Dying 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 have a call.
The new edition of the "Saint Botolph's Review."
Come on, you look like a man who reads poetry.
- Tom! - No?
Tom!
- Excuse me. - Tom.
Tom, where are the magazines?
They got held up at the printer's.
I saw you selling them.
Oh, that's right.
They didn't review me, did they?
No, they reviewed you all right.
It's "Poetry," page 11.
"…Essentially commercial…"
bourgeois poetic…
"nakedly ambitious."
It's not very flattering.
Who the hell do they think they are?
Well, you can ask them yourself, if you want.
There is a launch party at the Women's Union tonight.
8:00.
- Genuinely subversive. - Where is he?
- Who? - The one who wrote it.
What? That stuff about you?
No, the one who wrote "Fallgrief's Girlfriend."
This Edward Hughes.
Ted? He's over there.
- I read your poems. - What?
As soon as I saw them, I knew they were the real thing.
Great, big, crashing poems,
not blubbering baby stuff like the others.
Shall we dance?
They're colossal,
magnificent,
great blowing winds
on steel girders.
- You like? - I like.
"O, most dear unscratchable diamond."
Who the hell are you?
Sylvia Plath.
Sylvia Plath?
- The one whose poem… - …you tore to shreds.
- No, no. - Yes.
It was the editor.
He must have known you were very beautiful.
You're all there, aren't you?
Yes, I am.
I have an obligation in the other room.
Oh, Jesus Christ!
This I'll keep.
…Black marauder…
One day, I'll have my death of him.
"One day, I'll have my death of him"?
It's a bit morbid, isn't it?
He's my black marauder.
Well, don't get your hopes up.
Why? What have you heard?
Him and his crowd, all they care about is poetry.
Anything else is a distraction.
Including steady girlfriends.
Even pretty American ones with Fulbright scholarships and red bicycles.
Ted Hughes. Ted Hughes.
Edward Hughes. Edward Hughes.
Sylvia Plath. Ted Hughes.
Mrs. Sylvia…
Hughes.
Get over.
Quiet! Oh, shit!
- Whe… which one? - That one.
How the bloody hell do you know?
Where the light's on.
- What are you doing? - Stand back.
Oh, bugger.
- Give this a shot. - Here.
Ooh, what you trying to do? Bloody hell!
Oh, shit! Shit!
Shh.
Who is it? Who's there?
I'm looking for Miss Sylvia Plath.
Well, she's not here, so just bugger off.
Excuse me.
Please, could you tell her that Edward Hughes…
Ted Hughes, called for her.
You're late.
- He was here. - Who?
Your black marauder.
Him and his little playmate… legless.
Chucking clods at my window.
Thought it was yours apparently.
What did he say?
Nothing comprehensible.
Sylvia.
He left an address.
"The chief defect of Henry King was chewing little bits of string."
At last he swallowed so much it tied itself in ugly knots inside.
"Physicians of the utmost fame were called…"
No, no, no, it's magic.
It's not about magic. It's not like magic. It is magic.
"When Henry… cried, 'All my friends… It's real magic."
It's not conjuring tricks or pulling rabbits out of bloody hats.
Incantations.
Spells, ceremonies, rituals… what are they?
They're poems.
So what's a poet? He's a shaman, that's what he is.
Or a shame.
"…Where I used to spend my time …"
A fucking good poem is a weapon.
It's not like a pop gun or something.
It's a bomb. It's like a bloody big bomb.
That'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.
- Drink! - Drink!
Sylvia!
Come on, Sylvia.
Go on, get up, go on.
"If it be you that stir these daughters' hearts"
Against their father,
Let not women's weapons, water drops, stain my cheeks!
No, you unnatural hags,
- "I will have such revenges on you…" - Faster.
"That all the world shall… I will do such things,"
What they are, yet I know not,
- "But they shall be…" - Faster.
"You think I'll weep. No…"
I'll have full cause of weeping,
But this heart shall break into… flaws or ere I'll weep,
"O fool, I shall go mad."
