors. I found
myself spewed out through the warm rain and into the dim,
throbbing cave of a cab, together with Betsy and Hilda and Emily
42 | The Bell Jar
Ann Offenbach, a prim little girl with a bun of red hair and a husband
and three children in Teaneck, New Jersey.
The movie was very poor. It starred a nice blonde girl who looked
like June Allyson but was really somebody else, and a sexy black-
haired girl who looked like Elizabeth Taylor but was also somebody
else, and two big, broad-shouldered boneheads with names like Rick
and Gil.
It was a football romance and it was in technicolour.
I hate technicolour. Everybody in a technicolour movie seems to
feel obliged to wear a lurid new costume in each new scene and
to stand around like a clothes-horse with a lot of very green trees
or very yellow wheat or very blue ocean rolling away for miles and
miles in every direction.
Most of the action in this picture took place in the football stands,
with the two girls waving and cheering in smart suits with orange
chrysanthemums the size of cabbages on their lapels, or in a
ballroom, where the girls swooped across the floor with their dates,
in dresses like something out of Gone With the Wind, and then
sneaked off into the powder-room to say nasty intense things to
each other.
Finally I could see the nice girl was going to end up with the nice
football hero and the sexy girl was going to end up with nobody,
because the man named Gil had only wanted a mistress and not a
wife all along and was now packing off to Europe on a single ticket.
At about this point I began to feel peculiar. I looked round me at
all the rows of rapt little heads with the same silver glow on them at
the front and the same black shadow on them at the back, and they
looked like nothing more or less than a lot of stupid moon-brains.
I felt in terrible danger of puking. I didnât know whether it was the
awful movie giving me a stomach-ache or all that caviar I had eaten.
âIâm going back to the hotel,â I whispered to Betsy through the
half-dark.
Betsy was staring at the screen with deadly concentration. âDonât
you feel good?â she whispered, barely moving her lips.
âNo,â I said. âI feel like hell.â
Chapter 4 | 43
âSo do I, Iâll come b
A Bond of Nausea
Esther and Betsy flee a movie theater as intense physical illness, likely from earlier consumption of caviar, begins to overwhelm them.
The two endure a harrowing taxi ride back to their hotel, discreetly vomiting in the back seat while the driver protests.
Esther observes that the shared trauma of being violently sick together creates a sudden, deep sense of intimacy and friendship between the two girls.
Once alone, Esther's physical distress reaches a peak, described as a series of rhythmic waves and a sensation of being crushed by the clinical hotel tiles.
The ordeal concludes with Esther collapsed on the cold floor, feeling a profound, bone-deep chill that contrasts sharply with the summer heat.
There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
them at the back, and they
looked like nothing more or less than a lot of stupid moon-brains.
I felt in terrible danger of puking. I didnât know whether it was the
awful movie giving me a stomach-ache or all that caviar I had eaten.
âIâm going back to the hotel,â I whispered to Betsy through the
half-dark.
Betsy was staring at the screen with deadly concentration. âDonât
you feel good?â she whispered, barely moving her lips.
âNo,â I said. âI feel like hell.â
Chapter 4 | 43
âSo do I, Iâll come back with you.â
We slipped out of our seats and said Excuse me Excuse me Excuse
me down the length of our row, while the people grumbled and
hissed and shifted their rain boots and umbrellas to let us pass, and
I stepped on as many feet as I could because it took my mind off this
enormous desire to puke that was ballooning up in front of me so
fast I couldnât see round it.
The remains of a tepid rain were still sifting down when we
stepped out into the street.
Betsy looked a fright. The bloom was gone from her cheeks and
her drained face floated in front of me, green and sweating. We fell
into one of those yellow checkered cabs that are always waiting at
the kerb when you are trying to decide whether or not you want
a taxi, and by the time we reached the hotel I had puked once and
Betsy had puked twice.
The cab driver took the corners with such momentum that we
were thrown together first on one side of the back seat and then on
the other. Each time one of us felt sick, she would lean over quietly
as if she had dropped something and was picking it up off the floor,
and the other one would hum a little and pretend to be looking out
the window.
The cab driver seemed to know what we were doing, even so.
âHey,â he protested, driving through a light that had just turned
red, âyou canât do that in my cab, you better get out and do it in the
street.â
But we didnât say anything, and I guess he figured we were almost
at the hotel so he didnât make us get out until we pulled up in front
of the main entrance.
We didnât dare wait to add up the fare. We stuffed a pile of silver
into the cabbyâs hand and dropped a couple of kleenexes to cover
the mess on the floor, and ran in through the lobby and on to the
empty elevator. Luckily for us, it was a quiet time of day. Betsy was
sick again in the elevator and I held her head, and then I was sick
and she held mine.
Usually after a good puke you feel better right away. We hugged
44 | The Bell Jar
each other and then said good-bye and went off to opposite ends of
the hall to lie down in our own rooms. There is nothing like puking
with somebody to make you into old friends.
But the minute Iâd shut the door behind me and undressed and
dragged myself on to the bed, I felt worse than ever. I felt I just had
to go to the toilet. I struggled into my white bathrobe with the blue
cornflowers on it and staggered down to the bathroom.
Betsy was already there. I could hear her groaning behind the
door, so I hurried on around the corner to the bathroom in the next
wing. I thought I would die, it was so far.
I sat on the toilet and leaned my head over the edge of the
washbowl and I thought I was losing my guts and my dinner both.
The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it
would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all
over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering
white torture-chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and on
all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.
I donât know how long I kept at it. I let the cold water in the
bowl go on running loudly with the stopper out, so anybody who
came by would think I was washing my clothes, and then when I felt
reasonably safe I stretched out on the floor and lay quite still.
It didnât seem to be summer any more. I could feel the winter
shaking my bones and banging my teeth together, and the big white
hotel towel I had dragged down with me lay under my head numb as
a snowdrift.
I thought it very
Mass Poisoning at the Hotel
The protagonist endures a violent episode of vomiting in a hotel bathroom, struggling to maintain her privacy and dignity while hideously ill.
After collapsing in the hallway, she experiences a sensory fog where she identifies her surroundings through fragments like a nurse's shoe and her own cornflower-patterned bathrobe.
A doctor and hotel nurse discover that nearly the entire group of young women has been food poisoned, creating a scene of collective medical crisis.
The nurse describes the widespread illness with a sense of morbid relish, noting that the girls are 'sick as dogs' and calling for their mothers.
Despite her extreme physical frailty, the protagonist finds a strange comfort in the solidarity of the shared illness and the solidity of the floor.
I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together, and the big white hotel towel I had dragged down with me lay under my head numb as a snowdrift.
ed me to pieces.
I donât know how long I kept at it. I let the cold water in the
bowl go on running loudly with the stopper out, so anybody who
came by would think I was washing my clothes, and then when I felt
reasonably safe I stretched out on the floor and lay quite still.
It didnât seem to be summer any more. I could feel the winter
shaking my bones and banging my teeth together, and the big white
hotel towel I had dragged down with me lay under my head numb as
a snowdrift.
I thought it very bad manners for anybody to pound on a
bathroom door the way some person was pounding. They could just
go around the corner and find another bathroom the way I had done
and leave me in peace. But the person kept banging and pleading
with me to let them in and I thought I dimly recognized the voice. It
sounded a bit like Emily Ann Offenbach.
âJust a minute,â I said then. My words bungled out thick as
molasses.
I pulled myself together and slowly rose and flushed the toilet for
the tenth time and slopped the bowl clean and rolled up the towel
Chapter 4 | 45
so the vomit stains didnât show very clearly and unlocked the door
and stepped out into the hall.
I knew it would be fatal if I looked at Emily Ann or anybody else so
I fixed my eyes glassily on a window that swam at the end of the hall
and put one foot in front of the other.
The next thing I had a view of was somebodyâs shoe.
It was a stout shoe of cracked black leather and quite old, with
tiny air holes in a scalloped pattern over the toe and a dull polish,
and it was pointed at me. It seemed to be placed on a hard green
surface that was hurting my right cheekbone.
I kept very still, waiting for a clue that would give me some notion
of what to do. A little to the left of the shoe I saw a vague heap of
blue cornflowers on a white ground and this made me want to cry.
It was the sleeve of my own bathrobe I was looking at, and my left
hand lay pale as a cod at the end of it.
âSheâs all right now.â
The voice came from a cool, rational region far above my head.
For a minute I didnât think there was anything strange about it, and
then I thought it was strange. It was a manâs voice, and no men were
allowed to be in our hotel at any time of the night or day.
âHow many others are there?â the voice went on.
I listened with interest. The floor seemed wonderfully solid. It was
comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no farther.
âEleven, I think,â a womanâs voice answered. I figured she must
belong to the black shoe. âI think thereâs eleven more of âum, but
oneâs missinâ so thereâs oney ten.â
âWell, you get this one to bed and Iâll take care of the rest.â
I heard a hollow boomp boomp in my right ear that grew fainter
and fainter. Then a door opened in the distance, and there were
voices and groans, and the door shut again.
Two hands slid under my armpits and the womanâs voice said,
âCome, come, lovey, weâll make it yet,â and I felt myself being half
lifted, and slowly the doors began to move by, one by one, until we
came to an open door and went in.
The sheet on my bed was folded back, and the woman helped me
46 | The Bell Jar
lie down and covered me up to the chin and rested for a minute in
the bedside armchair, fanning herself with one plump, pink hand.
She wore gilt-rimmed spectacles and a white nurseâs cap.
âWho are you?â I asked in a faint voice.
âIâm the hotel nurse.â
âWhatâs the matter with me?â
âPoisoned,â she said briefly. âPoisoned, the whole lot of you. I
never seen anythinâ like it. Sick here, sick there, whatever have you
young ladies been stuffinâ yourselves with?â
âIs everybody else sick too?â I asked with some hope.
âThe whole of your lot,â she affirmed with relish. âSick as dogs and
cryinâ for ma.â
The room hovered around me with great gentleness, as if the
chairs and the tables and the walls were withholding their weight
out of sympathy for my sudden frailty.
âThe doctorâs given you an injection,â the nurse said from the
doorway. âYouâll sleep now.â
And the door took her
The Ladies' Day Poisoning
A group of magazine interns suffers from severe food poisoning after a luncheon, leaving them bedridden and requiring medical care.
Doreen, who did not eat the meal, caretakes for Esther and reveals that the crabmeat was found to be contaminated with ptomaine.
Esther experiences a paradoxical sense of spiritual purity and renewal following the violent physical illness.
To avoid legal repercussions, the magazine editors send gifts such as short story anthologies to the poisoned interns.
I felt purged and holy and ready for a new life.
k here, sick there, whatever have you
young ladies been stuffinâ yourselves with?â
âIs everybody else sick too?â I asked with some hope.
âThe whole of your lot,â she affirmed with relish. âSick as dogs and
cryinâ for ma.â
The room hovered around me with great gentleness, as if the
chairs and the tables and the walls were withholding their weight
out of sympathy for my sudden frailty.
âThe doctorâs given you an injection,â the nurse said from the
doorway. âYouâll sleep now.â
And the door took her place like a sheet of blank paper, and then a
larger sheet of paper took the place of the door, and I drifted toward
it and smiled myself to sleep.
Somebody was standing by my pillow with a white cup.
âDrink this,â they said.
I shook my head. The pillow crackled like a wad of straw.
âDrink this and youâll feel better.â
A thick white china cup was lowered under my nose. In the wan
light that might have been evening and might have been dawn I
contemplated the clear amber liquid. Pads of butter floated on the
surface and a faint chickeny aroma fumed up to my nostrils.
My eyes moved tentatively to the skirt behind the cup. âBetsy,â I
said.
âBetsy nothing, itâs me.â
I raised my eyes then, and saw Doreenâs head silhouetted against
the paling window, her blonde hair lit at the tips from behind like
a halo of gold. Her face was in shadow, so I couldnât make out her
expression, but I felt a sort of expert tenderness flowing from the
Chapter 4 | 47
ends of her fingers. She might have been Betsy or my mother or a
fern-scented nurse.
I bent my head and took a sip of the broth. I thought my mouth
must be made of sand. I took another sip and then another and
another until the cup was empty.
I felt purged and holy and ready for a new life.
Doreen set the cup on the window-sill and lowered herself into
the armchair. I noticed that she made no move to take out a
cigarette, and as she was a chain-smoker this surprised me.
âWell, you almost died,â she said finally.
âI guess it was all that caviar.â
âCaviar nothing! It was the crabmeat. They did tests on it and it
was chock-full of ptomaine.â
I had a vision of the celestially white kitchens on Ladiesâ Day
stretching into infinity. I saw avocado pear after avocado pear being
stuffed with crabmeat and mayonnaise and photographed under
brilliant lights. I saw the delicate, pink-mottled claw-meat poking
seductively through its blanket of mayonnaise and the bland yellow
pear cup with its rim of alligator-green cradling the whole mess.
Poison.
âWho did tests?â I thought the doctor might have pumped
somebodyâs stomach and then analyzed what he found in his hotel
laboratory.
âThose dodos on Ladiesâ Day. As soon as you all started keeling
over like ninepins somebody called into the office and the office
called across to Ladiesâ Day and they did tests on everything left
over from the big lunch. Ha!â
âHa!â I echoed hollowly. It was good to have Doreen back.
âThey sent presents,â she added. âTheyâre in a big carton out in the
hall.â
âHow did they get here so fast?â
âSpecial express delivery, what do you think? They canât afford
to have the lot of you running around saying you got poisoned at
Ladiesâ Day. You could sue them for every penny they own if you just
knew some smart law man.â
48 | The Bell Jar
âWhat are the presents?â I began to feel if it was a good enough
present I wouldnât mind about what happened, because I felt so pure
as a result.
âNobodyâs opened the box yet, theyâre all out flat. Iâm supposed to
be carting soup into everybody, seeing as Iâm the only one on my
feet, but I brought you yours first.â
âSee what the present is,â I begged. Then I remembered and said,
âIâve a present for you as well.â
Doreen went out into the hall. I could hear her rustling around
for a minute and then the sound of paper tearing. Finally she came
back carrying a thick book with a glossy cover and peopleâs names
printed all over it.
âThe Thirty Best Short Stories of the Year.â She dropped the book
in my lap. âThereâs eleven
Gifts and Social Obligations
Esther and Doreen reconcile after their illness, exchanging gifts and sharing a lighthearted moment over food and a short story anthology.
Jay Cee sends a telegram granting Esther a day of rest, showing a rare moment of professional leniency following the mass food poisoning.
A man named Constantin, a simultaneous interpreter introduced by Mrs. Willard, calls Esther to arrange a date.
Esther reflects on her penchant for men with exotic names, though she feels immediate skepticism about the upcoming meeting.
The narrative highlights Esther's internal struggle between her desire for cinematic romance and the 'prosy' reality of a duty-bound social call.
There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.
oup into everybody, seeing as Iâm the only one on my
feet, but I brought you yours first.â
âSee what the present is,â I begged. Then I remembered and said,
âIâve a present for you as well.â
Doreen went out into the hall. I could hear her rustling around
for a minute and then the sound of paper tearing. Finally she came
back carrying a thick book with a glossy cover and peopleâs names
printed all over it.
âThe Thirty Best Short Stories of the Year.â She dropped the book
in my lap. âThereâs eleven more of them out there in that box. I
suppose they thought itâd give you something to read while you
were sick.â She paused. âWhereâs mine?â
I fished in my pocket-book and handed Doreen the mirror with
her name and the daisies on it. Doreen looked at me and I looked at
her and we both burst out laughing.
âYou can have my soup if you want,â she said. âThey put twelve
soups on the tray by mistake and Lenny and I stuffed down so many
hotdogs while we were waiting for the rain to stop I couldnât eat
another mouthful.â
âBring it in,â I said. âIâm starving.â
Chapter 4 | 49
Chapter 5
At seven the next morning the telephone rang.
Slowly I swam up from the bottom of a black sleep. I already had a
telegram from Jay Cee stuck in my mirror, telling me not to bother
to come into work but to rest for a day and get completely well, and
how sorry she was about the bad crabmeat, so I couldnât imagine
who would be calling.
I reached out and hitched the receiver on to my pillow so the
mouthpiece rested on my collarbone and the earpiece lay on my
shoulder.
âHello?â
A manâs voice said, âIs that Miss Esther Greenwood?â I thought I
detected a slight foreign accent.
âIt certainly is,â I said.
âThis is Constantin Something-or-Other.â
I couldnât make out the last name, but it was full of Sâs and Kâs. I
didnât know any Constantin, but I hadnât the heart to say so.
Then
I
remembered
Mrs
Willard
and
her
simultaneous
interpreter.
âOf course, of course!â I cried, sitting up and clutching the phone
to me with both hands.
Iâd never have given Mrs Willard credit for introducing me to a
man named Constantin.
I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates.
He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek
movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it
for both of us. In addition to Socrates I knew a White Russian named
Attila at the Boston School of Business Administration.
Gradually I realized that Constantin was trying to arrange a
meeting for us later in the day.
âWould you like to see the UN this afternoon?â
âI can already see the UN,â I told him, with a little hysterical giggle.
50 | Chapter 5
He seemed nonplussed.
âI can see it from my window.â I thought perhaps my English was
a touch too fast for him.
There was a silence.
Then he said, âMaybe you would like a bite to eat afterwards.â
I detected the vocabulary of Mrs Willard and my heart sank. Mrs
Willard always invited you for a bite to eat. I remembered that this
man had been a guest at Mrs Willardâs house when he first came
to AmericaâMrs Willard had one of these arrangements where you
open your house to foreigners and then when you go abroad they
open their houses to you.
I now saw quite clearly that Mrs Willard had simply traded her
open house in Russia for my bite to eat in New York.
âYes, I would like a bite to eat,â I said stiffly. âWhat time will you
come?â
âIâll call for you in my car about two. Itâs the Amazon, isnât it?â
âYes.â
âAh, I know where that is.â
For a moment I thought his tone was laden with special meaning,
and then I figured that probably some of the girls at the Amazon
were secretaries at the UN and maybe he had taken one of them out
at one time. I let him hang up first, and then I hung up and lay back
in the pillows, feeling grim.
There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who
would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a
few prosy nothings. A duty tour of the UN and a post-UN sandwich!
I tried
Hypocrisy and Social Discomfort
Esther reflects on her habit of constructing elaborate romantic fantasies from mere prosy nothings.
She expresses intense disdain for Buddy Willard, labeling him a hypocrite and vowing never to marry him.
Esther's social anxiety manifests in her struggle to navigate the transactional etiquette of New York City, specifically tipping.
The narrator chooses isolation over the stress of potentially awkward interactions with hotel staff and service workers.
âThank you thank you thank you. Ha!â he said in a very nasty insinuating tone, and before I could wheel round to see what had come over him he was gone, shutting the door behind him with a rude slam.
For a moment I thought his tone was laden with special meaning,
and then I figured that probably some of the girls at the Amazon
were secretaries at the UN and maybe he had taken one of them out
at one time. I let him hang up first, and then I hung up and lay back
in the pillows, feeling grim.
There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who
would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a
few prosy nothings. A duty tour of the UN and a post-UN sandwich!
I tried to jack up my morale.
Probably Mrs Willardâs simultaneous interpreter would be short
and ugly and I would come to look down on him in the end the way
I looked down on Buddy Willard. This thought gave me a certain
satisfaction. Because I did look down on Buddy Willard, and
although everybody still thought I would marry him when he came
out of the TB place, I knew I would never marry him if he were the
last man on earth.
Buddy Willard was a hypocrite.
Chapter 5 | 51
Of course, I didnât know he was a hypocrite at first. I thought
he was the most wonderful boy Iâd ever seen. Iâd adored him from
a distance for five years before he even looked at me, and then
there was a beautiful time when I still adored him and he started
looking at me, and then just as he was looking at me more and more
I discovered quite by accident what an awful hypocrite he was, and
now he wanted me to marry him and I hated his guts.
The worst part of it was I couldnât come straight out and tell him
what I thought of him, because he caught TB before I could do that,
and now I had to humour him along till he got well again and could
take the unvarnished truth.
I decided not to go down to the cafeteria for breakfast. It would
only mean getting dressed, and what was the point of getting
dressed if you were staying in bed for the morning? I could have
called down and asked for a breakfast tray in my room, I guess, but
then I would have to tip the person who brought it up and I never
knew how much to tip. Iâd had some very unsettling experiences
trying to tip people in New York.
When I first arrived at the Amazon a dwarfish, bald man in a
bellhopâs uniform carried my suitcase up in the elevator and
unlocked my room for me. Of course I rushed immediately to the
window and looked out to see what the view was. After a while
I was aware of this bellhop turning on the hot and cold taps in
my washbowl and saying âThis is the hot and this is the coldâ and
switching on the radio and telling me the names of all the New York
stations and I began to get uneasy, so I kept my back to him and said
firmly, âThank you for bringing up my suitcase.â
âThank you thank you thank you. Ha!â he said in a very nasty
insinuating tone, and before I could wheel round to see what had
come over him he was gone, shutting the door behind him with a
rude slam.
Later, when I told Doreen about his curious behaviour, she said,
âYou ninny, he wanted his tip.â
I asked how much I should have given and she said a quarter at
least and thirty-five cents if the suitcase was too heavy. Now I could
52 | The Bell Jar
have carried that suitcase to my room perfectly well by myself, only
the bellhop seemed so eager to do it that I let him. I thought that
sort of service came along with what you paid for your hotel room.
I hate handing over money to people for doing what I could just as
easily do myself, it makes me nervous.
Doreen said ten per cent was what you should tip a person, but I
somehow never had the right change and Iâd have felt awfully silly
giving somebody half a dollar and saying, âFifteen cents of this is a
tip for you, please give me thirty-five cents back.â
The first time I took a taxi in New York I tipped the driver ten
cents. The fare was a dollar, so I thought ten cents was exactly right
and gave the driver my dime with a little flourish and a smile. But
he only held it in the palm of his hand and stared and stared at it,
and when I stepped out of the cab, hoping I had not handed him a
Canadian dime b
The Fig-Tree Metaphor
Esther recounts a traumatic social blunder in New York where she under-tipped a cab driver, leading to a public confrontation that left her feeling humiliated.
While recovering from illness, Esther reads a story about a symbolic fig tree that serves as a deep point of connection and imaginative escape for her.
She uses the story of a Jewish man and a nun to analyze her relationship with Buddy Willard, viewing their shared experience of witnessing a birth as a catalyst for their separation.
Buddy Willard exhibits a change in character while recovering in a sanatorium, showing newfound respect for literature that contradicts his previous disdain for art.
Esther remains preoccupied with Buddy's past arrogance, specifically remembering when he condescendingly defined a poem as merely a piece of dust.
I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-tree.
have felt awfully silly
giving somebody half a dollar and saying, âFifteen cents of this is a
tip for you, please give me thirty-five cents back.â
The first time I took a taxi in New York I tipped the driver ten
cents. The fare was a dollar, so I thought ten cents was exactly right
and gave the driver my dime with a little flourish and a smile. But
he only held it in the palm of his hand and stared and stared at it,
and when I stepped out of the cab, hoping I had not handed him a
Canadian dime by mistake, he started yelling, âLady I gotta live like
you and everybody else,â in a loud voice which scared me so much I
broke into a run. Luckily he was stopped at a traffic light or I think
he would have driven along beside me yelling in that embarrassing
way.
When I asked Doreen about this she said the tipping percentage
might well have risen from ten to fifteen per cent since she was last
in New York. Either that, or that particular cab-driver was an out
and out louse.
I reached for the book the people from Ladiesâ Day had sent.
When I opened it a card fell out. The front of the card showed a
poodle in a flowered bedjacket sitting in a poodle basket with a sad
face, and the inside of the card showed the poodle lying down in
the basket with a little smile, sound asleep under an embroidered
sampler that said, âYouâll get well best with lots and lots of restâ. At
the bottom of the card somebody had written, âGet well quick! from
all of your good friends at Ladiesâ Dayâ in lavender ink.
I flipped through one story after another until finally I came to a
story about a fig-tree.
This fig-tree grew on a green lawn between the house of a Jewish
man and a convent, and the Jewish man and a beautiful dark nun
Chapter 5 | 53
kept meeting at the tree to pick the ripe figs, until one day they saw
an egg hatching in a birdâs nest on a branch of the tree, and as they
watched the little bird peck its way out of the egg, they touched the
backs of their hands together, and then the nun didnât come out to
pick figs with the Jewish man any more but a mean-faced Catholic
kitchen-maid came to pick them instead and counted up the figs
the man picked after they were both through to be sure he hadnât
picked any more than she had, and the man was furious.
I thought it was a lovely story, especially the part about the fig-
tree in winter under the snow and then the fig-tree in spring with
all the green fruit. I felt sorry when I came to the last page. I wanted
to crawl in between those black lines of print the way you crawl
through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-
tree.
It seemed to me Buddy Willard and I were like that Jewish man
and that nun, although of course we werenât Jewish or Catholic but
Unitarian. We had met together under our own imaginary fig-tree,
and what we had seen wasnât a bird coming out of an egg but a baby
coming out of a woman, and then something awful happened and
we went our separate ways.
As I lay there in my white hotel bed feeling lonely and weak, I
thought of Buddy Willard lying even lonelier and weaker than I was
up in that sanatorium in the Adirondacks, and I felt like a heel of the
worst sort. In his letters Buddy kept telling me how he was reading
poems by a poet who was also a doctor and how heâd found out
about some famous dead Russian short story writer who had been a
doctor too, so maybe doctors and writers could get along fine after
all.
Now this was a very different tune from what Buddy Willard had
been singing all the two years we were getting to know each other.
I remember the day he smiled at me and said, âDo you know what a
poem is, Esther?â
âNo, what?â I said.
âA piece of dust.â And he looked so proud of having thought of this
54 | The Bell Jar
that I just stared at his blond hair and his blue eyes and his white
teethâhe had very long, strong white teethâand said âI guess so.â
It was only in the middle of New York a whole year later that I
finally thought of an answer to that remark.
I sp
Science, Poetry, and Dust
Esther reflects on her past relationship with Buddy Willard, a scientific-minded man who dismisses poetry as insignificant.
She recounts her tendency to accept Buddy's words as absolute truth, leading her to feel intellectually overwhelmed in his presence.
Later, Esther develops mental rebuttals to Buddy's condescension, arguing that poems are more enduring than the mortal bodies doctors treat.
The narrative describes Esther's social life at college, which is defined by a lack of luck and a series of disappointing blind dates.
The connection between Esther and Buddy is facilitated by their mothers, who were long-time friends and shared similar life paths.
I reckon a good poem lasts a whole lot longer than a hundred of those people put together.
singing all the two years we were getting to know each other.
I remember the day he smiled at me and said, âDo you know what a
poem is, Esther?â
âNo, what?â I said.
âA piece of dust.â And he looked so proud of having thought of this
54 | The Bell Jar
that I just stared at his blond hair and his blue eyes and his white
teethâhe had very long, strong white teethâand said âI guess so.â
It was only in the middle of New York a whole year later that I
finally thought of an answer to that remark.
I spent a lot of time having imaginary conversations with Buddy
Willard. He was a couple of years older than I was and very
scientific, so he could always prove things. When I was with him I
had to work to keep my head above water.
These conversations I had in my mind usually repeated the
beginnings of conversations Iâd really had with Buddy, only they
finished with me answering him back quite sharply, instead of just
sitting around and saying âI guess soâ.
Now, lying on my back in bed, I imagined Buddy saying, âDo you
know what a poem is, Esther?â
âNo, what?â I would say.
âA piece of dust.â
Then just as he was smiling and starting to look proud, I would say,
âSo are the cadavers you cut up. So are the people you think youâre
curing. Theyâre dust as dust as dust. I reckon a good poem lasts a
whole lot longer than a hundred of those people put together.â
And of course Buddy wouldnât have any answer to that, because
what I said was true. People were made of nothing so much as dust,
and I couldnât see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than
writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves
when they were unhappy or sick and couldnât sleep.
My trouble was I took everything Buddy Willard told me as the
honest-to-God truth. I remember the first night he kissed me. It
was after the Yale Junior Prom.
It was strange, the way Buddy had invited me to that Prom.
He popped into my house out of the blue one Christmas vacation,
wearing a thick white turtleneck sweater and looking so handsome
I could hardly stop staring and said, âI might drop over to see you at
college some day, all right?â
I was flabbergasted. I only saw Buddy at church on Sundays when
we were both home from college, and then at a distance, and I
Chapter 5 | 55
couldnât figure what had put it into his head to run over and see
meâhe had run the two miles between our houses for cross-
country practice, he said.
Of course, our mothers were good friends. They had gone to
school together and then both married their professors and settled
down in the same town, but Buddy was always off on a scholarship
at prep school in the fall or earning money by fighting blister rust
in Montana in the summer, so our mothers being old school chums
really didnât matter a bit.
After this sudden visit I didnât hear a word from Buddy until one
fine Saturday morning in early March. I was up in my room at
college, studying about Peter the Hermit and Walter the Penniless
for my history exam on the crusades the coming Monday when the
hall phone rang.
Usually people are supposed to take turns answering the hall
phone, but as I was the only freshman on a floor with all seniors
they made me answer it most of the time. I waited a minute to see if
anybody would beat me to it. Then I figured everybody was probably
out playing squash or away on week-ends, so I answered it myself.
âIs that you, Esther?â the girl on watch downstairs said, and when
I said âYes,â she said, âThereâs a man to see you.â
I was surprised to hear this, because of all the blind dates Iâd
had that year not one called me up again for a second date. I just
didnât have any luck. I hated coming downstairs sweaty-handed and
curious every Saturday night and having some senior introduce me
to her auntâs best friendâs son and finding some pale, mushroomy
fellow with protruding ears or buck teeth or a bad leg. I didnât think
I deserved it. After all, I wasnât crippled in any way, I just studied too
hard, I didnât know when to stop.
Well,
The Yale Junior Prom Invitation
Esther reflects on her string of unsuccessful blind dates, attributing her lack of social luck to her intense academic focus.
