The Bell Jar (๋ฒจ ์ž) / Sylvia Plath

The Bell Jar / Sylvia Plath



 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 couldn't 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.

*

Later Buddy told me the woman was on a drug that would make her forget she'd had any pain and that when she swore and groaned she really didn't 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, and she would go every bit of it or she wouldn't 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.

*

For the first time in my life, sitting there in the soundproof 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 hadn't thought about it.
The one thing I was good at was winning scholarships and prizes, and that era was coming to an end.

*

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 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.

*

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 wasn't pure either. Then when he started to make my life miserable I could make his miserable as well.

*

And then when 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.
I would catch sight of some flawless man off in the distance, but as soon as he moved closer I immediately saw he wouldn't do at all.
That's one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.

*

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. 

*

"I think I should tell you right away," she said, and I could see bad news in the set of her neck, "you didn't make that writing course."
The air punched out of my stomach.
All through June the writing course had stretched before me like a bright, safe bridge over the dull gulf of the summer. Now I saw it totter and dissolve, and a body in a white blouse and green skirt plummet into the gap.
Then my mouth shaped itself sourly.
I had expected it.


*

I crawled back into bed and pulled the sheet over my head. But even that didn't shut out the light, so I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up.
I had nothing to look forward to.

*

Now I saw that the stupidest person at my mother's college knew more than I did. I saw they wouldn't even let me in through the door, let alone give me a large scholarship like the one I had at my own college.
I thought I'd better go to work for a year and think things over. Maybe I could study the eighteenth century in secret.
But I didn't know shorthand, so what could I do?
I could be a waitress or a typist.
But I couldn't stand the idea of being either one.

*

I knew I couldn't send a letter like that, so I tore it up in little pieces and put them in my pocketbook, next to my all-purpose compact, in case the psychiatrist asked to see them.
But of course Doctor Gordon didn't ask to see them, as I hadn't mentioned them, and I began to feel pleased at my cleverness. I thought I only need tell him what I wanted to, and that I could control the picture he had of me by hiding this and revealing that, all the while he thought he was so smart. 

*

But the person in the mirror was paralyzed and too stupid to do a thing.
Then I thought maybe I ought to spill a little blood for practice, so I sat on the edge of the tub and crossed my right ankle over my left knee. Then I lifted my right hand with the razor and let it drop of its own weight, like a guillotine, onto the calf of my leg.
I felt nothing. Then I felt a small, deep thrill, and a bright seam of red welled up at the lip of the slash. 

(์—ฌ๊ธฐ์„œ๋„ ๊ทธ๋ ‡๊ณ  'ํ”ผ์•„๋…ธ ์น˜๋Š” ์—ฌ์ž'์—์„œ๋„ ๊ทธ๋ ‡๊ณ  ์™œ์ด๋ ‡๊ฒŒ๋“ค ์•„๋ฌด๋ ‡์ง€ ์•Š๊ฒŒ ๋ฉด๋„๋‚ ์„ ์“ฐ๋Š”์ง€ ๋ชจ๋ฅด๊ฒ ๋‹ค.. ๋ฃจ๋จธ์˜ ๋ฃจ๋จธ์˜ ๋ฃจ๋จธ ๋ณด๋‹ˆ๊นŒ ์ง„์งœ ๋”๋Ÿฝ๊ฒŒ ์•„ํ”„๊ฒ ๋˜๋ฐใ„ทใ„ท) 

*

After a discouraging time of walking about with the silk cord dangling from my neck like a yellow cat's tail and finding no place to fasten it, I sat on the edge of my mother's bed and tried pulling the cord tight.
But each time I would get the cord so tight I could feel a rushing in my ears and a flush of blood in my face, my hands would weaken and let go, and I would be all right again.
Then I saw that my body had all sorts of little tricks, such as making my hands go limp at the crucial second, which would save it, time and again, whereas if I had the whole say, I would be dead in a flash.

*

I knew I should be grateful to Mrs. Guinea, only I couldn't feel a thing. If Mrs. Guinea had given me a ticket to Europe, or a round-the-world cruise, it wouldn't have made one scrap of difference to me, because wherever I โ€•saton the deck of a ship or at a street cafe in Paris or Bangkokโ€•I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.