Come on, Ted.
"I know you all and will a while uphold the… humor of your idleness."
Yet herein will I imitate the sun who permit the… clouds
To smother up his beauty… when he please again to be himself,
…he may be more wondered at by breaking through
- "The foul and ugly mists or vapors…" - Faster.
"If all the years were play and holiday,"
To sport would be as tedious as to work…
…And nothing pleaseth but rare accident.
So when this loose behavior I throw off,
And pay the debt I never promiseth, by how much better than my word I am
By so much shall I falsify men's hopes, and like bright metal on sullen ground
- "My reformation…" - Faster.
"…Shall show them all goodly and attract more eyes"
Than that which hath no foil to set it off!
I'll so offend to make offense a skill
"Redeeming time when men think least I will!"
Morecambe, again. Okay.
"O, dear Juliet, why art thou yet so fair?"
Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous,
And that the lean abhorred monster
"Keeps thee here in the dark to be his paramour?"
"For fear of that, I still will stay with thee,"
And never from this palace of dim night depart again.
Here… here will I remain
"With worms that are thy chambermaids."
Oh, you.
"The doors of breath seal with a righteous kiss"
A dateless bargain to engrossing death…
"Here's to my love."
"Thus with a kiss.
I die."
How did you get the scar?
I tried to kill myself three years ago.
I broke into the box where my mother kept the sleeping pills.
Went down to the basement into the crawl space underneath the house.
And I took them and I went to sleep.
Did you ever have something that you wanted to erase?
No.
And?
And I took too many of the damn things
and I puked them up.
And three days later, my mother and brother
found me and pulled me out.
What about the scar?
I ripped my cheek on the concrete
when they pulled me out.
- A memento mori. - Hmm.
Yes.
Because I was dead…
only I rose up again.
Like Lazarus. Lady Lazarus.
That's me.
You wouldn't do that if you knew.
What?
What was down there.
Jesus Christ! What the…?!
Look.
Very intelligent, cows. Did you know that?
Really?
Not a lot of people give them credit.
What do you think they'd prefer, Milton or Chaucer?
Chaucer, obviously.
Ladies, I give you "The Wife of Bath."
"Experience, though noon auctoritee"
Were in this world,
is right ynogh for me To speke of wo that is in marriage.
For, lordynges, sith I twelve yeer was of age,
"Thonked be God that were eterne on lyve…"
Beautiful.
"…Housbondes at chirche dore, I have had fyve…"
"23rd of August, 1956."
We thank you for the manuscripts you submitted recently,
but cannot use this at present.
It is herewith returned with our compliments.
Yours faithfully…" blah, blah, blah.
How many today?
Two, and they went straight back out.
And I typed up four more copies of your manuscripts,
so now there's seven in circulation.
Sylvia?
Come on. Wake up.
Mmm, what time is it?
Doesn't matter about the bloody time, look at this. Look, look, look.
"Our congratulations that 'Hawk in the Rain'
judged winning volume, Poetry Center first prize…"
- You won! You won! - I fucking won.
I didn't even know I'd entered.
You know what this means, don't you?
You're going to be a published poet.
And?
We're going to America.
And?
Those whom God hath joined together,
let no man put asunder.
It's so beautiful.
Oh, no, Daniel, don't… not there, dear.
Put it over there. That looks much better, yes.
Great.
I'd like to tie this back if I could.
Mommy!
Oh, darling!
Welcome home, my darling.
Oh, God.
Oh, you look beautiful.
Oh, my sweet.
So this is the uebermensch.
Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Plath.
Sylvia's told me a lot about you.
Let's hope for both of our sakes that some of it's true.
Leave the bags.
I'll have Sam and Daniel get them. Sam, Daniel.
What do you think?
Still too runny.
About Ted.
- He's very… - What?
I don't know.
Different.
Why can't you ever just be pleased for me?
How is he gonna support you?
I don't want to be supported.
