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A monologue from the play by Jack Canfora
I’m sorry? Well, you’re a wily one, Edmund, you’ve caught us. They were actually written by Sir Francis Bacon . . . no, wait— Kevin Bacon . . . no, not Kevin Bacon, but someone who knows him—
You’re not joking. You’re really . . . oh, Edmund . . . please . . . don’t. Don’t turn out to be crazy. If you think somehow that . . . ( a r ealization ) are you one of those people?
Oh God, you’re one of those people, aren’t you? You’re one of those people who think it’s not enough to read the novels or poems or whatever . . . like the one who waited outside Bob Dylan’s house every night to comb through his garbage cans—it’s sick.
And people like that focus so much on the minutiae they can’t possibly see the overall picture clearly. Which means that inevitably they get even the basic things terribly wrong.
Which is OK within limits; I mean that’s why God invented graduate schools, based on what you’ve just said to me, I think maybe you’re a garbage picker.
Or it’s worse than that—you’re an academic. Not that I should bite the hand that gags me, but . . . you’re one of those sad people who goes around . . . dusting the language for ﬁngerprints.
My God, living with my daughter—Poor Katherine’s going to have to take an ambulance to therapy. OK, OK, let’s take this a step at a . . . why would you say something like that?
Because John is diﬀerent from his poems? Of course he’s diﬀerent from his poems. That’s why he wrote them down. That’s why it’s a talent—a skill, to make poetry of things.
To concentrate feeling like that. That’s why the poets always disappoint. At least the ones who don’t kill themselves.