Buddy Willard visits Esther at her college but initially disappoints her by revealing he is attending a dance with a local rival, Joan Gilling.
To salvage her pride, Esther fabricates a lie about having an upcoming date with two fictional students from Dartmouth.
Before leaving, Buddy gives Esther a letter containing an invitation to the prestigious Yale Junior Prom.
The news of the invitation instantly elevates Estherâs social status in her house, garnering her respect from previously dismissive seniors.
She always made me feel squirmy with her starey pebble-coloured eyes and her gleaming tombstone teeth and her breathy voice.
ed to hear this, because of all the blind dates Iâd
had that year not one called me up again for a second date. I just
didnât have any luck. I hated coming downstairs sweaty-handed and
curious every Saturday night and having some senior introduce me
to her auntâs best friendâs son and finding some pale, mushroomy
fellow with protruding ears or buck teeth or a bad leg. I didnât think
I deserved it. After all, I wasnât crippled in any way, I just studied too
hard, I didnât know when to stop.
Well, I combed my hair and put on some more lipstick and took
my history bookâso I could say I was on my way to the library if it
turned out to be somebody awfulâand went down, and there was
Buddy Willard leaning against the mail table in a khaki zipper jacket
and blue dungarees and frayed grey sneakers and grinning up at me.
âI just came over to say hello,â he said.
56 | The Bell Jar
I thought it odd he should come all the way up from Yale even
hitch-hiking, as he did, to save money, just to say hello.
âHello,â I said. âLetâs go out and sit on the porch.â
I wanted to go out on the porch because the girl on watch was a
nosey senior and eyeing me curiously. She obviously thought Buddy
had made a big mistake.
We sat side by side in two wicker rocking-chairs. The sunlight was
clean and windless and almost hot.
âI canât stay more than a few minutes,â Buddy said.
âOh, come on, stay for lunch,â I said.
âOh, I canât do that. Iâm up here for the Sophomore Prom with
Joan.â
I felt like a prize idiot.
âHow is Joan?â I asked coldly.
Joan Gilling came from our home town and went to our church
and
was
a
year
ahead
of
me
at
college.
She
was
a
big
wheelâpresident of her class and a physics major and the college
hockey champion. She always made me feel squirmy with her starey
pebble-coloured eyes and her gleaming tombstone teeth and her
breathy voice. She was big as a horse, too. I began to think Buddy
had pretty poor taste.
âOh Joan,â he said. âShe asked me up to this dance two months
ahead of time and her mother asked my mother if I would take her,
so what could I do?â
âWell, why did you say youâd take her if you didnât want to?â I asked
meanly.
âOh, I like Joan. She never cares whether you spend any money on
her or not and she enjoys doing things out-of-doors. The last time
she came down to Yale for house week-end we went on a bicycle
trip to East Rock and sheâs the only girl I havenât had to push up hills.
Joanâs all right.â
I went cold with envy. I had never been to Yale, and Yale was
the place all the seniors in my house liked to go best on week-
ends. I decided to expect nothing from Buddy Willard. If you expect
nothing from somebody you are never disappointed.
Chapter 5 | 57
âYou better go and find Joan then,â I said in a matter-of-fact voice.
âIâve a date coming any minute and he wonât like seeing me sitting
around with you.â
âA date?â Buddy looked surprised. âWho is it?â
âItâs two,â I said, âPeter the Hermit and Walter the Penniless.â
Buddy didnât say anything, so I said, âThose are their nicknames.â
Then I added, âTheyâre from Dartmouth.â
I guess Buddy never read much history, because his mouth
stiffened. He swung up from the wicker rocking-chair and gave it a
sharp little unnecessary push. Then he dropped a pale blue envelope
with a Yale crest into my lap.
âHereâs a letter I meant to leave for you if you werenât in. Thereâs
a question in it you can answer by mail. I donât feel like asking you
about it right now.â
After Buddy had gone I opened the letter. It was a letter inviting
me to the Yale Junior Prom.
I was so surprised I let out a couple of yips and ran into the house
shouting, âIâm going Iâm going Iâm going.â After the bright white sun
on the porch it looked pitch-dark in there, and I couldnât make out a
thing. I found myself hugging the senior on watch. When she heard
I was going to the Yale Junior Prom she treated me with amazement
and respect.
Oddly enough, things changed in the house after that. The seniors
on my floor started speaki
The Illusion of Romance
An invitation to the Yale Junior Prom shifts Estherâs social standing from an isolated academic to a figure of amazement and respect among her peers.
The prom weekend fails to live up to Estherâs romantic fantasies, ending in an uninspiring kiss and a sense of profound emotional emptiness.
Buddy and Esther enter a calculated relationship agreement based on their mutual status as scholarship students rather than genuine affection.
While visiting Buddy at medical school, Esther is confronted with the grotesque realities of anatomy, observing cadavers and preserved fetuses.
Estherâs exposure to the clinical medical world begins to reveal Buddyâs hypocrisy, signaling a turning point in her perception of his character.
I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
It was a letter inviting
me to the Yale Junior Prom.
I was so surprised I let out a couple of yips and ran into the house
shouting, âIâm going Iâm going Iâm going.â After the bright white sun
on the porch it looked pitch-dark in there, and I couldnât make out a
thing. I found myself hugging the senior on watch. When she heard
I was going to the Yale Junior Prom she treated me with amazement
and respect.
Oddly enough, things changed in the house after that. The seniors
on my floor started speaking to me and every now and then one
of them would answer the phone quite spontaneously and nobody
made any more nasty loud remarks outside my door about people
wasting their golden college days with their noses stuck in a book.
Well all during the Junior Prom Buddy treated me like a friend or
a cousin.
We danced about a mile apart the whole time, until during âAuld
Lang Syneâ he suddenly rested his chin on the top of my head as if
he were very tired. Then in the cold, black, three oâclock wind we
walked very slowly the five miles back to the house where I was
sleeping in the living-room on a couch that was too short because
58 | The Bell Jar
it only cost fifty cents a night instead of two dollars like most of the
other places with proper beds.
I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
I had imagined Buddy would fall in love with me that week-end
and that I wouldnât have to worry about what I was doing on any
more Saturday nights the rest of the year. Just as we approached the
house where I was staying Buddy said, âLetâs go up to the chemistry
lab.â
I was aghast. âThe chemistry lab?â
âYes.â Buddy reached for my hand. âThereâs a beautiful view up
there behind the chemistry lab.â
And sure enough, there was a sort of hilly place behind the
chemistry lab from which you could see the lights of a couple of the
houses in New Haven.
I stood pretending to admire them while Buddy got a good footing
on the rough soil. While he kissed me I kept my eyes open and tried
to memorize the spacing of the house lights so I would never forget
them.
Finally Buddy stepped back. âWow!â he said.
âWow what?â I said, surprised. It had been a dry, uninspiring little
kiss, and I remember thinking it was too bad both our mouths were
so chapped from walking five miles in that cold wind.
âWow, it makes me feel terrific to kiss you.â
I modestly didnât say anything.
âI guess you go out with a lot of boys,â Buddy said then.
âWell, I guess I do.â I thought I must have gone out with a different
boy for every week in the year.
âWell, I have to study a lot.â
âSo do I,â I put in hastily. âI have to keep my scholarship after all.â
âStill, I think I could manage to see you every third week-end.â
âThatâs nice.â I was almost fainting and dying to get back to college
and tell everybody.
Buddy kissed me again in front of the house steps, and the next
fall, when his scholarship to Medical School came through, I went
Chapter 5 | 59
there to see him instead of to Yale and it was there I found out how
he had fooled me all those years and what a hypocrite he was.
I found out on the day we saw the baby born.
60 | The Bell Jar
Chapter 6
I had kept begging Buddy to show me some really interesting
hospital sights, so one Friday I cut all my classes and came down for
a long week-end and he gave me the works.
I started out by dressing in a white coat and sitting on a tall stool
in a room with four cadavers, while Buddy and his friends cut them
up. These cadavers were so unhuman-looking they didnât bother me
a bit. They had stiff, leathery, purple-black skin and they smelt like
old pickle jars.
After that, Buddy took me out into a hall where they had some
big glass bottles full of babies that had died before they were born.
The baby in the first bottle had a large white head bent over a tiny
curled-up body the size of a frog. The baby in the next bottle was
bigger and the baby next to that one was bigger still and the baby
in the last bottle was the size of a normal baby and he see
Clinical Observations of Mortality
The narrator explores a medical facility, viewing preserved fetuses and a cadaver with a sense of detached pride in her own lack of squeamishness.
A lecture on terminal diseases and a story about a girl's sudden death from a mole highlight the clinical and abrupt nature of mortality.
While being masked and prepped for a delivery, the narrator experiences social friction through a subtle insult from a medical student.
A nervous medical student warns that witnessing the reality of childbirth is so graphic that it could potentially discourage women from having children entirely.
The environment of the delivery room is described through a lens of apprehension, compared by the narrator to a room containing a 'torture table.'
It looked like some awful torture table, with these metal stirrups sticking up in mid-air at one end and all sorts of instruments and wires and tubes I couldn't make out properly at the other.
didnât bother me
a bit. They had stiff, leathery, purple-black skin and they smelt like
old pickle jars.
After that, Buddy took me out into a hall where they had some
big glass bottles full of babies that had died before they were born.
The baby in the first bottle had a large white head bent over a tiny
curled-up body the size of a frog. The baby in the next bottle was
bigger and the baby next to that one was bigger still and the baby
in the last bottle was the size of a normal baby and he seemed to be
looking at me and smiling a little piggy smile.
I was quite proud of the calm way I stared at all these gruesome
things. The only time I jumped was when I leaned my elbow on
Buddyâs cadaverâs stomach to watch him dissect a lung. After a
minute or two I felt this burning sensation in my elbow and it
occurred to me the cadaver might just be half alive since it was still
warm, so I leapt off my stool with a small exclamation. Then Buddy
explained the burning was only from the pickling fluid, and I sat
back in my old position.
In the hour before lunch Buddy took me to a lecture on sickle cell
anaemia and some other depressing diseases, where they wheeled
sick people out on to the platform and asked them questions and
then wheeled them off and showed coloured slides.
One slide I remember showed a beautiful laughing girl with a
black mole on her cheek. âTwenty days after that mole appeared the
girl was dead,â the doctor said, and everybody went very quiet for a
Chapter 6 | 61
minute and then the bell rang, so I never really found out what the
mole was or why the girl died.
In the afternoon we went to see a baby born.
First we found a linen closet in the hospital corridor where Buddy
took out a white mask for me to wear and some gauze.
A tall fat medical student, big as Sidney Greenstreet, lounged
nearby, watching Buddy wind the gauze round and round my head
until my hair was completely covered and only my eyes peered out
over the white mask.
The medical student gave an unpleasant little snicker. âAt least
your mother loves you,â he said.
I was so busy thinking how very fat he was and how unfortunate
it must be for a man and especially a young man to be fat, because
what woman could stand leaning over that big stomach to kiss him,
that I didnât immediately realize what this student had said to me
was an insult. By the time I figured he must consider himself quite
a fine fellow and had thought up a cutting remark about how only a
mother loves a fat man, he was gone.
Buddy was examining a queer wooden plaque on the wall with a
row of holes in it, starting from a hole about the size of a silver dollar
and ending with one the size of a dinner-plate.
âFine, fine,â he said to me. âThereâs somebody about to have a baby
this minute.â
At the door of the delivery room stood a thin, stoop-shouldered
medical student Buddy knew.
âHello, Will,â Buddy said. âWhoâs on the job?â
âI am,â Will said gloomily, and I noticed little drops of sweat
beading his high pale forehead. âI am, and itâs my first.â
Buddy told me Will was a third-year man and had to deliver eight
babies before he could graduate.
Then we noticed a bustle at the far end of the hall and some men
in lime-green coats and skull-caps and a few nurses came moving
towards us in a ragged procession wheeling a trolley with a big
white lump on it.
âYou oughtnât to see this,â Will muttered in my ear. âYouâll never
62 | The Bell Jar
want to have a baby if you do. They oughtnât to let women watch. Itâll
be the end of the human race.â
Buddy and I laughed, and then Buddy shook Willâs hand and we all
went into the room.
I was so struck by the sight of the table where they were lifting
the woman I didnât say a word. It looked like some awful torture
table, with these metal stirrups sticking up in mid-air at one end
and all sorts of instruments and wires and tubes I couldnât make out
properly at the other.
Buddy and I stood together by the window, a few feet away from
the woman, where we had a perfect
The Corridor of Pain
Esther observes a live childbirth, describing the medical environment and the mother's physical state in stark, dehumanizing, and grotesque terms.
Buddy explains the concept of 'twilight sleep,' a drug-induced state where the mother experiences the agony of labor but is unable to remember it afterward.
Esther critiques the medicalization of birth as a male invention that traps women in a cycle of suffering by erasing the memory of their trauma.
The birth itself is depicted as a visceral and violent event, involving a surgical incision and a terrified medical student struggling to hold the newborn.
Esther contrasts the clinical messiness and the mother's lack of awareness with her own romanticized fantasy of being a radiant, conscious mother.
I heard the scissors close on the womanâs skin like cloth and the blood began to run downâa fierce, bright red.
the end of the human race.â
Buddy and I laughed, and then Buddy shook Willâs hand and we all
went into the room.
I was so struck by the sight of the table where they were lifting
the woman I didnât say a word. It looked like some awful torture
table, with these metal stirrups sticking up in mid-air at one end
and all sorts of instruments and wires and tubes I couldnât make out
properly at the other.
Buddy and I stood together by the window, a few feet away from
the woman, where we had a perfect view.
The womanâs stomach stuck up so high I couldnât see her face
or the upper part of her body at all. She seemed to have nothing
but an enormous spider-fat stomach and two little ugly spindly legs
propped in the high stirrups, and all the time the baby was being
born she never stopped making this unhuman whooing noise.
Later Buddy told me the woman was on a drug that would make
her forget sheâd had any pain and that when she swore and groaned
she really didnât know what she was doing because she was in a kind
of twilight sleep.
I thought it sounded just like the sort of drug a man would invent.
Here was a woman in terrible pain, obviously feeling every bit of it
or she wouldnât groan like that, and she would go straight home and
start another baby, because the drug would make her forget how
bad the pain had been, when all the time, in some secret part of
her, that long, blind, doorless and windowless corridor of pain was
waiting to open up and shut her in again.
The head doctor, who was supervising Will, kept saying to the
woman, âPush down, Mrs Tomolillo, push down, thatâs a good girl,
push down,â and finally through the split, shaven place between her
legs, lurid with disinfectant, I saw a dark fuzzy thing appear.
âThe babyâs head,â Buddy whispered under cover of the womanâs
groans.
But the babyâs head stuck for some reason, and the doctor told
Will heâd have to make a cut. I heard the scissors close on the
Chapter 6 | 63
womanâs skin like cloth and the blood began to run downâa fierce,
bright red. Then all at once the baby seemed to pop out into Willâs
hands, the colour of a blue plum and floured with white stuff and
streaked with blood, and Will kept saying, âIâm going to drop it, Iâm
going to drop it, Iâm going to drop it,â in a terrified voice.