He's gonna be a great poet.
He just won this poetry prize that was judged by W.H. Auden.
Really?
And I've got money saved up.
And when that runs out?
Mother, I just got this teaching job.
And I can always sell stories to those stupid magazines. It doesn't matter.
Darling, you know I've only wanted what's best for you.
Well, he is the best for me.
Then what do you want me to say?
That you like him.
Do you love him?
I love him.
Then I like him.
Mmm, thank you.
- Outstanding girl… - WOMAN: That looks good.
- Hey, Bob. - Hey.
Oh, Mrs. Bergstrom.
- Hello, how are you? - Sylvia! I'm well.
- It's so lovely to see you. - And you, you're looking beautiful.
Thank you. This is my husband Ted.
- Hello. - Pleased to meet you.
- We've heard a lot about you. - Likewise.
- Thank you. - How are you enjoying yourselves?
- Hello. - Oh, we're having such a nice time.
- Good. - Thank you.
You've made us feel so at home. Hasn't she?
Oh, if I close my eyes I could be back in Mytholmroyd.
Your hem's up in the front, darling.
Elizabeth, meet Ted.
- Ted, Elizabeth Brooks. - How do you do?
My, aren't you the catch of the day.
- Ted is going to be a great poet. - Oh.
His last book won… what was that?
It was the New York Center Poetry Prize.
- Ooh! - It's rather good.
It's the… "The Hawk in the Rain."
- Really wonderful. - You read it?
Yes. Of course.
What did you think of the poem about the giraffe?
Oh, listen to that accent.
There wasn't a poem about a giraffe.
Say something else.
I need a drink. Excuse me, ladies.
Well!
This Sylvia's father?
Mm-hmm. Yes. Bumblebees were his specialty.
It's all he ever thought about.
Before the war, back in Germany,
his colleagues always called him "Der Bienenkonig."
- And that means… - King of the bees.
Yes, that's right.
That was Otto. King of the bees.
You must forgive my friends, Ted.
They haven't had the advantages you have.
And what might they be?
Having to fight for what you want.
That's why she is in love with you, you know, Sylvia, I mean.
Oh my God, they were… oh, they were…
I don't… I don't mean to sound disloyal, but there were…
a lot of other boys. But they didn't scare her.
She rather frightened them, I think.
You're…
you're very different.
But I think you frightened her, that's why she likes you.
You think I'd hurt her?
But I wouldn't hurt her.
Do you know that we found her right where you're standing?
Right under there, near the boards.
We thought she was dead… she was so pale, so white.
Some people want to be found. Sylvia didn't. She'd just…
crawled into a hole and waited to die.
Be good to her.
Always.
- Hi. - I hope you like fish.
Wow, look at those. My God.
- Did you have fun? - Uh-huh.
It finally cooled down. It was so hot earlier, wasn't it?
- You tell me. - I look a bit messy,
- because I started baking and I made… - Baking?!
I made one real cream cake, but they went a bit funny in the center.
I decided to throw it out and start over.
But the funny thing is the second one looks nicer than the first one anyway, so…
I thought you were gonna write.
Do you know some husbands would be happy
that their wives stayed home and baked them some nice cakes?
I am happy.
I'd just be happier if you were writing.
I've got the whole summer to write.
How was your walk?
Good.
Got a poem, a good one.
You?
I'm dried up.
That's 'cause you've got nothing to say.
- I'm not a real writer. - Never will be.
- I'm no good. - You make great cakes.
You know what your trouble is?
I have a husband who thinks he can tell me how to write poetry?
There's no secret to it.
You've just got to pick a subject and…
stick your head into it.
You've got to write. That's what poets do.
Yes, well, that's easy for you to say.
You go out for a bike ride and come back with an epic in hexameters.
I sit down to write, I get a bake sale.
Do you know what?
Do you know what my trouble is?
It's that I don't have a subject.
The novel, "Falcon Yard," what's that about?
It's about a girl who meets a boy.
