'We'll act as if all this were a bad dream.'
A bad dream.
To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream.
…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.
‘I'll be flying back and forth between one mutually exclusive thing and another for the rest of my days.'
Buddy put his hand on mine.
'Let me fly with you.'