âNo, youâre not,â the doctor said, and took the baby out of Willâs
hands and started massaging it, and the blue colour went away and
the baby started to cry in a lorn, croaky voice and I could see it was
a boy.
The first thing that baby did was pee in the doctorâs face. I told
Buddy later I didnât see how that was possible, but he said it was
quite possible, though unusual, to see something like that happen.
As soon as the baby was born the people in the room divided up
into two groups, the nurses tying a metal dog-tag on the babyâs
wrist and swabbing its eyes with cotton on the end of a stick and
wrapping it up and putting it in a canvas-sided cot, while the doctor
and Will started sewing up the womanâs cut with a needle and a long
thread.
I think somebody said, âItâs a boy, Mrs Tomolillo,â but the woman
didnât answer or raise her head.
âWell, how was it?â Buddy asked with a satisfied expression as we
walked across the green quadrangle to his room.
âWonderful,â I said. âI could see something like that every day.â
I didnât feel up to asking him if there were any other ways to
have babies. For some reason the most important thing to me was
actually seeing the baby come out of you yourself and making sure
it was yours. I thought if you had to have all that pain anyway you
might just as well stay awake.
I had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on
the delivery table after it was all overâdead white, of course, with
no make-up and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant,
with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little
squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was.
âWhy was it all covered with flour?â I asked then, to keep the
64 | The Bell Jar
Clinical Reality and Broken Ideals
Esther contrasts her romanticized fantasy of motherhood with the gritty, clinical reality of the childbirth she witnessed.
Buddy attempts to appreciate poetry through Esther's guidance, though his approach remains systematic and pedagogical.
The clinical nature of Buddy's medical studies bleeds into their intimacy as he encourages Esther to get used to his naked body.
Esther's visceral reaction to Buddy's nudity, comparing him to turkey parts, reveals her growing physical and emotional detachment.
The encounter concludes with Esther questioning Buddy's sexual history, threatening the fine, clean reputation cultivated by their families.
The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed.
ing sure
it was yours. I thought if you had to have all that pain anyway you
might just as well stay awake.
I had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on
the delivery table after it was all overâdead white, of course, with
no make-up and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant,
with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little
squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was.
âWhy was it all covered with flour?â I asked then, to keep the
64 | The Bell Jar
conversation going, and Buddy told me about the waxy stuff that
guarded the babyâs skin.
When we were back in Buddyâs room, which reminded me of
nothing so much as a monkâs cell, with its bare walls and bare
bed and bare floor and the desk loaded with Grayâs Anatomy and
other thick gruesome books, Buddy lit a candle and uncorked a
bottle of Dubonnet. Then we lay down side by side on the bed and
Buddy sipped his wine while I read aloud âsomewhere I have never
travelledâ and other poems from a book Iâd brought.
Buddy said he figured there must be something in poetry if a
girl like me spent all her days over it, so each time we met I read
him some poetry and explained to him what I found in it. It was
Buddyâs idea. He always arranged our week-ends so weâd never
regret wasting our time in any way. Buddyâs father was a teacher,
and I think Buddy could have been a teacher as well, he was always
trying to explain things to me and introduce me to new knowledge.
Suddenly, after I finished a poem, he said, âEsther, have you ever
seen a man?â
The way he said it I knew he didnât mean a regular man or a man
in general, I knew he meant a man naked.
âNo,â I said. âOnly statues.â
âWell, donât you think you would like to see me?â
I didnât know what to say. My mother and my grandmother had
started hinting around to me a lot lately about what a fine, clean boy
Buddy Willard was, coming from such a fine, clean family, and how
everybody at church thought he was a model person, so kind to his
parents and to older people, as well as so athletic and so handsome
and so intelligent.
All Iâd heard about, really, was how fine and clean Buddy was and
how he was the kind of person a girl should stay fine and clean for.
So I didnât really see the harm in anything Buddy would think up to
do.
âWell, all right, I guess so,â I said.
I stared at Buddy while he unzipped his chino pants and took
Chapter 6 | 65
them off and laid them on a chair and then took off his underpants
that were made of something like nylon fishnet.
âTheyâre cool,â he explained, âand my mother says they wash
easily.â
Then he just stood there in front of me and I kept on staring at
him. The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey
gizzards and I felt very depressed.
Buddy seemed hurt I didnât say anything. âI think you ought to get
used to me like this,â he said. âNow let me see you.â
But undressing in front of Buddy suddenly appealed to me about
as much as having my Posture Picture taken at college, where you
have to stand naked in front of a camera, knowing all the time that
a picture of you stark naked, both full view and side view, is going
into the college gym files to be marked A B C or D depending on how
straight you are.
âOh, some other time,â I said.
âAll right.â Buddy got dressed again.
Then we kissed and hugged a while and I felt a little better. I drank
the rest of the Dubonnet and sat cross-legged at the end of Buddyâs
bed and asked for a comb. I began to comb my hair down over my
face so Buddy couldnât see it. Suddenly I said, âHave you ever had an
affair with anyone, Buddy?â
I donât know what made me say it, the words just popped out of
my mouth. I never thought for one minute that Buddy Willard would
have an affair with anyone. I expected him to say, âNo, I have been
saving myself for when I get married to somebody pure and a virgin
like youâ.
But Buddy didnât say anything, he just turned pink.
âWell, have you?â
âWhat do you mean, an affair?â Buddy asked then in a holl
The Illusion of Purity
Esther impulsively questions Buddy Willard about his sexual past, expecting him to confirm his virginity.
Buddy admits to a recurring affair with a waitress, shattering Esther's perception of him as a moral and innocent man.
Esther feels deeply betrayed not by the act itself, but by Buddy's long-term deception and pretense of being sexually inexperienced.
She calculates the frequency of his encounters and is chilled by the realization of his sustained hypocrisy.
The revelation exposes a societal double standard where men's sexual history is tolerated by peers while women are held to strict standards of purity.
I could feel the little electric filaments clinging to my hot cheeks and I wanted to shout, 'Stop, stop, donât tell me, donât say anything.'
face so Buddy couldnât see it. Suddenly I said, âHave you ever had an
affair with anyone, Buddy?â
I donât know what made me say it, the words just popped out of
my mouth. I never thought for one minute that Buddy Willard would
have an affair with anyone. I expected him to say, âNo, I have been
saving myself for when I get married to somebody pure and a virgin
like youâ.
But Buddy didnât say anything, he just turned pink.
âWell, have you?â
âWhat do you mean, an affair?â Buddy asked then in a hollow
voice.
âYou know, have you ever gone to bed with anyone?â I kept
rhythmically combing the hair down over the side of my face
nearest to Buddy, and I could feel the little electric filaments
66 | The Bell Jar
clinging to my hot cheeks and I wanted to shout, âStop, stop, donât
tell me, donât say anything.â But I didnât, I just kept still.
âWell, yes, I have,â Buddy said finally.
I almost fell over. From the first night Buddy Willard kissed me
and said I must go out with a lot of boys, he made me feel I was much
more sexy and experienced than he was and that everything he did
like hugging and kissing and petting was simply what I made him
feel like doing out of the blue, he couldnât help it and didnât know
how it came about.
Now I saw he had only been pretending all this time to be so
innocent.
âTell me about it.â I combed my hair slowly over and over, feeling
the teeth of the comb dig into my cheek at every stroke. âWho was
it?â
Buddy seemed relieved I wasnât angry. He even seemed relieved to
have somebody to tell about how he was seduced.
Of course, somebody had seduced Buddy, Buddy hadnât started
it and it wasnât really his fault. It was this waitress at the hotel
he worked at as a busboy the last summer on Cape Cod. Buddy
had noticed her staring at him queerly and shoving her breasts up
against him in the confusion of the kitchen, so finally one day he
asked her what the trouble was and she looked him straight in the
eye and said, âI want you.â
âServed up with parsley?â Buddy had laughed innocently.
âNo,â she had said. âSome night.â
And thatâs how Buddy had lost his pureness and his virginity.
At first I thought he must have slept with the waitress only the
once, but when I asked how many times, just to make sure, he said
he couldnât remember but a couple of times a week for the rest of
the summer. I multiplied three by ten and got thirty, which seemed
beyond all reason.
After that something in me just froze up.
Back at college I started asking a senior here and a senior there
what they would do if a boy they knew suddenly told them heâd slept
thirty times with some slutty waitress one summer, smack in the
Chapter 6 | 67
middle of knowing them. But these seniors said most boys were like
that and you couldnât honestly accuse them of anything until you
were at least pinned or engaged to be married.
Actually, it wasnât the idea of Buddy sleeping with somebody that
bothered me. I mean Iâd read about all sorts of people sleeping with
each other, and if it had been any other boy I would merely have
asked him the most interesting details, and maybe gone out and
slept with somebody myself just to even things up, and then thought
no more about it.
What I couldnât stand was Buddyâs pretending I was so sexy and he
was so pure, when all the time heâd been having an affair with that
tarty waitress and must have felt like laughing in my face.
âWhat does your mother think about this waitress?â I asked Buddy
that week-end.
Buddy was amazingly close to his mother. He was always quoting
what she said about the relationship between a man and a woman,
and I knew Mrs Willard was a real fanatic about virginity for men
and women both. When I first went to her house for supper she gave
me a queer, shrewd, searching look, and I knew she was trying to tell
whether I was a virgin or not.
Just as I thought, Buddy was embarrassed. âMother asked me
about Gladys,â he admitted.
âWell, what did you say?â
âI said Gladys was free, white and twenty-one.â
Now I knew
Buddy's Convenient Diagnosis
Esther expresses deep disdain for Mrs. Willardâs traditionalist views on gender, which reduce women to passive supports for men's ambitions.
Buddy Willard is diagnosed with tuberculosis, a situation Esther interprets as karmic punishment for his moral hypocrisy and feelings of superiority.
Instead of ending the relationship directly, Esther uses Buddyâs illness as a social shield to avoid dating while appearing tragically devoted to her peers.
The diagnosis brings Esther a sense of profound relief, as it removes the immediate pressure to resolve her complicated feelings about Buddy.
Esther meets Constantin, an intuitive man who represents a significant departure from the rigid American masculinity personified by Buddy.
What a man is is an arrow into the future and what a woman is is the place the arrow shoots off from.
mother. He was always quoting
what she said about the relationship between a man and a woman,
and I knew Mrs Willard was a real fanatic about virginity for men
and women both. When I first went to her house for supper she gave
me a queer, shrewd, searching look, and I knew she was trying to tell
whether I was a virgin or not.
Just as I thought, Buddy was embarrassed. âMother asked me
about Gladys,â he admitted.
âWell, what did you say?â
âI said Gladys was free, white and twenty-one.â
Now I knew Buddy would never talk to his mother as rudely as
that for my sake. He was always saying how his mother said, âWhat
a man wants is a mate and what a woman wants is infinite security,â
and, âWhat a man is is an arrow into the future and what a woman
is is the place the arrow shoots off from,â until it made me tired.
Every time I tried to argue, Buddy would say his mother still got
pleasure out of his father and wasnât that wonderful for people their
age, it must mean she really knew what was what.
Well, I had just decided to ditch Buddy Willard for once and for
all, not because heâd slept with that waitress but because he didnât
have the honest guts to admit it straight off to everybody and face
68 | The Bell Jar
up to it as part of his character, when the phone in the hall rang and
somebody said in a little knowing singsong, âItâs for you, Esther, itâs
from Boston.â
I could tell right away something must be wrong, because Buddy
was the only person I knew in Boston, and he never called me long
distance because it was so much more expensive than letters. Once,
when he had a message he wanted me to get almost immediately,
he went all round his entry at medical school asking if anybody was
driving up to my college that week-end, and sure enough, somebody
was, so he gave them a note for me and I got it the same day. He
didnât even have to pay for a stamp.
It was Buddy all right. He told me that the annual fall chest X-ray
showed he had caught TB and he was going off on a scholarship for
medical students who caught TB to a TB place in the Adirondacks.
Then he said I hadnât written since that last week-end and he hoped
nothing was the matter between us, and would I please try to write
him at least once a week and come to visit him at this TB place in my
Christmas vacation?
I had never heard Buddy so upset. He was very proud of his
perfect health and was always telling me it was psychosomatic when
my sinuses blocked up and I couldnât breathe. I thought this an odd
attitude for a doctor to have and perhaps he should study to be a
psychiatrist instead, but of course I never came right out and said
so.
I told Buddy how sorry I was about the TB and promised to write,
but when I hung up I didnât feel one bit sorry. I only felt a wonderful
relief.
I thought the TB might just be a punishment for living the kind
of double life Buddy lived and feeling so superior to people. And I
thought how convenient it would be now I didnât have to announce
to everybody at college I had broken off with Buddy and start the
boring business of blind dates all over again.
I simply told everyone that Buddy had TB and we were practically
engaged, and when I stayed in to study on Saturday nights they were
Chapter 6 | 69
extremely kind to me because they thought I was so brave, working
the way I did just to hide a broken heart.
70 | The Bell Jar
Chapter 7
Of course, Constantin was much too short, but in his own way he
was handsome, with light brown hair and dark blue eyes and a lively,
challenging expression. He could almost have been an American, he
was so tan and had such good teeth, but I could tell straight away
that he wasnât. He had what no American man Iâve ever met has had,
and thatâs intuition.
From the start Constantin guessed I wasnât any protĂŠgĂŠe of Mrs
Willardâs. I raised an eyebrow here and dropped a dry little laugh
there, and pretty soon we were both openly raking Mrs Willard over
the coals and I thought, âThis Constantin wonât mind if Iâm too tall
and don
The List of Inadequacies
Esther finds a rare sense of connection with Constantin, a UN interpreter whose intuition she believes allows him to see her true self.
A fleeting moment of joy triggers the realization that Esther hasn't experienced genuine happiness since her father's death when she was nine.
While observing the UN proceedings, Esther feels a profound sense of alienation, viewing the world as a silent, receding ship that leaves her stranded.
She begins a mental inventory of her perceived failures, focusing on her inability to perform domestic tasks like cooking or practical skills like shorthand.
Esther explicitly rejects the prospect of learning shorthand, viewing it as a tool for female servitude when she would rather be the one in a position of power.
I saw their mouths going up and down without a sound, as if they were sitting on the deck of a departing ship, stranding me in the middle of a huge silence.
ely,
challenging expression. He could almost have been an American, he
was so tan and had such good teeth, but I could tell straight away
that he wasnât. He had what no American man Iâve ever met has had,
and thatâs intuition.
From the start Constantin guessed I wasnât any protĂŠgĂŠe of Mrs
Willardâs. I raised an eyebrow here and dropped a dry little laugh
there, and pretty soon we were both openly raking Mrs Willard over
the coals and I thought, âThis Constantin wonât mind if Iâm too tall
and donât know enough languages and havenât been to Europe, heâll
see through all that stuff to what I really am.â
Constantin drove me to the UN in his old green convertible with
cracked, comfortable brown leather seats and the top down. He told
me his tan came from playing tennis, and when we were sitting
there side by side flying down the streets in the open sun he took
my hand and squeezed it, and I felt happier than I had been since
I was about nine and running along the hot white beaches with my
father the summer before he died.
