Volví a abrir The Bell Jar. Estaba marcado por la fotografía impresa de esta imagen de verde vapor. Y justo lo retomé en una escena perturbadora que tal vez no recordaba lo suficientemente bien. Sólo mi bruised sensibility... me pregunto si la imagen había sido tan impactante como para dejarme en autismo. Pero he aquí. Rescatable, rockability-y-prometéicamente embraceable.

"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, obviously feeling 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."

The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath