" To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream.
A bad dream
I remembered everything.
I remembered the cadavers and Doreen and the story of the fig tree an Marco's diamond and the sailor on the Common and Doctor Gordon's wall-eyed nurse and the broken thermometers and the Negro with his two kinds of beans and the twenty pounds I gained on insulin and the rock that bulged between sky and sea like a gray skull.
Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them.
But they were part of me. They were my landscape. "

― Sylvia Plath , The Bell Jar