And while Constantin and I sat in one of those hushed plush
auditoriums in the UN, next to a stern muscular Russian girl with
no make-up who was a simultaneous interpreter like Constantin, I
thought how strange it had never occurred to me before that I was
only purely happy until I was nine years old.
After thatâin spite of the Girl Scouts and the piano lessons and
the water-colour lessons and the dancing lessons and the sailing
camp, all of which my mother scrimped to give me, and college, with
crewing in the mist before breakfast and black-bottom pies and the
little new firecrackers of ideas going off every dayâI had never been
really happy again.
I stared through the Russian girl in her double-breasted grey suit,
Chapter 7 | 71
rattling off idiom after idiom in her own unknowable tongueâwhich
Constantin said was the most difficult part, because the Russians
didnât have the same idioms as our idiomsâand I wished with all my
heart I could crawl into her and spend the rest of my life barking
out one idiom after another. It mightnât make me any happier, but
it would be one more little pebble of efficiency among all the other
pebbles.
Then Constantin and the Russian girl interpreter and the whole
bunch of black and white and yellow men arguing down there
behind their labelled microphones seemed to move off at a distance.
I saw their mouths going up and down without a sound, as if they
were sitting on the deck of a departing ship, stranding me in the
middle of a huge silence.
I started adding up all the things I couldnât do.
I began with cooking.
My grandmother and my mother were such good cooks that I left
everything to them. They were always trying to teach me one dish
or another, but I would just look on and say, âYes, yes, I see,â while
the instructions slid through my head like water, and then Iâd always
spoil what I did so nobody would ask me to do it again.
I remember Jody, my best and only girl-friend at college in my
freshman year, making me scrambled eggs at her house one
morning. They tasted unusual, and when I asked her if she had put
in anything extra, she said cheese and garlic salt. I asked who told
her to do that, and she said nobody, she just thought it up. But then,
she was practical and a sociology major.
I didnât know shorthand either.
This meant I couldnât get a good job after college. My mother
kept telling me nobody wanted a plain English major. But an English
major who knew shorthand was something else again. Everybody
would want her. She would be in demand among all the up-and-
coming young men and she would transcribe letter after thrilling
letter.
The trouble was, I hated the idea of serving men in any way.
I wanted to dictate my own thrilling letters. Besides, those little
72 | The Bell Jar
shorthand symbols in the book my mother showed me seemed just
as bad as let t equal time and let s equal the total distance.
My list grew longer.
I was a terrible dancer. I couldnât carry a tune. I ha
The Withering Fig-Tree
Esther rejects the idea of serving men through shorthand, wishing instead to be the one dictating her own life and letters.
She compiles a list of her many perceived inadequacies, from a lack of physical coordination to her ignorance of world geography and languages.
The narrator realizes that her identity as a prize-winning student is fading as she enters an adult world where academic accolades feel like dates on a tombstone.
She envisions her future as a branching fig-tree where every possible life path is a tempting fruit she is too paralyzed to pick.
Her inability to choose one 'fig' results in all of them rotting and falling to the ground, leaving her in a state of existential starvation.
A meal in a cellar restaurant with Constantin momentarily eases her despair, leading her to wonder if her dark vision was partly caused by physical hunger.
I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig-tree, starving to death, just because I couldnât make up my mind which of the figs I would choose.
again. Everybody
would want her. She would be in demand among all the up-and-
coming young men and she would transcribe letter after thrilling
letter.
The trouble was, I hated the idea of serving men in any way.
I wanted to dictate my own thrilling letters. Besides, those little
72 | The Bell Jar
shorthand symbols in the book my mother showed me seemed just
as bad as let t equal time and let s equal the total distance.
My list grew longer.
I was a terrible dancer. I couldnât carry a tune. I had no sense of
balance, and when we had to walk down a narrow board with our
hands out and a book on our heads in gym class I always fell over.
I couldnât ride a horse or ski, the two things I wanted to do most,
because they cost too much money. I couldnât speak German or read
Hebrew or write Chinese. I didnât even know where most of the odd
out-of-the-way countries the UN men in front of me represented
fitted in on the map.
For the first time in my life, sitting there in the sound-proof heart
of the UN building between Constantin who could play tennis as
well as simultaneously interpret and the Russian girl who knew so
many idioms, I felt dreadfully inadequate. The trouble was, I had
been inadequate all along, I simply hadnât thought about it.
The one thing I was good at was winning scholarships and prizes,
and that era was coming to an end.
I felt like a racehorse in a world without race-tracks or a
champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and
a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his
mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone.
I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig-tree in
the story.
From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful
future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy
home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another
fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing
editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America,
and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack
of other lovers with queer names and off-beat professions, and
another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and
above these figs were many more figs I couldnât quite make out.
I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig-tree, starving to death,
just because I couldnât make up my mind which of the figs I would
Chapter 7 | 73
choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one
meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the
figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to
the ground at my feet.
Constantinâs restaurant smelt of herbs and spices and sour cream.
All the time I had been in New York I had never found such a
restaurant. I only found those Heavenly Hamburger places, where
they serve giant hamburgers and soup-of-the-day and four kinds of
fancy cake at a very clean counter facing a long glarey mirror.
To reach this restaurant we had to climb down seven dimly-lit
steps into a sort of cellar.
Travel posters plastered the smoke-dark walls, like so many
picture windows overlooking Swiss lakes and Japanese mountains
and African velds, and thick, dusty bottle-candles that seemed for
centuries to have wept their coloured waxes red over blue over
green in a fine, three-dimensional lace, cast a circle of light round
each
table
where
the
faces
floated,
flushed
and
flamelike
themselves.
I donât know what I ate, but I felt immensely better after the first
mouthful. It occurred to me that my vision of the fig-tree and all the
fat figs that withered and fell to earth might well have arisen from
the profound void of an empty stomach.
Constantin kept refilling our glasses with a sweet Greek wine that
tasted of pine bark, and I found myself telling him how I was going
to learn German and go to Europe and be a war correspondent like
Maggie Higgins.
I felt so fine by the time we came to the yoghourt and strawberry
jam that I de
Seduction and Sexual Politics
đˇ Over Greek wine and food with Constantin, the narrator's mood lifts and she shares ambitious plans to learn German and become a war correspondent.
đ She decides to let Constantin seduce her, motivated partly by Buddy Willard's earlier confession about sleeping with a waitress and her desire to even the score.
đŁď¸ She recalls Eric, a Yale Southerner who divided women into those you love (and keep pure) and those you sleep with, revealing the era's deeply conflicted attitudes toward female sexuality.
đ The narrator strategically favors Constantin as a sexual partner because he is mature, discreet, andâironicallyâwas introduced to her by Mrs. Willard, Buddy's mother.
đ Eric's grotesque first sexual experience at a whorehouse and his subsequent Madonna-whore complex ultimately disqualify him when he declares he could love her, making her untouchable in his framework.
So if he loved anybody he would never go to bed with her. He'd go to a whore if he had to and keep the woman he loved free of all that dirty business.
ly better after the first
mouthful. It occurred to me that my vision of the fig-tree and all the
fat figs that withered and fell to earth might well have arisen from
the profound void of an empty stomach.
Constantin kept refilling our glasses with a sweet Greek wine that
tasted of pine bark, and I found myself telling him how I was going
to learn German and go to Europe and be a war correspondent like
Maggie Higgins.
I felt so fine by the time we came to the yoghourt and strawberry
jam that I decided I would let Constantin seduce me.
Ever since Buddy Willard had told me about that waitress I had
been thinking I ought to go out and sleep with somebody myself.
Sleeping with Buddy wouldnât count, though, because he would still
be one person ahead of me, it would have to be with somebody else.
The only boy I ever actually discussed going to bed with was a
bitter, hawk-nosed Southerner from Yale, who came up to college
one week-end only to find his date had eloped with a taxi-driver the
74 | The Bell Jar
day before. As the girl had lived in my house and as I was the only
one home that particular night, it was my job to cheer him up.
At the local coffee-shop, hunched in one of the secretive, high-
backed booths with hundreds of peoplesâ names gouged into the
wood, we drank cup after cup of black coffee and talked frankly
about sex.
This boyâhis name was Ericâsaid he thought it disgusting the
way all the girls at my college stood around on the porches under
the porch lights and in the bushes in plain view, necking madly
before the one oâclock curfew, so everybody passing by could see
them. A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are
we? Animals.
Then Eric told me how he had slept with his first woman.
He went to a Southern prep school that specialized in building
all-round gentlemen, and by the time you graduated it was an
unwritten rule that you had to have known a woman. Known in the
Biblical sense, Eric said.
So one Saturday Eric and a few of his classmates took a bus into
the nearest city and visited a notorious whore house. Ericâs whore
hadnât even taken off her dress. She was a fat, middle-aged woman
with dyed red hair and suspiciously thick lips and rat-coloured skin
and she wouldnât turn off the light, so he had had her under a fly-
spotted twenty-five watt bulb, and it was nothing like it was cracked
up to be. It was boring as going to the toilet.
I said maybe if you loved a woman it wouldnât seem so boring, but
Eric said it would be spoiled by thinking this woman too was just an
animal like the rest, so if he loved anybody he would never go to bed
with her. Heâd go to a whore if he had to and keep the woman he
loved free of all that dirty business.
It had crossed my mind at the time that Eric might be a good
person to go to bed with, since he had already done it and, unlike
the usual run of boys, didnât seem dirty-minded or silly when he
talked about it. But then Eric wrote me a letter saying he thought
he might really be able to love me, I was so intelligent and cynical
and yet had such a kind face, surprisingly like his older sisterâs; so
Chapter 7 | 75
I knew it was no use, I was the type he would never go to bed
with, and wrote him I was unfortunately about to marry a childhood
sweetheart.
The more I thought about it the better I liked the idea of being
seduced by a simultaneous interpreter in New York City. Constantin
seemed mature and considerate in every way. There were no people
I knew he would want to brag to about it, the way college boys
bragged about sleeping with girls in the backs of cars to their room-
mates or their friends on the basketball team. And there would be
a pleasant irony in sleeping with a man Mrs Willard had introduced
me to, as if she were, in a roundabout way, to blame for it.
When Constantin asked if I would like to come up to his
apartment to hear some balalaika records I smiled to myself. My
mother had always told me never under any circumstances to go
with a man to a m
The Divide of Pureness
Esther accepts an invitation to Constantin's apartment, deliberately disregarding her mother's traditional warnings about the sexual implications of visiting a man's rooms.
She reflects on a Reader's Digest article her mother sent, which argued that women should remain chaste to navigate a world where men's and women's emotions are fundamentally different.
Esther expresses deep resentment toward the sexual double standard, citing Buddy Willard's hypocrisy as a reason to reject the requirement of female purity.
She concludes that the most significant division in the world is not political or religious, but the boundary between those who have had sex and those who have not.
The protagonist views the loss of virginity as a transformative rite of passage, imagining it will leave a visible, permanent mark on her identity, much like an alpine landscape in her eye.
Iâd come home, and if I looked closely into the mirror Iâd be able to make out a little white Alp at the back of my eye.
ag to about it, the way college boys
bragged about sleeping with girls in the backs of cars to their room-
mates or their friends on the basketball team. And there would be
a pleasant irony in sleeping with a man Mrs Willard had introduced
me to, as if she were, in a roundabout way, to blame for it.
When Constantin asked if I would like to come up to his
apartment to hear some balalaika records I smiled to myself. My
mother had always told me never under any circumstances to go
with a man to a manâs rooms after an evening out, it could mean only
the one thing.
âI am very fond of balalaika music,â I said.
Constantinâs room had a balcony, and the balcony overlooked
the river, and we could hear the hooing of the tugs down in the
darkness. I felt moved and tender and perfectly certain about what
I was going to do.
I knew I might have a baby, but that thought hung far and dim in
the distance and didnât trouble me at all. There was no one hundred
per cent sure way not to have a baby, it said in an article my mother
cut out of the Readerâs Digest and mailed to me at college. This
article was written by a married woman lawyer with children and
called âIn Defence of Chastityâ.
It gave all the reasons a girl shouldnât sleep with anybody but her
husband and then only after they were married.
The main point of the article was that a manâs world is different
from a womanâs world and a manâs emotions are different from a
womanâs emotions and only marriage can bring the two worlds and
the two different sets of emotions together properly. My mother
said this was something a girl didnât know about till it was too late,
76 | The Bell Jar
so she had to take the advice of people who were already experts,
like a married woman.
This woman lawyer said the best men wanted to be pure for their
wives, and even if they werenât pure, they wanted to be the ones to
teach their wives about sex. Of course they would try to persuade a
girl to have sex and say they would marry her later, but as soon as
she gave in, they would lose all respect for her and start saying that
if she did that with them she would do that with other men and they
would end up by making her life miserable.
The woman finished her article by saying better be safe than sorry
and besides, there was no sure way of not getting stuck with a baby
and then youâd really be in a pickle.
Now the one thing this article didnât seem to me to consider was
how a girl felt.
It might be nice to be pure and then to marry a pure man, but
what if he suddenly confessed he wasnât pure after we were married,
the way Buddy Willard had? I couldnât stand the idea of a woman
having to have a single pure life and a man being able to have a
double life, one pure and one not.
Finally I decided that if it was so difficult to find a red-blooded
intelligent man who was still pure by the time he was twenty-one I
might as well forget about staying pure myself and marry somebody
who wasnât pure either. Then when he started to make my life
miserable I could make his miserable as well.
When I was nineteen, pureness was the great issue.
Instead of the world being divided up into Catholics and
Protestants or Republicans and Democrats or white men and black
men or even men and women, I saw the world divided into people
who had slept with somebody and people who hadnât, and this
seemed the only really significant difference between one person
and another.
I thought a spectacular change would come over me the day I
crossed the boundary line.
I thought it would be the way Iâd feel if I ever visited Europe. Iâd
come home, and if I looked closely into the mirror Iâd be able to
Chapter 7 | 77
make out a little white Alp at the back of my eye. Now I thought that
if I looked into the mirror tomorrow Iâd see a doll-size Constantin
sitting in my eye and smiling out at me.
Well for about an hour we lounged on Constantinâs balcony in two
separate sling-back chairs with the victrola playing and the balalaika
records stacked between us. A
Arrows of Independence
Esther spends a platonic evening with Constantin, questioning if her lack of traditional beauty or sharp intellect prevents him from seducing her.
She describes a cycle of disillusionment where men seem perfect from afar but become deeply flawed and ordinary once they enter her life.
The prospect of marriage is viewed as a restrictive trap of security that would prevent her from pursuing her own diverse ambitions.
While watching Constantin sleep, Esther visualizes the repetitive drudgery of housework, viewing the role of a wife as a loss of identity.
I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the coloured arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
ne.
I thought it would be the way Iâd feel if I ever visited Europe. Iâd
come home, and if I looked closely into the mirror Iâd be able to
Chapter 7 | 77
make out a little white Alp at the back of my eye. Now I thought that
if I looked into the mirror tomorrow Iâd see a doll-size Constantin
sitting in my eye and smiling out at me.
