Sylvia[to Ted, after making love]We're not even two people. Even before we met, we were just these two halves, walking around with big gaping holes in the shape like the other person. And when we found each other we were finally whole. And then it was as if we couldn't stand being happy so we ripped ourselves in half again.
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SylviaSometimes I dream the tree, and the tree is my life. One branch is the man I shall marry, and the leaves my children. Another branch is my future as a writer, and each leaf is a poem. Another branch is a good academic career. But as I sit there trying to choose, the leaves bring to turn brown and blow away, until the tree is absolutely bare.
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SylviaSometimes I feel like I'm not - solid. I'm hollow. There's - nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. Its as if I never - I never thought anything. I never wrote - anything. I never felt anything. All I want is blackness. Blackness and silence.
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TedA fucking good poem is a weapon. It's... and not like a "pop", it's a bomb. A bloody big bomb!
SylviaThat's why they make children learn them in school. They don't want them messing about with them on their own. I mean, just imagine if a sonnet went off accidentally. Boom.
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Mr. RobinsonMr. Robinson. Mr. Robinson! You forgot this.
[hands him a book of her poems]
SylviaOh, thanks. Do you think you might be reviewing it?
Mr. RobinsonThis? I shouldn't think so. We just got the new Pasternak. Then, Betjeman's out next week and there's an E.E. Cummings in the pipeline. Not in the same league, really, is she? Sylvia...
Al AlvarezLook. One thing I do know about death is it is not a reunion or a homecoming. There's - there's no - your life doesn't flash before you and the missing piece of you clicks into place. It's just - there's just "fuck all"! There's nothing.
SylviaSo, what do you do when your life get's as bad as it can and just keeps getting worse?
Al AlvarezExtraordinary. And Lady Lazarus - the one about the failed suicides. The despair. The overpowering sense of foreboding and, yet, without a trace of anger or hysteria or any appeal for sympathy. The - the wealth of imagery. Such horrors; but, expressed with a coolness. Like a - a murderer's confession.
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Al AlvarezHave you got a title for your novel yet?
Al AlvarezSylvia, I know this must have been hard on you.
SylviaNo. I've never been happier and I've never written more. Its as if, now he's gone, I'm free. I can finally write. I wake up between three and four, cause that's the worst time, and I write till dawn. I really feel like God is speaking through me.
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Al AlvarezThat Daddy poem, the use of metaphor, the way it builds the end out blackness into an explosion of fury. But, it's just - stunning.
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Al AlvarezThey're all bloody civil servants moonlighting as journalists. It's their job to protect the status quo.
TedShe's nobody. A student. She was - in that creative writing class I talked to. She'd written all these poems. I took pity on her. You think I'm fooking her?
TedOh, for Christ sake! This place is really getting to you, isn't it? This bunch of dried up, malicious old women who think their men are gonna get taste for fresh meat! As a matter of fact, I'm not fooking her. But, if I do start fookin' the students, you'll be the first to know.
SylviaDying is an art. Like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like Hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call.
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SylviaDid you ever have something that you wanted to erase?
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SylviaI was dead. Only, I rose up again. Like Lazarus. Lady Lazarus. That's me.