"Every time wehave to go out somewhere nice, he's ready in 20 minutes.He's stomping his feet and screaming at the top of hislungs telling me to hurry ...p." She sat back and took a sipof her coffee. "I tell you, I can't stand it anymore." I know exactly what you mean, darling." Sylvia replied."My Marvin is the same way. But, you know, after 30 years,I've learned to ignore him. I just yell back." She laughedand took a drag of her cigarette.Allison sighed. "I'd love for him to know what we have. The prospects of death seemed much more benign and illuminating to him than the prospects of life. A premature death would not only free from his failures but also cement his reputation as a troubled poet who was so dedicated to his art that life in a sense lost its meaning. Yes, the other poets would flock to his grave, read his poetry, shake their heads, and ponder endlessly why such talent had to end prematurely, and then—only after his death—would they celebrate his talent, publish books. More

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