*









์‹ค๋น„์•„ ํ”Œ๋ผ์Šค๋Š” ์ด๋ ‡๊ฒŒ๋‚˜ ๊ฒฐํ˜ผ ์•ˆํ• ๊ฑธ ๋‹ค์งํ•˜๋Š” ์ฃผ์ธ๊ณต์„ ๋งŒ๋“ค์–ด ๋†“๊ณ ๋„ ๋ญํ•˜๋Ÿฌ ํ…Œ๋“œ ํœด์ฆˆ๋ž‘ ๊ฒฐํ˜ผํ–ˆ์„๊นŒ ์˜๋ฌธ์ด์—ˆ๋Š”๋ฐ ์•Œ๊ณ ๋ณด๋‹ˆ ๋ฒจ์ž๊ฐ€ ํ”Œ๋ผ์Šค๊ฐ€ ์ž์‚ดํ•˜๊ธฐ 1๋…„ ์ „์— ์ถœํŒํ•œ ์†Œ์„ค์ด์—ˆ๋‹ค.
๊ทธ๋ง์ธ์ฆ‰์Šจ ๊ฒฐํ˜ผํ•œ ๋’ค์— ๋ฒจ์ž๋ฅผ ์ผ๋‹ค๋Š” ๊ฑฐ... ์—ญ์‹œ ๊ฒฐํ˜ผ=ํ›„ํšŒ์˜ ์ง€๋ฆ„๊ธธ์ธ๊ฐ€๋ณด๋‹ค. ๊ทธ๋ฆฌ๊ณ  ํ—ˆ๋‚œ์„คํ—Œ๊ณผ ํ”Œ๋ผ์Šค๋ฅผ ๋ณด๋ฉด ๋น„๋กฏํ•œ ๋ฌธํ•™์  ์†Œ์งˆ์ด ์žˆ๋Š” ์—ฌ์ž๋“ค์—๊ฒ ๋ถˆํ–‰ํ•œ ๊ฒฐํ˜ผ์ƒํ™œ์ด ์•„์ด๋Ÿฌ๋‹ˆํ•˜๊ฒŒ๋„ ๊ทธ ์—ฌ์ž๋ฅผ ํŒŒ๊ตญ์œผ๋กœ ์น˜๋‹ซ๊ฒŒ ํ•˜๋ฉด์„œ๋„ ํ•œํŽธ์œผ๋กœ๋Š” ํญ๋ฐœ์ ์ธ ์˜๊ฐ์„ ๋ถˆ๋Ÿฌ์ผ์œผํ‚ค๋Š” ๊ฒƒ ๊ฐ™๋‹ค.

โ€• 

์ฃผ์ธ๊ณต๊ณผ ๋น„์Šทํ•œ ๋‚˜์ด์˜ 20๋Œ€ ์—ฌ์„ฑ์ด๋ผ๋ฉด ์–ผ๋งˆ๋“ ์ง€ ๊ณต๊ฐํ•˜๋ฉด์„œ, ๊ณต๊ฐํ•˜์ง€ ์•Š๋”๋ผ๋„ ๋งŽ์€ ์ƒ๊ฐ์„ ํ•˜๋ฉด์„œ ์ฝ์„ ๋งŒํ•œ ์ˆ˜์ž‘์ด๋‹ค. 
์ž‘๊ฐ€์˜ ์‹ค์ œ ์‚ถ๊ณผ ์ฃผ์ธ๊ณต์˜ ์‚ถ์— ์ผ์น˜์ ์ด ๋งŽ์€๋ฐ, ๊ทธ๋งŒํผ ํ˜„์‹ค์— ๋งŽ์ด ๊ธฐ๋ฐ˜ํ•œ ์ด์•ผ๊ธฐ์˜€๊ธฐ์— ์‹ค์ œ๋กœ ๋ฒจ ์ž์˜ ์ถœ๊ฐ„ ์ดํ›„ ์‹ค๋น„์•„ ํ”Œ๋ผ์Šค์™€ ํ•จ๊ป˜ ๋Œ€ํ•™์‹œ์ ˆ ์žก์ง€์‚ฌ ์ธํ„ด์„ ํ–ˆ๋˜ ์—ฌ์ž๋“ค์€ ๊ฝค๋‚˜ ์„œ๋จนํ•œ ์‚ฌ์ด๊ฐ€ ๋˜์—ˆ๋‹ค๊ณ ...