Well for about an hour we lounged on Constantinâs balcony in two
separate sling-back chairs with the victrola playing and the balalaika
records stacked between us. A faint milky light diffused from the
street lights or the half-moon or the cars or the stars, I couldnât tell
what, but apart from holding my hand Constantin showed no desire
to seduce me whatsoever.
I asked if he was engaged or had any special girl friend, thinking
maybe thatâs what was the matter, but he said no, he made a point
of keeping clear of such attachments.
At last I felt a powerful drowsiness drifting through my veins from
all the pine-bark wine I had drunk.
âI think Iâll go in and lie down,â I said.
I strolled casually into the bedroom and stooped over to nudge
off my shoes. The clean bed bobbed before me like a safe boat. I
stretched full-length and shut my eyes. Then I heard Constantin
sigh and come in from the balcony. One by one his shoes clonked on
to the floor, and he lay down by my side.
I looked at him secretly from under a fall of hair.
He was lying on his back, his hands under his head, staring at
the ceiling. The starched white sleeves of his shirt, rolled up to the
elbows, glimmered eerily in the half-dark and his tan skin seemed
almost black. I thought he must be the most beautiful man Iâd ever
seen.
I thought if only I had a keen, shapely bone-structure to my
face or could discuss politics shrewdly or was a famous writer
Constantin might find me interesting enough to sleep with.
And then I wondered if as soon as he came to like me he would
sink into ordinariness, and if as soon as he came to love me I would
find fault after fault, the way I did with Buddy Willard and the boys
before him.
The same thing happened over and over:
78 | The Bell Jar
I would catch sight of some flawless man off in the distance, but
as soon as he moved closer I immediately saw he wouldnât do at all.
Thatâs 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 coloured arrows from a Fourth of July
rocket.
I woke to the sound of rain.
It was pitch dark. After a while I deciphered the faint outlines of
an unfamiliar window. Every so often a beam of light appeared out
of thin air, traversed the wall like a ghostly, exploratory finger, and
slid off into nothing again.
Then I heard the sound of somebody breathing.
At first I thought it was only myself, and that I was lying in the
dark in my hotel room after being poisoned. I held my breath, but
the breathing kept on.
A green eye glowed on the bed beside me. It was divided into
quarters like a compass. I reached out slowly and closed my hand
on it. I lifted it up. With it came an arm, heavy as a dead manâs, but
warm with sleep.
Constantinâs watch said three oâclock.
He was lying in his shirt and trousers and stocking feet just as I
had left him when I dropped asleep, and as my eyes grew used to the
darkness I made out his pale eyelids and his straight nose and his
tolerant, shapely mouth, but they seemed insubstantial, as if drawn
on fog. For a few minutes I leaned over, studying him. I had never
fallen asleep beside a man before.
I tried to imagine what it would be like if Constantin were my
husband.
It would mean getting up at seven and cooking him eggs and
bacon and toast and coffee and dawdling about in my nightgown
and curlers after heâd left for work to wash up the dirty plates
and make the bed, and then when he came home after a lively,
fascinating day heâd expect a big dinner, and Iâd spend the evening
Chapter 7 | 7
The Trap of Domesticity
The narrator reflects on the grim reality of marriage, viewing it as a cycle of domestic labor that exhausts a womanâs identity and potential.
She uses the metaphor of Mrs. Willardâs hand-braided rug to illustrate how a womanâs creative efforts are often used as literal mats for men to trample upon.
Esther fears that the roles of wife and mother act as a form of brainwashing, turning ambitious women into numb slaves in a 'private, totalitarian state.'
Despite a brief, tender moment with Constantin, the narrator remains disillusioned and unable to reconcile her personal desires with societal expectations.
The section ends with a haunting realization about a past injury, as Esther admits she may have broken her leg on purpose as an act of self-assertion or escape.
And I knew that in spite of all the roses and kisses and restaurant dinners a man showered on a woman before he married her, what he secretly wanted when the wedding service ended was for her to flatten out underneath his feet like Mrs Willardâs kitchen mat.
fog. For a few minutes I leaned over, studying him. I had never
fallen asleep beside a man before.
I tried to imagine what it would be like if Constantin were my
husband.
It would mean getting up at seven and cooking him eggs and
bacon and toast and coffee and dawdling about in my nightgown
and curlers after heâd left for work to wash up the dirty plates
and make the bed, and then when he came home after a lively,
fascinating day heâd expect a big dinner, and Iâd spend the evening
Chapter 7 | 79
washing up even more dirty plates till I fell into bed, utterly
exhausted.
This seemed a dreary and wasted life for a girl with fifteen years of
straight Aâs, but I knew thatâs what marriage was like, because cook
and clean and wash was just what Buddy Willardâs mother did from
morning till night, and she was the wife of a university professor and
had been a private school teacher herself.
Once when I visited Buddy I found Mrs Willard braiding a rug out
of strips of wool from Mr Willardâs old suits. Sheâd spent weeks on
that rug, and I had admired the tweedy browns and greens and blues
patterning the braid, but after Mrs Willard was through, instead of
hanging the rug on the wall the way I would have done, she put it
down in place of her kitchen mat, and in a few days it was soiled and
dull and indistinguishable from any mat you could buy for under a
dollar in the Five and Ten.
And I knew that in spite of all the roses and kisses and restaurant
dinners a man showered on a woman before he married her, what
he secretly wanted when the wedding service ended was for her to
flatten out underneath his feet like Mrs Willardâs kitchen mat.
Hadnât my own mother told me that as soon as she and my father
left Reno on their honeymoonâmy father had been married before,
so he needed a divorceâmy father said to her, âWhew, thatâs a relief,
now we can stop pretending and be ourselves,ââand from that day
on my mother never had a minuteâs peace.
I also remembered Buddy Willard saying in a sinister, knowing
way that after I had children I would feel differently, I wouldnât
want to write poems any more. So I began to think maybe it was
true that when you were married and had children it was like being
brainwashed, and afterwards you went about numb as a slave in
some private, totalitarian state.
As I stared down at Constantin the way you stare down at a bright,
unattainable pebble at the bottom of a deep well, his eyelids lifted
and he looked through me, and his eyes were full of love. I watched
dumbly as a little shutter of recognition clicked across the blur of
80 | The Bell Jar
tenderness and the wide pupils went glossy and depthless as patent
leather.
Constantin sat up, yawning. âWhat time is it?â
âThree,â I said in a flat voice. âI better go home. I have to be at
work first thing in the morning.â
âIâll drive you.â
As we sat back to back on our separate sides of the bed fumbling
with our shoes in the horrid cheerful white light of the bed lamp, I
sensed Constantin turn round. âIs your hair always like that?â
âLike what?â
He didnât answer but reached over and put his hand at the root of
my hair and ran his fingers out slowly to the tip ends like a comb.
A little electric shock flared through me, and I sat quite still. Ever
since I was small I loved feeling somebody comb my hair. It made me
go all sleepy and peaceful.
âAh, I know what it is,â Constantin said. âYouâve just washed it.â
And he bent to lace up his tennis shoes.
An hour later I lay in my hotel bed, listening to the rain. It didnât
even sound like rain, it sounded like a tap running. The ache in the
middle of my left shin bone came to life, and I abandoned any hope
of sleep before seven, when my radio-alarm clock would rouse me
with its hearty renderings of Sousa.
Every time it rained the old leg-break seemed to remember itself,
and what it remembered was a dull hurt.
Then I thought, âBuddy Willard made me break that leg.â
Then I thought, âNo, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pa
A Cold Road North
The narrator reflects on a past injury, admitting she broke her leg on purpose as a form of self-punishment for her perceived moral failures.
Traveling to the Adirondacks after Christmas, the narrator experiences a deep sense of disappointment and post-holiday gloom.
Mr. Willard expresses a paternal fondness for the narrator, an awkward gesture that leaves her feeling trapped by his innocent, trusting nature.
The narrator contrasts Buddy Willardâs hyper-active philosophy of life with the forced, dangerous stillness required to treat his tuberculosis.
The sanatorium is described in grim, medicinal terms, featuring a liver-colored aesthetic and walls marred by dampness and mold.
But one glance at Mr Willardâs faceâthe silver hair in its boyish crewcut, the clear blue eyes, the pink cheeks, all frosted like a sweet wedding cake with the innocent, trusting expressionâand I knew I couldnât do it.
listening to the rain. It didnât
even sound like rain, it sounded like a tap running. The ache in the
middle of my left shin bone came to life, and I abandoned any hope
of sleep before seven, when my radio-alarm clock would rouse me
with its hearty renderings of Sousa.
Every time it rained the old leg-break seemed to remember itself,
and what it remembered was a dull hurt.
Then I thought, âBuddy Willard made me break that leg.â
Then I thought, âNo, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay
myself back for being such a heel.â
Chapter 7 | 81
Chapter 8
Mr Willard drove me up to the Adirondacks.
It was the day after Christmas and a grey sky bellied over us, fat
with snow. I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I
always do the day after Christmas, as if whatever it was the pine
boughs and the candles and the silver and gilt-ribboned presents
and the birch-log fires and the Christmas turkey and the carols at
the piano promised never came to pass.
At Christmas I almost wished I was a Catholic.
First Mr Willard drove and then I drove. I donât know what we
talked about, but as the countryside, already deep under old falls
of snow, turned us a bleaker shoulder, and as the fir trees crowded
down from the grey hills to the road edge, so darkly green they
looked black, I grew gloomier and gloomier.
I was tempted to tell Mr Willard to go ahead alone, I would hitch-
hike home.
But one glance at Mr Willardâs faceâthe silver hair in its boyish
crewcut, the clear blue eyes, the pink cheeks, all frosted like a sweet
wedding cake with the innocent, trusting expressionâand I knew I
couldnât do it. Iâd have to see the visit through to the end.
At midday the greyness paled a bit, and we parked in an icy turn-
off and shared out the tunafish sandwiches and the oatmeal cookies
and the apples and the thermos of black coffee Mrs Willard had
packed for our lunch.
Mr Willard eyed me kindly. Then he cleared his throat and
brushed a few last crumbs from his lap. I could tell he was going
to say something serious, because he was very shy, and Iâd heard
him clear his throat in that same way before giving an important
economics lecture.
âNelly and I have always wanted a daughter.â
For one crazy minute I thought Mr Willard was going to announce
82 | Chapter 8
that Mrs Willard was pregnant and expecting a baby girl. Then he
said, âBut I donât see how any daughter could be nicer than you.â
Mr Willard must have thought I was crying because I was so
glad he wanted to be a father to me. âThere, there,â he patted
my shoulder and cleared his throat once or twice. âI think we
understand each other.â
Then he opened the car door on his side and strolled round to
my side, his breath shaping tortuous smoke signals in the grey air.
I moved over to the seat he had left and he started the car and we
drove on.
Iâm not sure what I expected of Buddyâs sanatorium.
I think I expected a kind of wooden chalet perched up on top of a
small mountain, with rosy-cheeked young men and women, all very
attractive but with hectic glittering eyes, lying covered with thick
blankets on outdoor balconies.
âTB is like living with a bomb in your lung,â Buddy had written to
me at college. âYou just lie around very quietly hoping it wonât go
off.â
I found it hard to imagine Buddy lying quietly. His whole
philosophy of life was to be up and doing every second. Even when
we went to the beach in the summer he never lay down to drowse
in the sun the way I did. He ran back and forth or played ball or did
a little series of rapid push-ups to use the time.
Mr Willard and I waited in the reception room for the end of the
afternoon rest cure.
The colour scheme of the whole sanatorium seemed to be based
on liver. Dark, glowering woodwork, burnt-brown leather chairs,
walls that might once have been white but had succumbed under
a spreading malady of mould or damp. A mottled brown linoleum
sealed off the floor.
On a low coffee-table, with circular and semi-circular stains
bitten into the
The Liver-Colored Sanatorium
Esther and Mr. Willard wait in a grim reception room defined by a liver-colored palette and walls succumbing to mold.
Buddy Willard has unexpectedly gained significant weight due to the sanatoriumâs regimen of forced feeding and constant rest.
The interaction between Esther and Buddy is defined by a forced, dreadful brightness and an underlying sense of discomfort.
Mr. Willard abruptly departs and leaves Esther alone at the facility, making her feel abandoned and trapped.
He kept smiling, as if the corners of his mouth were strung up on invisible wire.
ed ball or did
a little series of rapid push-ups to use the time.
Mr Willard and I waited in the reception room for the end of the
afternoon rest cure.
The colour scheme of the whole sanatorium seemed to be based
on liver. Dark, glowering woodwork, burnt-brown leather chairs,
walls that might once have been white but had succumbed under
a spreading malady of mould or damp. A mottled brown linoleum
sealed off the floor.
On a low coffee-table, with circular and semi-circular stains
bitten into the dark veneer, lay a few wilted numbers of Time and
Life. I flipped to the middle of the nearest magazine. The face of
Eisenhower beamed up at me, bald and blank as the face of a foetus
in a bottle.
Chapter 8 | 83
After a while I became aware of a sly, leaking noise. For a minute
I thought the walls had begun to discharge the moisture that must
saturate them, but then I saw the noise came from a small fountain
in one corner of the room.
The fountain spurted a few inches into the air from a rough
length of pipe, threw up its hands, collapsed and drowned its ragged
dribble in a stone basin of yellowing water. The basin was paved with
the white hexagonal tiles one finds in public lavatories.
A buzzer sounded. Doors opened and shut in the distance. Then
Buddy came in.
âHello, Dad.â
Buddy
hugged
his
father,
and
promptly,
with
a
dreadful
brightness, came over to me and held out his hand. I shook it. It felt
moist and fat.
Mr Willard and I sat together on a leather couch. Buddy perched
opposite us on the edge of a slippery armchair. He kept smiling, as if
the corners of his mouth were strung up on invisible wire.
The last thing I expected was for Buddy to be fat. All the time I
thought of him at the sanatorium I saw shadows carving themselves
under his cheekbones and his eyes burning out of almost fleshless
sockets.
But everything concave about Buddy had suddenly turned convex.
A pot belly swelled under the tight white nylon shirt and his cheeks
were round and ruddy as marzipan fruit. Even his laugh sounded
plump.
Buddyâs eyes met mine. âItâs the eating,â he said. âThey stuff us day
after day and then just make us lie around. But Iâm allowed out on
walk-hours now, so donât worry, Iâll thin down in a couple of weeks.â
He jumped up, smiling like a glad host. âWould you like to see my
room?â
I followed Buddy, and Mr Willard followed me, through a pair of
swinging doors set with panes of frosted glass down a dim, liver-
coloured corridor smelling of floor wax and lysol and another
vaguer odour, like bruised gardenias.
84 | The Bell Jar
Buddy threw open a brown door, and we filed into the narrow
room.
A lumpy bed, shrouded by a thin white spread, pencil-striped with
blue, took up most of the space. Next to it stood a bed table with
a pitcher and a water glass and the silver twig of a thermometer
poking up from a jar of pink disinfectant. A second table, covered
with books and papers and off-kilter clay potsâbaked and painted,
but not glazedâsqueezed itself between the bed foot and the closet
door.
âWell,â Mr Willard breathed, âit looks comfortable enough.â
Buddy laughed.
âWhat are these?â I picked up a clay ashtray in the shape of a
lilypad, with the veinings carefully drawn in yellow on a murky green
ground. Buddy didnât smoke.
âThatâs an ashtray,â Buddy said. âItâs for you.â
I put the tray down. âI donât smoke.â
âI know,â Buddy said. âI thought you might like it, though.â
âWell,â Mr Willard rubbed one papery lip against another. âI guess
Iâll be getting on. I guess Iâll be leaving you two young peopleâŚâ
âFine, Dad. You be getting on.â
I was surprised. I had thought Mr Willard was going to stay the
night before driving me back the next day.
âShall I come too?â
âNo, no.â Mr Willard peeled a few bills from his wallet and handed
them to Buddy. âSee that Esther gets a comfortable seat on the train.
Sheâll stay a day or so, maybe.â
Buddy escorted his father to the door.
I felt Mr Willard had deserted me. I thought he must have planned
it all along, bu
A Proposal Rejected
Mr. Willard departs the sanatorium abruptly, revealing his belief that physical illness is essentially a failure of human will.
Buddy attempts to impress Esther with a published poem, but Esther privately finds his creative efforts mediocre and dreadful.
Despite his ongoing battle with tuberculosis, Buddy proposes marriage to Esther, expecting her to wait for his recovery and return to medical school.
Esther rejects the proposal by asserting she will never marry, effectively using Buddyâs past diagnosis of her as a 'neurotic' to justify her resistance to a conventional life.
I thought Buddy might well be sitting in his own little murderous aura of TB germs.
n. I guess Iâll be leaving you two young peopleâŚâ
âFine, Dad. You be getting on.â
I was surprised. I had thought Mr Willard was going to stay the
night before driving me back the next day.
âShall I come too?â
âNo, no.â Mr Willard peeled a few bills from his wallet and handed
them to Buddy. âSee that Esther gets a comfortable seat on the train.
Sheâll stay a day or so, maybe.â
Buddy escorted his father to the door.
I felt Mr Willard had deserted me. I thought he must have planned
it all along, but Buddy said No, his father simply couldnât stand the
sight of sickness and especially his own sonâs sickness, because he
thought all sickness was sickness of the will. Mr Willard had never
been sick a day in his life.
I sat down on Buddyâs bed. There simply wasnât anywhere else to
sit.
Chapter 8 | 85
Buddy rummaged among his papers in a businesslike way. Then
he handed me a thin, grey magazine. âTurn to page eleven.â
The magazine was printed somewhere in Maine and full of
stencilled poems and descriptive paragraphs separated from each
other by asterisks. On page eleven I found a poem titled âFlorida
Dawn.â I skipped down through image after image about water-
melon lights and turtle-green palms and shells fluted like bits of
Greek architecture.
âNot bad.â I thought it was dreadful.
âWho wrote it?â Buddy asked with an odd, pigeony smile.
My eye dropped to the name on the lower right-hand corner of
the page. B. S. Willard.
âI donât know.â Then I said, âOf course I know, Buddy. You wrote it.â
Buddy edged over to me.
I edged back. I had very little knowledge about TB, but it seemed
to me an extremely sinister disease, the way it went on so invisibly. I
thought Buddy might well be sitting in his own little murderous aura
of TB germs.
âDonât worry,â Buddy laughed. âIâm not positive.â
âPositive?â
âYou wonât catch anything.â
Buddy stopped for a breath, the way you do in the middle of
climbing something very steep.
âI want to ask you a question.â He had a disquieting new habit of
boring into my eyes with his look as if actually bent on piercing my
head, the better to analyse what went on inside it.
âIâd thought of asking it by letter.â
I had a fleeting vision of a pale blue envelope with a Yale crest on
the back flap.
âBut then I decided it would be better if I waited until you came
up, so I could ask you in person.â He paused. âWell, donât you want
to know what it is?â
âWhat?â I said in a small, unpromising voice.
Buddy sat down beside me. He put his arm around my waist and
86 | The Bell Jar
brushed the hair from my ear. I didnât move. Then I heard him
whisper, âHow would you like to be Mrs Buddy Willard?â
I had an awful impulse to laugh.
I thought how that question would have bowled me over at any
time in my five-or six-year period of adoring Buddy Willard from a
distance.
Buddy saw me hesitate.
âOh, Iâm in no shape now, I know,â he said quickly. âIâm still on
P.A.S. and I may yet lose a rib or two, but Iâll be back at med school
by next fall. A year from this spring at the latestâŚâ
âI think I should tell you something, Buddy.â
âI know,â Buddy said stiffly. âYouâve met someone.â
âNo, itâs not that.â
âWhat is it, then?â
âIâm never going to get married.â
âYouâre crazy.â Buddy brightened. âYouâll change your mind.â
âNo. My mindâs made up.â
But Buddy just went on looking cheerful.
âRemember,â I said, âthat time you hitch-hiked back to college
with me after Skit Night?â
âI remember.â
âRemember how you asked me where would I like to live best, the
country or the city?â
âAnd you saidâŚâ
âAnd I said I wanted to live in the country and in the city both?â
Buddy nodded.
âAnd you,â I continued with sudden force, âlaughed and said I had
the perfect set-up of a true neurotic and that that question came
from some questionnaire youâd had in psychology class that week?â
Buddyâs smile dimmed.
âWell, you were right. I am neurotic. I could never settle down in
either the country or the city.â
âYou could live between them,â Buddy suggested helpfully. âThen
you c
Mutually Exclusive Desires
Esther defines neurosis as the desire for two mutually exclusive things at once, such as living in the country and the city simultaneously.
Buddy attempts to accommodate Esther's internal conflict with a practical compromise and an offer to accompany her in her restlessness.
The narrative transitions to a ski trip where Buddy's characteristic persistence leads him to attempt to teach Esther to ski despite neither of them having prior experience.
Esther reflects on Buddy's medical school success in persuading grieving families to allow autopsies, characterizing him as clinical and relentlessly persuasive.
Standing at the top of a frozen summit, Esther describes the icy landscape and prepares for a reckless descent toward Buddy on the sidelines.
If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then Iâm neurotic as hell.
or the city?â
âAnd you saidâŚâ
âAnd I said I wanted to live in the country and in the city both?â
Buddy nodded.
âAnd you,â I continued with sudden force, âlaughed and said I had
the perfect set-up of a true neurotic and that that question came
from some questionnaire youâd had in psychology class that week?â
Buddyâs smile dimmed.
âWell, you were right. I am neurotic. I could never settle down in
either the country or the city.â
âYou could live between them,â Buddy suggested helpfully. âThen
you could go to the city sometimes and to the country sometimes.â
âWell, whatâs so neurotic about that?â
Chapter 8 | 87
Buddy didnât answer.
âWell?â I rapped out, thinking, âYou canât coddle these sick people,
itâs the worst thing for them, itâll spoil them to bits.â
âNothing,â Buddy said in a pale, still voice.
âNeurotic, ha!â I let out a scornful laugh. âIf neurotic is wanting
two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then Iâm
neurotic as hell. Iâll be flying back and forth between one mutually
exclusive thing and another for the rest of my days.â
Buddy put his hand on mine.
âLet me fly with you.â
I stood at the top of the ski slope on Mount Pisgah, looking down.
I had no business to be up there. I had never skied before in my life.
Still, I thought I would enjoy the view while I had the chance.
At my left, the rope tow deposited skier after skier on the snowy
summit which, packed by much crossing and re-crossing and
slightly melted in the noon sun, had hardened to the consistency
and polish of glass. The cold air punished my lungs and sinuses to a
visionary clearness.
On every side of me the red and blue and white jacketed skiers
tore away down the blinding slope like fugitive bits of an American
flag. From the foot of the ski run, the imitation log cabin lodge piped
its popular songs into the overhang of silence.
Gazing down on the Jungfrau
From our chalet for twoâŚ
The lilt and boom threaded by me like an invisible rivulet in a
desert of snow. One careless, superb gesture, and I would be hurled
into motion down the slope towards the small khaki spot in the
sidelines, among the spectators, which was Buddy Willard.
All morning Buddy had been teaching me how to ski.
First, Buddy borrowed skis and ski poles from a friend of his in the
village, and ski boots from a doctorâs wife whose feet were only one
size larger than my own, and a red ski jacket from a student nurse.
His persistence in the face of mulishness was astounding.
Then I remembered that at medical school Buddy had won a
prize for persuading the most relatives of dead people to have their
88 | The Bell Jar
dead ones cut up whether they needed it or not, in the interests
of science. I forget what the prize was, but I could just see Buddy
in his white coat with his stethoscope sticking out of a side pocket
like part of his anatomy, smiling and bowing and talking those numb,
dumb relatives into signing the post-mortem papers.
Next, Buddy borrowed a car from his own doctor, whoâd had TB
himself and was very understanding, and we drove off as the buzzer
for walk-hour rasped along the sunless sanatorium corridors.
Buddy had never skied before either, but he said that the
elementary principles were quite simple, and as heâd often watched
the ski instructors and their pupils he could teach me all Iâd need to
know.
For the first half-hour I obediently herring-boned up a small
slope, pushed off with my poles and coasted straight down. Buddy
seemed pleased with my progress.
âThatâs fine, Esther,â he observed, as I negotiated my slope for the
twentieth time. âNow letâs try you on the rope tow.â
I stepped in my tracks, flushed and panting.
âBut Buddy, I donât know how to zigzag yet. All those people
coming down from the top know how to zigzag.â
âOh, you need only go half-way. Then you wonât gain very much
momentum.â
And Buddy accompanied me to the rope tow and showed me how
to let the rope run through my hands, and then told me to close my
fingers round it and go up.
It never o
The Straight Path Down
Buddy encourages Esther to take the rope tow to the top of the ski slope, despite her lack of experience in navigating the terrain.
From the peak, Esther experiences a sudden detachment from reality, viewing the other skiers as insignificant 'animalcules' while facing the vast, indifferent sky.
Rejecting the impulse to play it safe, Esther embraces a cold, clear thought of self-destruction as she prepares to ski straight down.
Her reckless descent provides a fleeting moment of pure happiness, feeling as though she is stripping away years of social performance and compromise.
The experience concludes with a violent crash that returns Esther to the physical world, where Buddy and others rush to assist her.
The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
e, Esther,â he observed, as I negotiated my slope for the
twentieth time. âNow letâs try you on the rope tow.â
I stepped in my tracks, flushed and panting.
âBut Buddy, I donât know how to zigzag yet. All those people
coming down from the top know how to zigzag.â
âOh, you need only go half-way. Then you wonât gain very much
momentum.â
And Buddy accompanied me to the rope tow and showed me how
to let the rope run through my hands, and then told me to close my
fingers round it and go up.
It never occurred to me to say no.
I wrapped my fingers around the rough, bruising snake of a rope
that slithered through them, and went up.
But the rope dragged me, wobbling and balancing, so rapidly
I couldnât hope to dissociate myself from it half-way. There was
a skier in front of me and a skier behind me, and Iâd have been
knocked over and stuck full of skis and poles the minute I let go, and
I didnât want to make trouble, so I hung quietly on.
At the top, though, I had second thoughts.
Buddy singled me out, hesitating there in the red jacket. His arms
Chapter 8 | 89
chopped the air like khaki windmills. Then I saw he was signalling
me to come down a path that had opened in the middle of the
weaving skiers. But as I poised, uneasy, with a dry throat, the
smooth white path from my feet to his feet grew blurred.
A skier crossed it from the left, another crossed it from the right,
and Buddyâs arms went on waving feebly as antennae from the other
side of a field swarming with tiny moving animalcules like germs, or
bent, bright exclamation marks.
I looked up from that churning amphitheatre to the view beyond
it.
The great, grey eye of the sky looked back at me, its mist-
shrouded sun focusing all the white and silent distances that poured
from every point of the compass, hill after pale hill, to stall at my
feet.
The interior voice nagging me not to be a foolâto save my skin
and take off my skis and walk down, camouflaged by the scrub pines
bordering the slopeâfled like a disconsolate mosquito. The thought
that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a
flower.
I measured the distance to Buddy with my eye.
His arms were folded, now, and he seemed of a piece with the
split-rail fence behind himânumb, brown and inconsequential.
Edging to the rim of the hilltop, I dug the spikes of my poles into
the snow and pushed myself into a flight I knew I couldnât stop by
skill or any belated access of will.
I aimed straight down.
A keen wind that had been hiding itself struck me full in the mouth
and raked the hair back horizontal on my head. I was descending,
but the white sun rose no higher. It hung over the suspended waves
of the hills, an insentient pivot without which the world would not
exist.
A small, answering point in my own body flew towards it. I felt
my lungs inflate with the inrush of sceneryâair, mountains, trees,
people. I thought, âThis is what it is to be happy.â
I plummeted down past the zigzaggers, the students, the experts,
90 | The Bell Jar
through year after year of doubleness and smiles and compromise,
into my own past.
People and trees receded on either hand like the dark sides of a
tunnel as I hurtled on to the still, bright point at the end of it, the
pebble at the bottom of the well, the white sweet baby cradled in its
motherâs belly.
My teeth crunched a gravelly mouthful. Ice water seeped down
my throat.
Buddyâs face hung over me, near and huge, like a distracted planet.
Other faces showed themselves up in back of his. Behind them,
black dots swarmed on a plane of whiteness. Piece by piece, as at
the strokes of a dull godmotherâs wand, the old world sprang back
into position.
âYou were doing fine,â a familiar voice informed my ear, âuntil that
man stepped into your path.â
People were unfastening my bindings and collecting my ski poles
from
where
they
poked
skyward,
askew,
in
their
separate
snowbanks. The lodge fence propped itself at my back.
Buddy bent to pull off my boots and the several pairs of white
wool soc
Bile Green and Broken Bones
Buddy informs Esther that her skiing accident resulted in a leg broken in two places, effectively ending her mobility for months.
Esther returns to the vacuous world of the fashion magazine, where she finds herself increasingly alienated by her colleague Hilda's superficiality.
The looming execution of the Rosenbergs serves as a grim backdrop, revealing a disturbing lack of empathy in Hilda, who expresses joy at their impending deaths.
While attempting to pose for a magazine photo shoot, Esther experiences a mounting internal crisis and a desperate, inexplicable urge to cry.
I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.
ind them,
black dots swarmed on a plane of whiteness. Piece by piece, as at
the strokes of a dull godmotherâs wand, the old world sprang back
into position.
âYou were doing fine,â a familiar voice informed my ear, âuntil that
man stepped into your path.â
People were unfastening my bindings and collecting my ski poles
from
where
they
poked
skyward,
askew,
in
their
separate
snowbanks. The lodge fence propped itself at my back.
Buddy bent to pull off my boots and the several pairs of white
wool socks that padded them. His plump hand shut on my left foot,
then inched up my ankle, closing and probing, as if feeling for a
concealed weapon.
A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I
wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential
as the blade of a knife.
âIâm going up,â I said. âIâm going to do it again.â
âNo, youâre not.â
A queer, satisfied expression came over Buddyâs face.
