Sylvia: Sometimes 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.
Sylvia: If you fear something enough, it can make it happen.
Ted: A fucking good poem is a weapon. It's... and not like a "pop", it's a bomb. A bloody big bomb.
Sylvia: 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.
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