์ด๊ฑธ ์ค‘3๋•Œ ์ฒ˜์Œ ์ฝ์—ˆ์„ ๋•Œ๋Š” ์šฐ์šธ์ฆ ๊ฑธ๋ฆฐ ์‚ฌ๋žŒ๋“ค์€ ์ด๋Ÿฐ๊ฐ€ ๋ณด๊ตฌ๋‚˜, ํ•˜๊ณ  ์žฌ๋ฐŒ๊ฒŒ๋งŒ ์ฝ์—ˆ๋Š”๋ฐ
์ฃผ์ธ๊ณต๊ณผ ๊ฐ™์€ ๋‚˜์ด๊ฐ€ ๋˜์–ด์„œ ์ฝ์–ด๋ณด๋‹ˆ๊นŒ ๊ทธ์ƒˆ ํ’ํŒŒ๊ฐ€ ์ง€์ง€๋ฆฌ๋„ ๋งŽ์•˜๋˜ ๋Œ€์ž…๋„ ๊ฒช์–ด๋ณด๊ณ  ์†์•“์ด๋„ ๋งŽ์ด ํ–ˆ๋˜ ๋‚ด ๊ฐœ์ธ์  ๊ฒฝํ—˜์˜ ์˜ํ–ฅ์ธ์ง€ ๊ณต๊ฐ ๊ฐ€๋Š” ๊ตฌ์ ˆ๋“ค์ด ๋งŽ์•˜๋‹ค. ํ‰์ƒ์„ ์–Œ์ „ํ•˜๊ฒŒ ๊ณต๋ถ€๋งŒ ํ•˜๋ฉด์„œ ์ง€๋‚ธ ์—ฌํ•™์ƒ์ด ๋Š๋ผ๋Š” ์ž๊ดด๊ฐ์„ ์ •๋ง ์ž˜ ๋ฌ˜์‚ฌํ–ˆ๋‹ค.
๋ฌด์—‡๋ณด๋‹ค๋„ ๋งค์‚ฌ์— ์›€์ธ ๋Ÿฌ๋“ค๊ณ  ๋ฌด๊ธฐ๋ ฅํ•œ ์ž์‹ ์˜ ์ฒ˜์ง€๋ฅผ ๋ฒจ ์ž ์•ˆ์— ๊ฐ‡ํ˜”๋‹ค๊ณ  ํ‘œํ˜„ํ•œ ๊ฒƒ์ด... ๋ช‡ ๋…„ ์ „ ์ฝ์„ ๋•Œ์—๋Š” ์ •์ ์ธ ์‚ฌํšŒ์— ๋Œ€ํ•œ ๋น„ํŒ์˜ ์ƒ์ง•์œผ๋กœ ์—ฌ๊ฒผ๋Š”๋ฐ ์ด๋ฒˆ์— ์ฝ์œผ๋ฉด์„œ๋Š” ์ด๋ ‡๊ฒŒ๋‚˜ ์ž๊ธฐ ์ž์‹ ์— ๋Œ€ํ•œ ๋งค๋„ˆ๋ฆฌ์ฆ˜์— ๋น ์ง„ ์‚ฌ๋žŒ์˜ ์‹ฌ๋ฆฌ๋ฅผ ์ž˜ ๋ฌ˜์‚ฌํ•œ ํ‘œํ˜„์ด ์žˆ์„๊นŒ ์‹ถ์—ˆ๋‹ค. 
์˜ํ™”ํ™”๊ฐ€ ๊ฒฐ์ •๋˜์—ˆ๊ณ  ๋‹ค์ฝ”ํƒ€ ํŒจ๋‹์ด ์—์Šค๋” ์—ญ์„ ๋งก์•˜๋‹ค๋˜๋ฐ ์ด๋ฏธ ์บ์ŠคํŒ…๋ถ€ํ„ฐ ์‹œ์›์ฐฎ์•„ ๋ณด์—ฌ์„œ ๋ณ„ ๊ธฐ๋Œ€๋ฅผ ์•ˆํ•˜๊ณ  ์žˆ๋‹ค. ์–ด์„คํ”ˆ ์„ฑ์žฅ์˜ํ™”๋กœ ๊ทธ์น˜์ง€ ์•Š๊ณ  ์†Œ์„ค ์ „๋ฐ˜์— ํ๋ฅด๋Š” ๊ฐ‘๊ฐ‘ํ•œ ๋ถ„์œ„๊ธฐ๋ฅผ ์ž˜ ์‚ด๋ ค๋‚ผ ์ˆ˜ ์žˆ์„์ง€ ์˜๋ฌธ.


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