“The domesticated wilderness of pine, maple and oak rolled to a halt and stuck in the frame of the train window like a bad picture. […]
I stepped from the air-conditioned compartment on to the station platform, and the motherly breath of the suburbs enfolded me. It smelt of lawn sprinklers and station-wagons and tennis rackets and dogs and babies.
A summer calm laid its soothing hand over everything, like death. ”
Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar, 1963