Lady Lazarus

Sylvia Plath

I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it----

The speaker has attempted suicide again. The one year in every ten makes the attempt sound like a cyclical event.

A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin 0 my enemy. Do I terrify?---The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman.

The speaker sees herself like a holocaust victim (but I wouldnt say as a holocaust victim.

Is she happy about the fact that soon she will be dead?

I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. What does it mean to annihilate each decade of your life?

The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.

In her resurrection she becomes the object of a voyeuristic crowd and her word choice suggests that she doesnt like it. Like a mummy . . .

She has not changed, as she does rising from the ash at the end of the poem.

The history of her dying(s) The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Look at this image of rocking shut as a seashell. What is she trying to do? Shut herself up to shut out the world? Maybe some speculation on why anyone would want to shut themselves up like a seashell.

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've a call.

The word dying is set off on its own line. How might dying be an art? How might everything else be an art? (Thats a pretty bold statement what arts might the speaker not do exceptionally well?)

If shes good at dying because she does it so it feels real, then we can deduce that living might not feel real to her. To have a calling to some vocation usually has positive connotations but to have a calling for death, what impressions do you get from this line?

It's easy enough to do it in a cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: 'A miracle! That knocks me out.

Some critics think that the speaker likes the attention of the resurrection, but I disagree. I think she hates it most of all. It is painful to her, it is that which she cant tolerate, that which knocks her out. The easy part is to attempt to die; the hard part is to wake up theatrically, to have a comeback (note the theatrical language).

There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart---It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

Her resurrection isnt free for the spectators amusement. Replace the word charge (which applies to the spectator) with the word cost (which would apply to the speaker). What does it cost her for her scars to be seen, for the beating of her heart to be heard?

So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

I have only questions for this part of the poem! Is the doctor her enemy, because he brings her back to life? Notice that she uses German here, maintaining the Nazi imagery from the beginning of the poem. Those who would keep her alive are her tormentors. Who is she addressing when she says I am your opus? (Opus means work.) Is she the product of the doctors and what they represent? Could a doctor also treat for mental illness? Is there any irony in the last line here? Might the doctors great concern not be the speakers own best interest? Questions, questions, and more questions . . .

Ash, ash --You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there---A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

When she does succeed in doing it and not coming back at all . . . They wont find anything of her left.

Same address must mean some connection to Herr Doktor/Herr Enemy two versions of the same thing, one for the living and one for the dead? Im really at a loss. There is more than one kind of resurrection. The flesh can be revived, which is what has happened three times now; but the spirit can be revived as well (or whatever that red-headed part of her is that eats men like air [breathing?])

What to make of this poem?

A speaker (we presume a woman) who longs for death, and for whom life is painful as a concentration camp. Does it matter what causes this speaker so much pain? We can guess a little, perhaps, from her dislike of the crowds and doctors who watch her resurrection. She becomes nothing more than an object to them. Perhaps her pain doesnt have any external causes. Depression can be as debilitating as any trauma. Do we find ourselves having compassion with this speaker?

Sylvia Plath