No, what's it really about?
You and me.
- What's it really about? - Me!
A girl who spends her summer at the beach.
No, see, no, that's not really me.
Yes, it is. You told me it was about you.
What I'm trying to say is that you've already got your subject.
It's you.
I mean, you keep skirting around the issue.
- You keep flowering it up. - All right, all right! All right.
Shit!
- Jesus Christ! - What?
The tide is dragging us out.
I'm not gonna get us back in.
People drown like this.
I tried to drown myself once.
I swam out in the sea as far as I could,
but it just spat me out like a cork.
I guess it didn't want me.
You know what's funny?
I was always happy until I was nine years old.
I was always in one piece.
Then my father died.
"Full fathom five my father lies,
Of his bones were coral made, those were pearls that were his eyes."
"Destroy! Destroy! Destroy!"
Hums the underconsciousness.
Love and produce! Love and produce!
Cackles the upper-consciousness.
And the world hears only the 'Love and produce' cackle.
Refuses to hear the hum of destruction underneath.
Until such time as it will have to hear.
The American has got to destroy!
"It is his destiny."
And finally,
this poem by Yeats, I think…
illustrates…
that point rather well.
At least, I hope it does.
Excuse me.
"The Sorrow of Love."
"The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves,"
The full round moon and the star-laden sky,
And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
Had hid away earth's old and weary cry.
And then you came
With those red mournful lips,
And with you came the whole of the world's tears,
And all the sorrows of her labouring ships,
And all the burden of her myriad years.
And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,
The crumbling moon, the white stars in the sky
And the loud chanting of the unquiet leaves
Are shaken with earth's old and weary cry.
Thank you.
- Well, thank you very much. - It's so nice to meet you.
- You take care. Bye-bye. - You too. Bye.
- Bye-bye, thank you. - Mr. Hughes,
your voice is so powerful.
What did you think of the words?
The words?
So when is your next book coming out?
Well, when I've written it.
Oh, it must be wonderful to be married
to such a great poet.
Yes, it is.
It is. Would you excuse us for just a moment?
- Sure. - Excuse me.
I'm sorry, I just… I'm so exhausted
and I've got a stack of papers this high to get through.
So do you mind if we go now or in a minute?
I'm going to have to say thanks
to Merlin for that review.
And Len Baskin's here, so I…
- Who's Len Baskin? - Len Baskin, he organized all this.
Oh, right, right.
Sorry. Take the car.
All right.
I'll see you later.
Right.
Is Mr. Hughes in?
No.
He said he'd look at my poetry.
He said it would be okay.
I'm sorry if I disturbed you.
Who is she?
She'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 fucking her.
- Are you? - Oh, for Christ's sake!
This place is really getting to you, isn't it?
This bunch of dried-up, malicious old women
who think their men are going to get a taste for fresh meat.
As a matter of fact, I'm not fucking her.
But if I do start fucking the students, you'll be the first to know.
♪ Do you think the trouble is ♪
♪ That I'm in love? ♪
♪ Mmm, yeah ♪
♪ Hey, Doc, hey, Doc ♪
♪ I wonder what's wrong with me ♪
♪ Give me your wrist there, son,
♪ And I'll see if I can see ♪
♪ Hey, Doc, hey, Doc ♪
♪ My temperature's one thousand and three ♪
♪ What you been doing with yourself, son? ♪
♪ Hey, Doc, hey, Doc ♪
♪ Whenever that gal casts them glimmers on me ♪
♪ I thought it was something like that ♪
♪ I get a dizzy spell, a dizzy spell ♪
♪ I run around in circles… ♪
♪ You need a pill, son ♪
♪ That's it, Doc, my ticker's stopped… ♪
♪ Let me listen to it ♪
♪ I need strength, Doc… ♪
- Last night… - I…
I was very tired. I…
I've organized everything so I won't be quite so tired.
I'm… I'm sorry.
It's not just you. It's me, as well.
I can't write here.
- We should go back to England. - And live on what?
We'll survive, lovely.
Do you see that?
That's the world.
Page 14 on line 14.
Yes, page 14, line 14.
There is an "E" … yes.
No… no two "P" s.
Will you get that?
Page 40.
Yes. Next, line eight.
Next, "The new moon's curve…"
All those guys are all the same.
Right.
I mean after "Hawk in the Rain," they…
No.
They were hoping your next book would be an anticlimax.
But I'm pleased to say you've confounded them and outdone yourself.
- It's really quite wonderful. - On the back page…
in the back jacket.
- I've just made some coffee. Would you like a cup? - I think you can speak…
- …to the agent about that. - Thank you.
All right?
- Hello. - Hello.
You must be Mr. Alvarez.
Yes, indeed, and you must be Mrs. Hughes.
"Night Shift"?
Uh…
"Night Shift." It's a poem you printed in "The Observer."
Oh yes, "Night Shift," yes.
- It was a good poem. - Well, yes, I know.
I wrote it.
- You're Sylvia Plath? - I am.
- Oh, well, nice to meet you. - And you.
Tell me, have you written any others, or…?
Yes, I have. Actually, I have…
a book of poems coming out very shortly called "The Colossus."
- I'd love to read them. - Thank you. It would be an honor.
Yeah, I spoke to George about it last week
and he was quite optimistic. It might take another six months.
Well, the whole thing… it's about putting a face to a name.
For them to put… you know, your name to duh-duh-duh and likewise.
We've got Charlie Hetheringham here, from the TNS.
We've got Les Robinson from the "Critical Quarterly."
- That one there? - Yeah.
And there's "The Telegraph" and "The Times."
Oh, you see that chap with the big heels?
He's easy, he's from "The Listener."
So, it's a good turnout.
That's a good sign, isn't it, that they all came?
Well, yes, of course.
Don't get your hopes up too high, but yes it is. It really is.
They're all bloody civil servants moonlighting as journalists.
It's their job to protect the status quo.
- It's a tough game. - Good to see you.
- It's the toughest. - Mr. Robinson.
Mr. Robinson.
You forgot this.
Oh, thanks.
Do you think you might be reviewing it?
Well, this, I shouldn't think so.
We just got the new Pasternak. Then Betjeman's out next week
and there' an E.E. Cummings in the pipeline.
Not in the same league really, is she, this Sylvia…?
Plath.
Poor thing, can't be easy for her,
being married to that.
Still, good party. Thank the boss.
- This is good. - What?
By Alvarez. Very good.
Listen.
"Her poems rest secure"
in a massive experience
"that is never quite brought out into daylight."
Then there's a quote and it says,
"It is this sense of threat"
as though she were continually menaced
by something she could see only out of the corner of her eye
"that gives her work its distinction."
What about the rest?
It's a good review.
- One review? - But it's a good review.
Look, it's hard. You know it's going to be hard.
- My first book… - Won prizes.
I got it.
Hello?
No, no, No, no problem.
Yes.
Yes. Oh, no, certainly. Certainly.
Yes… no, no, that's no problem.
Good, all right.
Goodbye. Bye.
That was Moira Doolan, the lady from the BBC I told you about.
I sent her the idea for the Children's Radio Series, you remember?
No.
She wants to have lunch. I think she's interested.
- - That's short notice, isn't it?
I'll see you later.
Bye.
Yes, is that the BBC?
May I speak to a Moira Doolan
in Children's Radio, please?
Do you have any idea what time she left?
Did you happen to notice if she left by herself?
Well, have you any idea if she plans on coming back there this evening?
I understand, it's…
I'm looking for someone who might have been with her.
His name is Edward Hughes.
My name is Sylvia Plath-Hughes and I…
Don't take that tone of voice with me.
What the fuck is going on?
- Where have you been? - What is going on?
- I've been sitting here for 12 hours! - Christ's sake!
- Where have you been? - I was at a meeting!
- That was 12 hours ago! - It was a lunch meeting. It went into dinner.
I called the BBC and they said Moira Doolan left…
She had another meeting. We met later!
Fiction really isn't your gift, is it?
- We had dinner. - Why don't you tell me where you were?
- She's a middle-age woman for Christ's sake. - Liar!
I love you.
Do you?
A month in advance. That'll do as a deposit.
You've got a bedroom, kitchen,
another bedroom, or study, or whatever you want to use it for.
This is the living room, which you've seen already.
That's it. Not much to it, I'm afraid.
No, it's fantastic.
It could be great for David.
Why, what is it that you do?
- I'm a poet. - Oh.
So are we.
- You're… - Ted Hughes… I'll get some wine.
- I'm Sylvia Plath. - Oh, my God. That's…
I gave Assia a copy of your book, "The Colossus."
That's amazing.
- Yes, I love your poems. - Hmm.
They're very beautiful. They're frightening.
They have this haunting quality.
What?
No, it's just…
that's the best review I've ever gotten.
I'm looking forward to moving to the country.
- I think the fresh air… - You don't think it will be isolating?
- Devon, I mean. - You should come down and spend a weekend with us.
- Thank you. - Absolutely, shouldn't they?
- Shouldn't they what? - Come down to Devon and spend a weekend.
- Yeah, they should. - Get out of the city. It would be nice.
I'd love to.
Do you want to go higher?
Whoo!
I'll get it.
Hello?
Hello.
No, I'm fine. We're both fine.
How are you?
How's David?
Oh, he has. Oh, that's good.
No, that would be…
that would be great, yes.
Well, Saturday's fine.
Yes, yes.
Yes.
I'll look forward to it.
Cheerio. Bye-bye. Bye.
That was Assia and David.
They want to come down this Saturday.
That would be nice, no?
God, it's so inspiring up here.
It's good to see you and Ted again.
Here, take my hand. It's muddy.
Oh, my God. Would you mind?
- There you go. - Thank you.
Thank you, Ted. Oh, this country air.
Well, this soup is extraordinary.
Mmm.
- Have some more. - No, I couldn't, thank you.
Please, here. Let me help you.
There's plenty.
Just a little, please.
- There you go. - Whoops, thanks.
Always loved my food.
Ted says you have the new Robert Lowell recording.
What?
The new Robert Lowell… recording.
What about it?
Well, perhaps we could listen to it later.
Fine.
Thank you. Thank you.
Excuse me.
You mind telling me what's going on?
- I see you. - You see what?
Why do you insist on humiliating me?
Sylvia, nobody's humiliating you.
I mean, why bother?
You're doing such a bloody good job of it yourself.
- Can I give you a top up? - Please.
Oh, My God. Look at this.
You shouldn't have gone to all this trouble.
I'm beginning to think the same thing myself.
Oh, Jesus Christ.
Thank you. That's enough for me.
Thank you.
You're not eating.
No, I'm waiting for you.
I shall be very insulted if you don't eat.
Would you like some?
No, you… you help yourself.
Thanks.
So, are you managing to write at all with the baby?
Me? Oh, no.
No, but Ted is.
And that's really all that matters, isn't it?
I mean, he's the real poet in the house.
"The sea was still breaking violently"
And night had steamed into our North Atlantic fleet,
When the drowned sailor touched the drag-net.
Light flashed from his matted head and marbled feet.
He grappled at the net with the coiled,
Hurdling muscles of his thighs.
"The corpse was bloodless, a botch of red…"
- I'm going to do the washing up. - I'll help.
- No, I'm fine. - No, I insist.
"…Lights or cabin windows on a stranded hulk,
Heavy with sand…"
I'll wash, you dry.
Yes, yes.
"…Close its eyes and heave it seaward whence it came,"
Where the heel-headed dogfish barks its nose
On Ahab's void and forehead
"And the name is blocked in yellow chalk."
What is going on?
Nothing's going on.
