Al radicalmente honesto universo de Sylvia Plath en The Bell Jar es difícil entrar, no hay ventanas.
At first I wondered why the room felt so safe. Then I realise it was because there were no windows.
The reason I hadn’t washed my clothes or my hair was because it seemed so silly.
I saw the days of the year stretching ahead like a series of bright, white boxes, and separating one box from another was sleep, like a black shade.
It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next.
It made me tired just to think of it.
I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.