âNo, youâre not,â he repeated with a final smile. âYour legâs broken
in two places. Youâll be stuck in a cast for months.â
Chapter 8 | 91
Chapter 9
âIâm so glad theyâre going to die.â
Hilda arched her cat-limbs in a yawn, buried her head in her arms
on the conference table and went back to sleep. A wisp of bilious
green straw perched on her brow like a tropical bird.
Bile green. They were promoting it for fall, only Hilda, as usual,
was half a year ahead of time. Bile green with black, bile green with
white, bile green with nile green, its kissing cousin.
Fashion blurbs, silver and full of nothing, sent up their fishy
bubbles in my brain. They surfaced with a hollow pop.
Iâm so glad theyâre going to die.
I cursed the luck that had timed my arrival in the hotel cafeteria
to coincide with Hildaâs. After a late night I felt too dull to think up
the excuse that would take me back to my room for the glove, the
handkerchief, the umbrella, the notebook I forgot. My penalty was
the long, dead walk from the frosted glass doors of the Amazon to
the strawberry-marble slab of our entry on Madison Avenue.
Hilda moved like a mannequin the whole way.
âThatâs a lovely hat, did you make it?â
I half-expected Hilda to turn on me and say, âYou sound sickâ, but
she only extended and then retracted her swanny neck.
âYes.â
The night before Iâd seen a play where the heroine was possessed
by a dybbuk, and when the dybbuk spoke from her mouth its voice
sounded so cavernous and deep you couldnât tell whether it was a
man or a woman. Well Hildaâs voice sounded just like the voice of
that dybbuk.
She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to
make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist. The
silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my
fault.
So I said, âIsnât it awful about the Rosenbergs?â
92 | Chapter 9
The Rosenbergs were to be electrocuted late that night.
âYes!â Hilda said, and at last I felt I had touched a human string in
the catâs cradle of her heart. It was only as the two of us waited for
the others in the tomb-like morning gloom of the conference room
that Hilda amplified that Yes of hers.
âItâs awful such people should be alive.â
She yawned then, and her pale orange mouth opened on a large
darkness. Fascinated, I stared at the blind cave behind her face until
the two lips met and moved and the dybbuk spoke out of its hiding
place, âIâm so glad theyâre going to die.â
âCome on, give us a smile.â
I sat on the pink velvet love-seat in Jay Ceeâs office, holding a
paper rose and facing the magazine photographer. I was the last of
the twelve to have my picture taken. I had tried concealing myself in
the powder-room, but it didnât work. Betsy had spied my feet under
the doors.
I didnât want my picture taken because I was going to cry. I didnât
know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me
or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and
the sobs would fly out of my throat and Iâd cry for a week. I could
feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like wa
The Forced Smile
Esther experiences intense emotional fragility, feeling as though she is an overfilled glass of water on the verge of shattering.
While other girls hold props representing specific careers, Esther feels lost and eventually identifies herself as a poet.
The photographer's demand for a happy expression triggers a complete emotional breakdown, causing the hidden misery to finally burst out.
Following the breakdown, Esther feels a hollow sense of relief, describing herself as the discarded skin of a terrible animal.
She finds a fleeting moment of hope in the office's 'snowy avalanche' of manuscripts, visualizing her own name typed on a future piece of work.
I felt limp and betrayed, like the skin shed by a terrible animal.
hotographer. I was the last of
the twelve to have my picture taken. I had tried concealing myself in
the powder-room, but it didnât work. Betsy had spied my feet under
the doors.
I didnât want my picture taken because I was going to cry. I didnât
know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me
or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and
the sobs would fly out of my throat and Iâd cry for a week. I could
feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that
is unsteady and too full.
This was the last round of photographs before the magazine went
to press and we returned to Tulsa or Biloxi or Teaneck or Coos
Bay or wherever weâd come from, and we were supposed to be
photographed with props to show what we wanted to be.
Betsy held an ear of corn to show she wanted to be a farmerâs
wife, and Hilda held the bald, faceless head of a hatmakerâs dummy
to show she wanted to design hats, and Doreen held a gold-
embroidered sari to show she wanted to be a social worker in India
(she didnât really, she told me, she only wanted to get her hands on a
sari).
When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didnât know.
âOh, sure you know,â the photographer said.
âShe wants,â said Jay Cee wittily, âto be everything.â
Chapter 9 | 93
I said I wanted to be a poet.
Then they scouted about for something for me to hold.
Jay Cee suggested a book of poems, but the photographer said
no, that was too obvious. It should be something that showed what
inspired the poems. Finally Jay Cee unclipped the single, long-
stemmed paper rose from her latest hat.
The photographer fiddled with his hot white lights. âShow us how
happy it makes you to write a poem.â
I stared through the frieze of rubber plant leaves in Jay Ceeâs
window to the blue sky beyond. A few stagey cloud puffs were
travelling from right to left. I fixed my eyes on the largest cloud, as
if, when it passed out of sight, I might have the good luck to pass
with it.
I felt it was very important to keep the line of my mouth level.
âGive us a smile.â
At last, obediently, like the mouth of a ventriloquistâs dummy, my
own mouth started to quirk up.
âHey,â the photographer protested, with sudden foreboding, âyou
look like youâre going to cry.â
I couldnât stop.
I buried my face in the pink velvet façade of Jay Ceeâs love-seat
and with immense relief the salt tears and miserable noises that had
been prowling around in me all morning burst out into the room.
When I lifted my head, the photographer had vanished. Jay Cee
had vanished as well. I felt limp and betrayed, like the skin shed by a
terrible animal. It was a relief to be free of the animal, but it seemed
to have taken my spirit with it, and everything else it could lay its
paws on.
I fumbled in my pocketbook for the gilt compact with the mascara
and the mascara brush and the eyeshadow and the three lipsticks
and the side mirror. The face that peered back at me seemed to be
peering from the grating of a prison cell after a prolonged beating.
It looked bruised and puffy and all the wrong colours. It was a face
that needed soap and water and Christian tolerance.
I started to paint it with small heart.
94 | The Bell Jar
Jay Cee breezed back after a decent interval with an armful of
manuscripts.
âTheseâll amuse you,â she said. âHave a good read.â
Every morning a snowy avalanche of manuscripts swelled the
dust-grey piles in the office of the Fiction Editor. Secretly, in studies
and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be
writing. Say someone or other finished a manuscript every minute;
in five minutes that would be five manuscripts stacked on the
Fiction Editorâs desk. Within the hour there would be sixty,
crowding each other on to the floor. And in a yearâŚ
I smiled, seeing a pristine, imaginary manuscript floating in mid-
air, with Esther Greenwood typed in the upper-right hand corner.
After my month on the magazine Iâd applied for a summer school
course with a famous writer where
Literary Ambitions and Paralyzing Decisions
Esther envisions a deluge of manuscripts overwhelming publishers, symbolizing her desperate hope to be recognized as a writer.
She feels an increasing psychological paralysis, finding it nearly impossible to make simple decisions or pack her suitcase.
Her clothing takes on an antagonistic, mulish personality, reflecting her deepening sense of alienation from her social persona.
Doreen forces a change in Esther's stagnant mood by stuffing the messy clothes under the bed and dragging her to a final social engagement.
Entering the party as a self-described observer, Esther is struck by the blinding light of a man's stickpin, signaling a momentary shift in focus.
They seemed to have a separate, mulish identity of their own that refused to be washed and folded and stowed.
l over America, people must be
writing. Say someone or other finished a manuscript every minute;
in five minutes that would be five manuscripts stacked on the
Fiction Editorâs desk. Within the hour there would be sixty,
crowding each other on to the floor. And in a yearâŚ
I smiled, seeing a pristine, imaginary manuscript floating in mid-
air, with Esther Greenwood typed in the upper-right hand corner.
After my month on the magazine Iâd applied for a summer school
course with a famous writer where you sent in the manuscript of a
story and he read it and said whether you were good enough to be
admitted into his class.
Of course, it was a very small class, and I had sent in my story a
long time ago and hadnât heard from the writer yet, but I was sure
Iâd find the letter of acceptance waiting on the mail table at home.
I decided Iâd surprise Jay Cee and send in a couple of the stories
I wrote in this class under a pseudonym. Then one day the Fiction
Editor would come in to Jay Cee personally and plop the stories
down on her desk and say, âHereâs something a cut above the usual,â
and Jay Cee would agree and accept them and ask the author to
lunch and it would be me.
âHonestly,â Doreen said, âthis oneâll be different.â
âTell me about him,â I said stonily.
âHeâs from Peru.â
âTheyâre squat,â I said. âTheyâre ugly as Aztecs.â
âNo, no, no, sweetie, Iâve already met him.â
We were sitting on my bed in a mess of dirty cotton dresses and
laddered nylons and grey underwear, and for ten minutes Doreen
had been trying to persuade me to go to a country club dance with
a friend of somebody Lenny knew which, she insisted, was a very
different thing from a friend of Lennyâs, but as I was catching the
Chapter 9 | 95
eight oâclock train home the next morning I felt I should make some
attempt to pack.
I also had a dim idea that if I walked the streets of New York by
myself all night something of the cityâs mystery and magnificence
might rub off on to me at last.
But I gave it up.
It was becoming more and more difficult for me to decide to do
anything in those last days. And when I eventually did decide to do
something, such as packing a suitcase, I only dragged all my grubby,
expensive clothes out of the bureau and the closet and spread them
on the chairs and the bed and the floor and then sat and stared
at them, utterly perplexed. They seemed to have a separate, mulish
identity of their own that refused to be washed and folded and
stowed.
âItâs these clothes,â I told Doreen. âI just canât face these clothes
when I come back.â
âThatâs easy.â
And in her beautiful, one-track way, Doreen started to snatch
up slips and stockings and the elaborate strapless bra, full of steel
springsâa free gift from the Primrose Corset Company, which Iâd
never had the courage to wearâand finally, one by one, the sad
array of queerly-cut forty dollar dressesâŚ
âHey, leave that one out. Iâm wearing it.â
Doreen extricated a black scrap from her bundle and dropped it
in my lap. Then, snowballing the rest of the clothes into one soft,
conglomerate mass, she stuffed them out of sight under the bed.
Doreen knocked on the green door with the gold knob.
Scuffling and a manâs laugh, cut short, sounded from inside. Then
a tall boy in shirtsleeves and a blond crewcut inched the door open
and peered out.
âBaby!â he roared.
Doreen disappeared in his arms. I thought it must be the person
Lenny knew.
I stood quietly in the doorway in my black sheath and my black
stole with the fringe, yellower than ever, but expecting less. âI am an
96 | The Bell Jar
observer,â I told myself, as I watched Doreen being handed into the
room by the blond boy to another man, who was also tall, but dark,
with slightly longer hair. This man was wearing an immaculate white
suit, a pale blue shirt and a yellow satin tie with a bright stickpin.
I couldnât take my eyes off that stickpin.
A great white light seemed to shoot out of it, illumining the room.
Then the light withdrew into itself, leaving a dewdrop on a
The Dance of a Woman-Hater
Esther encounters Marco, a man who gives her a diamond stickpin but immediately displays a cruel and dominating demeanor.
Marco uses physical force to intimidate Esther, leaving painful bruises on her arm and comparing her to a card in a deck.
Despite Esther's resistance, Marco forces her to dance a tango, treating her body as an object he can manipulate at will.
Esther finds herself surrendering her autonomy during the dance, reflecting on the god-like, invulnerable power that woman-haters seem to possess.
Then he said, 'Pretend you are drowning.'
n ever, but expecting less. âI am an
96 | The Bell Jar
observer,â I told myself, as I watched Doreen being handed into the
room by the blond boy to another man, who was also tall, but dark,
with slightly longer hair. This man was wearing an immaculate white
suit, a pale blue shirt and a yellow satin tie with a bright stickpin.
I couldnât take my eyes off that stickpin.
A great white light seemed to shoot out of it, illumining the room.
Then the light withdrew into itself, leaving a dewdrop on a field of
gold.
I put one foot in front of the other.
âThatâs a diamond,â somebody said, and a lot of people burst out
laughing.
My nail tapped a glassy facet.
âHer first diamond.â
âGive it to her, Marco.â
Marco bowed and deposited the stickpin in my palm.
It dazzled and danced with light like a heavenly ice-cube. I slipped
it quickly into my imitation jet bead evening bag and looked round.
The faces were empty as plates, and nobody seemed to be
breathing.
âFortunately,â a dry, hard hand encircled my upper arm, âI am
escorting the lady for the rest of the evening. Perhaps,â the spark
in Marcoâs eyes extinguished, and they went black, âI shall perform
some small serviceâŚâ
Somebody laughed.
â⌠worthy of a diamond.â
The hand round my arm tightened.
âOuch!â
Marco removed his hand. I looked down at my arm. A thumb-
print purpled into view. Marco watched me. Then he pointed to the
underside of my arm. âLook there.â
I looked, and saw four, faint matching prints.
âYou see, I am quite serious.â
Marcoâs small, flickering smile reminded me of a snake Iâd teased
in the Bronx Zoo. When I tapped my finger on the stout cage glass
Chapter 9 | 97
the snake had opened its clockwork jaws and seemed to smile. Then
it struck and struck and struck at the invisible pane till I moved off.
I had never met a woman-hater before.
I could tell Marco was a woman-hater, because in spite of all the
models and TV starlets in the room that night he paid attention to
nobody but me. Not out of kindness or even curiosity, but because
Iâd happened to be dealt to him, like a playing card in a pack of
identical cards.
A man in the country club band stepped up to the mike and
started shaking those seedpod rattles that mean South American
music.
Marco reached for my hand, but I hung on to my fourth daiquiri
and stayed put. Iâd never had a daiquiri before. The reason I had a
daiquiri was because Marco ordered it for me, and I felt so grateful
he hadnât asked what sort of drink I wanted that I didnât say a word,
I just drank one daiquiri after another.
Marco looked at me.
âNo,â I said.
âWhat do you mean, no?â
âI canât dance to that kind of music.â
âDonât be stupid.â
âI want to sit here and finish my drink.â
Marco bent towards me with a tight smile, and in one swoop my
drink took wing and landed in a potted palm. Then Marco gripped
my hand in such a way I had to choose between following him on to
the floor or having my arm torn off.
âItâs a tango.â Marco manoeuvred me out among the dancers. âI
love tangos.â
âI canât dance.â
âYou donât have to dance. Iâll do the dancing.â
Marco hooked an arm around my waist and jerked me up against
his dazzling white suit. Then he said, âPretend you are drowning.â
I shut my eyes, and the music broke over me like a rainstorm.
Marcoâs leg slid forward against mine and my leg slid back and I
seemed to be riveted to him, limb for limb, moving as he moved,
98 | The Bell Jar
without any will or knowledge of my own, and after a while I
thought, âIt doesnât take two to dance, it only takes one,â and I let
myself blow and bend like a tree in the wind.
âWhat did I tell you?â Marcoâs breath scorched my ear. âYouâre a
perfectly respectable dancer.â
I began to see why woman-haters could make such fools of
women. Woman-haters were like gods: invulnerable and chock-full
of power. They descended, and then they disappeared. You could
never catch one.
After the South American music there was an interval.
Marco led me through the French doors into the garden. Light