Assia was just telling me about a dream she'd had.
Can I help with anything?
I'd like you and Assia to leave first thing in the morning.
It's just that I'm tired. I'm so tired, and I…
you don't know what I've been through. I've got two small children.
If you had children of your own, you would understand.
I'm sorry.
Of course.
When will you be back?
I don't know.
A couple of days, maybe three.
It depends how long it takes.
What number will you be at?
I haven't decided who I'm going to stay with yet.
I think people are getting pretty sick of me sleeping on their floors,
so I'll probably just check into a bed and breakfast.
You don't have to go, you know.
Yes, I do.
Sylvia?
The truth comes to me.
The truth loves me.
Hello?
I know who you are.
Hello?
Get out.
"This is the light of the mind…"
"If the moon smiled she would resemble you…"
"Their redness talks to my womb…"
"She would drag me, cruelly, being barren…"
"Thick, red and slipping…"
"Your nakedness shadows…"
"Whose is that long white box on the grove?"
"And I, I need feed them nothing…"
"I sizzled in his blue…"
"Our cheesecloth gauntlets neat and sweet…"
"Bare-handed, I hand the combs…"
"The man in white smiles…"
"So I can't see what is in there…"
"Some god got hold of me…"
"Lightly, through their white swaddlings…"
"A world of bald white days in a shadeless socket…"
"I cannot undo myself…"
"And the train is steaming…"
"Upflight of the murderess…"
"Never liked you."
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
"Daddy, Daddy, you bastard, I'm through."
It's…
It's what? What is it?
Is it any good?
Good?
God, yes.
That "Daddy" poem… the use of metaphor…
the way it builds the end
out of the blackness into an explosion of fury.
It's just stunning.
I'm thinking of moving back to London.
I'll send you some more as soon as I'm settled.
I'd like that.
Sylvia…
I know this must have been hard on you…
No.
Really, I've never been happier.
And I've never written more. It's as if…
now he's gone, I'm free.
I can finally write.
I wake up between 3:00 and 4:00
because that's the worst time.
And I write till dawn.
I really feel like God is speaking through me.
And now we need the little purple star.
Go up here.
Put all of them on.
That seems… much better.
You've got the snowflake.
All right.
Where's he going to live?
There.
Oh, oh. She looks beautiful.
Hello?
- Hello? - All right.
I'm very sorry to bother you.
I'm… I live upstairs.
My lights have gone out, I've got no hot water.
I've got my children up there…
There's been a power cut.
The moment you need heat and light to sustain life itself,
the government cuts the electricity.
Why?
To build the national character.
Now leave your stove on for heat, and to boil water for washing.
Here's some spare candles…
yeah, and some matches.
There you are.
Thank you.
You must think I'm some stupid American bitch.
Oh, no, not at all. I assumed you were Canadian.
- Yes, well, thank you. - Pleasure.
- Thank you very much. - Thank you. Bye-bye.
Hello, sweetheart.
This one's for you.
Happy Christmas, darling.
I didn't just come to see them. I wanted to see you.
I want to see how you are.
I've missed you.
I've missed you all.
Christmas is bloody hard.
Can we… can we talk? Can we sit down?
Are you still fucking her?
"I have fallen a long way."
The moon sees nothing of this.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness.
"Blackness and silence."
I don't know what else to do.
I can't…
I can't go back to her, but I love her so much, it's…
You want another one?
Thank you.
This one is extraordinary.
And… 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…
with a coolness.
Like a…
like a murderer's confession.
So, have you got a title for your novel yet?
"The Bell Jar."
When's it coming out?
The new year.
Will you let me read it?
It's a pot-boiler.
Could you get me an ashtray?
Sure.
I didn't know you smoked.
I don't. But I'm starting.
I'm thinking of trying some new things.
Really?
Like what?
I'm thinking of taking a lover.
Oh, how glamorous.
Who is he?
Look…
I know how you feel.
No, you don't.
I do.
