This autobiographical novel by Sylvia Plath certainly gives insight about her mental illness. It’s a fascinating peek into the author’s troubled mind.

Esther Greenwood (a thinly veiled Sylvia) is bright and appears to have it all, but why and where did her life go wrong? It seemingly begins when she is rejected for a writing class at the same time she is having relationship problems. Her downward spiral is swift. Esther demands much of herself and of others, and when perfection is not attainable, she cannot accept it. Although she is then admitted to a mental hospital, the book (unlike the author’s real life) eventually has a hopeful ending.

This book was a quick read, and I know I will be reading it again at some point as it is very compelling. I’ve twice seen the movie Sylvia starring Gwyneth Paltrow, and I definitely believe it added to my appreciation of the book.

A quote from the book:

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 racetracks 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 EeGee, 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 offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out.

I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would 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.

1963, 244 pp
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