The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence. To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream. [W]herever 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.
~The Bell Jar By Sylvia Plath