Subject: Seymour and Muriel
From: Mattis Fishman (mattis@argoscomp.com)
Date: Fri May 02 1997 - 13:50:38 GMT
Dear Bananafish-of-a-feather,
It has been entirely pleasurable to see the discussion of Seymour,
Muriel, and suicide supplant the sniping of a few weeks ago. I have
been writing posts on the subject for the last three days, but
unfortunately I lack an internet connection for mattis@inside.my.head.unorg
and therefore I imagine it unlikely that any of you, except perhaps the
birdwatchers, would have seen any of these posts. I guess I am writing this
down just to silence some of this turmoil, though, who knows, the subsequent
reediting may do me in even more.
Why marry Muriel? What a wonderful question, Lisa. How can I give my
own opinion without writing an autobiography? I would venture to say that
many of you, judging from the .edu addresses, and some of the recent
introductions from our new members, are not married. I further imagine
(though perhaps I should be warning here, instead of imagining) that some
of us try (have tried, will try) to train our eyes in the spirit of
See-more-glass, and maybe even develop our poet's vocabulary (this
may already be seen in many of the posts). May I hope, or warn, that
sprituality will become of more importance than whether your pants are
neatly pressed.
This is a Good Thing, but it has a necessary corollary. We (alright,
you know I am talking to and about myself, but if the shoe fits, it
probably has a few holes in it) we have become poetic, or as close to it
as our honesty allows. The key word is "become", our sensitivities will be
well developed, our insights and expressions finely tuned. However, one day,
you may meet the person who will eventually say to you after putting aside
The Catcher in the Rye and say "I really can't get into this, I mean
all of this cursing and everything and it's so depressing, but I can
really understand why *you* like it so much." That is, if you are
fortunate enough, or well-tuned enough to recognize it, and it will go
through you like a scalpel. Then, as you happily spend your Sundays
scrubbing shirt collars ("let there be nothing on earth but laundery, and
clear dances done in the sight of heaven") and changing diapers, you will
know why Seymour married Muriel.
I guess the subject of Seymour's suicide will have to wait in my pocket
with the chicken sandwich.
All the best,
Mattis Fishman
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