We have… we share in common…
I…
I tried to…
How?
Same as you, sleeping pills.
I took too many.
Everybody does, don't they?
Sometimes I feel like I'm not…
solid.
I'm hollow.
There's…
nothing behind my eyes.
I'm a negative of a person.
It's as if I never…
I never thought anything.
I never wrote…
anything. I never felt anything.
All I want is blackness.
Blackness and silence.
Look…
one thing I do know about death
is it is not a…
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.
So what do you do when your life…
gets as bad as it can…
and just keeps getting worse?
You just keep going.
Look…
listen.
You are so beautiful.
And you've… you've a wonderful mind.
And you are a great…
a great poet.
And you and Ted…
you understand each other in ways that…
that other people can only dream about.
So for God sakes, don't throw it all away…
I don't want to hear her name!
I was going to say
just because of an affair.
Are you all right? Come in.
I'm going to die. I'm going to die soon.
Who's going to take care of my babies?
Mrs. Hughes, I don't understand.
What do you mean you're going to die? Are you ill?
No, I'm not ill. I'm not ill.
I think I really should call the doctor.
No, no, don't call a doctor.
Don't you know what they do?
They hook you up to the eastern grid and fill you full of sparks.
Yeah. I'm sorry.
No, I'm sorry.
I'm just so on edge.
I'm just so on edge, I…
Oh, God, it's all my fault. It's all my fault.
All I could think about is what would happen
if somebody took him away from me.
You see, if you fear something enough
it can make it happen.
That woman…
I conjured her.
- Ma'am? - I invented her. Do you understand?
No, I'm sorry. I don't.
Oh, my God.
It's just that I'm so tired.
I'm so tired, I'm…
if I could just sleep a little bit, just a little bit.
I'm just so exhausted.
Perhaps we could get somebody to look after your children.
Oh, my God! I left them upstairs!
No, no, don't go. I'll go and check,
see if they're all right. Would you like me to do that?
You stay there.
You're a very nice man.
No.
You remind me a little of my father.
Yes, hello, Kate, it's Sylvia.
I'm all right, I…
I was wondering if I could come 'round and see you.
I see.
Dr. Hawkins, it's Sylvia.
I… oh.
I need help. I…
I don't think I can…
manage.
You look…
very nice.
You'd better come in.
Would you like a drink?
Please.
What do you want, Sylvia?
I wanted to see you.
I thought that you…
might like to see us.
I thought there was something wrong.
Alvarez said you tried to make a pass at him.
And I've been told you've been taking pills.
No.
God, I missed you.
I almost went mad.
We're not even two people.
Even before we met, we were just…
these two halves…
walking around with big…
gaping holes in us shaped like the other person.
And then we found each other, we were finally whole.
Then it's as if we couldn't stand being happy,
so we ripped… we ripped ourselves in half again.
In the spring, we should go back to Devon.
We'll go back to Devon and it'll just be us…
and the children and our work.
It'll be like this whole thing never happened.
And the summer and the fall,
and this awful winter.
It'll all fade by the time the leaves come out.
And it will just seem like some nightmare
that was never real.
You don't love her like you love me.
You'll never have with her what you have with me,
you know that.
I know.
Leave her.
I can't.
She's pregnant.
Oh. Everything all right?
Do you have any stamps?
It's silly, I know,
but I've got to post some letters to America tonight
and I… airmail, and I don't have any stamps.
Well, can't you post them in the morning?
No.
No, I've got… I've got a nurse coming in the morning.
You see, there's a nurse coming.
And anyway, I won't be here in the morning.
Oh, I see. Yes, I think I have some.
- Here we are. - Thank you.
Stamps. Thanks.
Thank you.
- Well, good night. - Good night.
Look, do you want me to call someone?
No.
No, I was just having…
I just had the most beautiful dream.
I love you, sweetheart.
"The box is locked. It is dangerous."
There are no windows,
so I can't see what is in there.
There is only a little grid.
"No exit."