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 sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in paris or bangkok—i would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.

- sylvia plath, the bell jar