bought two books last friday, and now i'm back to zero.

book one: Coraline by Neil Gaiman

neil gaiman never ceases to amaze me. this is the third book of his that i've read, after the Sandman series (actually 11 books, including Endless Nights, but since it's one story i'm counting it only as one) and Stardust, and so far, mr. gaiman has not disappointed me yet. Coraline is a children's book, which is strange because its theme is not for for kids at all. i read C.S. Lewis' Alice in Wonderland back in grade school, and i remember getting chills up my spine. i felt the same way while reading Coraline. kids read these stories and think of adventure; adults (eww i can't believe i'm technically classified as an adult already) read these stories and think of the story behind the story, the parodies of life, and basically how screwed up the human mind really is. Coraline may be a book for children, but it's a story that everyone, the young and the young at heart, can appreciate and relate to.


book two: The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

i have been interested in Sylvia Plath ever since we read one of her poems in high school, and our teacher said that she killed herself by putting her head in an oven, or something like that. i rented a VCD of the film Sylvia starring Gwyneth Paltrow when i was in college, during my emo days, and i became even more fascinated with her.

The Bell Jar is semi-autobiographical, and reading it gave me a better understanding of how she was. it's as if i see myself (or part of me) in the character of Esther Greenwood. it was her attempts at suicide that struck me most when i was reading the book. back when i was depressed, i actually experienced two of her attempts/failures. there was also a point in my life that i was diagnosing myself: i found that i was either manic-depressive or schizophrenic (this is worthy of its own post, but i shall leave that for another time). and what a coincidence, it also turns out that Esther is about the same age as i am. apparently, we share the same issues: boys, sex, career, family, feminism and death.

but i did not find the book depressing at all. on the contrary, i found it quite enlightening. all this time i thought of myself as screwed up, that i had nobody to relate to, that nobody understands what i am going through (yes, emo mode switched on) but when i read this book, i realized: how can i be screwed up if i find myself relating to such a brilliant woman? for some reason, even if the person i am relating to is dead, i actually feel... free. finally, some confirmation that i am not the only person in this world who feels this way. i'm not crazy after all. Sylvia Plath has a certain way of writing that makes you realize and accept your thoughts and feelings. she writes with such honesty that you do not feel ashamed of yourself. she was able to express what i could not.. and the chaos in my mind actually made sense. her book actually spoke for me.

i am drawn to this book because i know what it feels to be in the bell jar. i also know how it feels to have it slightly lifted.