Seymour An Introduction Quotes

I'm a kind of paranoiac in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy.

I have scars on my hands from touching certain people…Certain heads, certain colours and textures of human hair leave permanent marks on me.

I privately say to you, old friend... please accept from me this unpretentious bouquet of early-blooming parentheses: (((()))).

I don't really deeply feel that anyone needs an airtight reason for quoting from the works of the writers he loves, but it's always nice, I'll grant you, if he has one.

Give me a story that just makes me unreasonably vigilant. Keep me up till five only because all your stars are out, and for no other reason.

The connection was so bad, and I couldn’t talk at all during most of the call. How terrible it is when you say I love you and the person at the other end shouts back ‘What?

I live alone (but catless, I'd like everybody to know)....

Do you know what I was smiling at? You wrote down that you were a writer by profession. It sounded to me like the loveliest euphemism I had ever heard. When was writing ever your profession? It's never been anything but your religion.

She worries over the way her love for me comes and goes, appears and disappears. She doubts its reality simply because it isn't as steadily pleasurable as a kitten. God knows it is sad. The human voice conspires to desecrate everything on earth.

I have so much I want to tell you, and nowhere to begin.

Seymour once said that all we do our whole lives is go from one little piece of Holy Ground to the next. Is he ever wrong?

Keep me up till five because all your stars are out, and for no other reason…Oh dare to do it Buddy! Trust your heart. You’re a deserving craftsman. It would never betray you. Good night. I’m feeling very much over-excited now, and a little dramatic, but I think I’d give almost anything on earth to see you writing a something, an anything, a poem, a tree, that was really and truly after your own heart.

I’m not going to bed after all. Somebody around here hath murdered sleep. Good for him.

Just go to bed, now. Quickly. Quickly and slowly.

oh, this happiness is strong stuff. It's marvelously liberating.

John Keats / John Keats / John / Please put your scarf on.

But guilt is guilt. It doesn't go away. It can't be nullified. It can't even be fully understood, I'm certain - it's roots run too deep into private and long-standing karma. About the only thing that saves my neck when I get to feeling this way is that guilt is an imperfect form of knowledge. Just because it isn't perfect doesn't mean that it can't be used. The hard thing to do is to put it to practical use, before it gets around to paralyzing you.

If there is an amateur reader still left in the world—or anybody who just reads and runs—I ask him or her, with untellable affection and gratitude, to split the dedication of this book four ways with my wife and children.

If only you’d remember before ever you sit down to write that you’ve been a reader long before you were ever a writer. You simply fix that fact in your mind, then sit very still and ask yourself, as a reader, what piece of writing in all the world Buddy Glass would most want to read if he had his heart’s choice. The next step is terrible, but so simple I can hardly believe it as I write it. You just sit down shamelessly and write the thing yourself. I won’t even underline that. It’s too important to be underlined.

Keep me up till five because all your stars are out, and for no other reason.

Zooey said... It would be very nice to come home and be in the wrong house. To eat dinner with the wrong people by mistake, sleep in the wrong bed by mistake, and kiss everybody good-bye in the morning thinking they were your own family.

Yet a real artist, I've noticed, will survive anything. (Even praise, I happily suspect.)

I feel overwhelmingly grateful to them, but I don't know what to do with their invisible gifts.

Were most of your stars out? Were you busy writing your heart out?

However contradictory the coroner's report — whether he pronounces Consumption or Loneliness or Suicide to be the cause of death — isn't it plain how the true artist-seer actually dies? I say that the true artist-seer, the heavenly fool who can and does produce beauty, is mainly dazzled to death by his own scruples, the blinding shapes and colors of his own sacred human conscience.

If or when I do start going to an analyst, I hope to God he has the foresight to let a dermatologist sit in on the consultation. A hand specialist. I have scars on my hands from touching certain people... Certain heads, certain colours and textures of human hair leave permanent marks on me. Other things, too. Charlotte once ran away from me, outside the studio, and I grabbed her dress to stop her, to keep her near me. A yellow cotton dress I loved because it was too long for her. I still have a lemon-yellow mark on the palm of my right hand. Oh God, if I'm anything by a clincal name, I'm a kind of paranoiac in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy.

Surely, he was all real things to us: our blue-striped unicorn, our double-lensed burning glass, our consultant genius, our portable conscience, our supercargo and our one full poet.

Franny has the measles, for one thing. Incidentally, did you hear her last week? She went on at beautiful length about how she used to fly all around the apartment when she was four and no one was home. The new announcer is worse than Grant - if possible, even worse than Sullivan in the old days. He said she surely dreamt that she was able to fly. The baby stood her ground like an angel. She said she knew she was able to fly because when she came down she always had dust on her fingers from touching the light bulbs.

...my atoms, moreover, are arranged to make me constitutionally inclined to believe that where there's smoke there's usually strawberry Jello, seldom fire...

I have scars on my hand from touching certain people. Once, in the park, when Frannie was still in the carriage, I put my hand on the downy pate of her head and left it there too long. Another time, at Loew's Seventy-second Street, with Zooey during a spooky movie. He was about six or seven, and he went under the seat to avoid watching a scary scene. I put my hand on his head. Certain heads, certain colors and textures of human hair leave permanent marks on me. Other things, too. Charlotte once ran away from me, outside the studio, and I grabbed her dress to stop her, to keep her near me. A yellow cotton dress I loved because it was too long for her. I still have a lemon-yellow mark on the palm of my right hand.

I privately say to you old friend (unto you, really, I'm afraid), please accept from me this unpretentious bouquet of early-blooming parenthesis: (((( )))). I suppose, most unflorally, I truly mean them to be taken, first off as bow-legged--buckle-legged--omens of my state of mind and body at this writing.

I asked him what, if anything, got him down about teaching. He said he didn't think that anything about it got him exactly down, but there was one thing, he thought, that frightened him: reading the pencilled notations in the margins of books in the college library.

But fishing, as we know, in libraries or anywhere else, is a tricky business, with never a certainty of who's going to catch whom.

I say that the true artist-seer, the heavenly fool who can and does produce beauty, is mainly dazzled to death by his own scruples, the blinding shapes and colors of his own human conscience.

Undoubtedly, though, what I'm really getting at is this: Since the bridegroom's permanent retirement from the scene, I haven't been able to think of anybody whom I'd care to send out to look for horses in his stead.

You can't argue with someone who believes, or just passionately suspects, that the poet's function is not to write what he must write but, rather, to write what he would write if his life depended on his taking responsibility for writing what he must in a style designed to shut out as few of his old librarians as humanly possible.

I've met the girl. She's a zero in my opinion but terrific-looking. I don't actually know that she's a zero. I mean she hardly said two words the night I met her. Just sat and smiled and smoked, so it isn't fair to say.

When I'd originally loaded the car and held the door open for him, I'd had a passing impulse to pick him up bodily and insert him gently through the open window.

I do very emphatically believe there is an enormous amount of the androgynous in any all-or-nothing prose writer, or even a would-be one.

Zooey was in dreamy top form. The announcer had them off on the subject of housing developments, and the little Burke girl said she hated houses that all look alike-meaning a long row of identical 'development' houses. Zooey said they were 'nice.' He said it would be very nice to come home and be in the wrong house. To eat dinner with the wrong people by mistake, sleep in the wrong bed by mistake, and kiss everybody goodbye in the morning thinking they were your own family. He said he even wished everybody in the world looked exactly alike. He said you'd keep thinking everybody you met was your wife or your mother or father, and people would always be throwing their arms around each other wherever they went, and it would look 'very nice.

Oh, God, if I'm anything by a clinical name, I'm a kind of paranoiac in reverse. I think people are plotting to make me happy.

I believe I essentially remain what I have always been--a narrator, but one with extremely pressing personal needs. I want to introduce, I want to describe, I want to distribute mementos, amulets, I want to break out my wallet and pass around snapshots, I want to follow my nose. In this mood I don't dare go anywhere near the shortstory form. It eats up little fat undetatched writers like me.

An instant later, a silk hat materialised in the air beside me, considerably down and to the left, and my special, only technically unassigned cohort grinned up at me - for a moment, I rather thought he was going to slip his hand into mine.

When they argue, there can be no danger of a permanent rift, because they're Mother and Daughter. A terrible and beautiful phenomenon to watch.

My lips were quivering slightly, like two fools. Устните ми потрепваха като двама глупаци.

How I worship her simplicity, her terrible honesty. How I rely on it. Как боготворя нейната непосредственост, нейната невероятна честност! Как разчитам на тази честност!

It's the sort of absurd notion, though, that I wouldn't mind taking out for a good academic run someday.

[Y]ou’re someone who took up birds in the first place because they fired your imagination; they fascinated you because ‘they seemed of all created beings the nearest to pure spirit- those little creatures with a normal temperature of 125°.

She's an irritating, opinionated woman, a type Buddy can't stand. I don't think he could see her for what she is. A person, deprived, for life, of any understanding or taste for the main current of poetry that flows through things, all things.

This is too grand to be said (so I’m just the man to say it), but I can’t be my brother’s brother for nothing, and I know – not always, but I know – there is no single thing I do that is more important than going into that awful Room 307. There isn’t one girl in there, including the Terrible Miss Zabel, who is not as much my sister as Boo Boo or Franny. They may shine with the misinformation of the ages, but they shine. This thought manages to stun me: There’s no place I’d really rather got right now than into Room 307. Seymour once said that all we do our whole lives is go from one little piece of Holy Ground to the next. Is he never wrong? Just go to bed, now. Quickly. Quickly and slowly.

Charlotte once ran away from me, outside the studio, and I grabbed her dress to stop her, to keep her near me. A yellow cotton dress I loved because it was too long for her. I still have a lemon-yellow mark on the palm of my right hand.

One of the thousand reasons I quit going to the theater when I was about twenty was that I resented like hell filing out of the theater just because some playwright was forever slamming down his silly curtain. (What ever became of that stalwart Fortinbras? Who eventually fixed his wagon?) Nonetheless, I’m done here… Seymour once said that all we do our whole lives is go from one piece of Holy Ground to the next. Is he never wrong? Just go to bed, now. Quickly. Quickly and slowly.

For example, when Seymour told one of the twins or Zooey or Franny or even Mme. Boo Boo (who was only two years younger than myself, and often entirely the Lady), to take off his or her galoshes on coming into the apartment, each and all of them knew he mostly meant that the floor would get tracked up if they didn't and that Bessie would have to get out the mop. When I told them to take off their galoshes, they knew I mostly meant that people who didn't were slobs. It was bound to make no small difference in the way they kidded or ragged us separately.

We got passes, till midnight after the parade. I met Muriel at the Biltmore at seven. Two drinks, two drugstore tuna-fish sandwiches, then a movie she wanted to see, something with Greer Garson in it. I looked at her several times in the dark when Greer Garson’s son’s plane was missing in action. Her mouth was opened. Absorbed, worried. The identification with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer tragedy complete. I felt awe and happiness. How I love and need her undiscriminating heart. She looked over at me when the children in the picture brought in the kitten to show to their mother. M. loved the kitten and wanted me to love it. Even in the dark, I could sense that she felt the usual estrangement from me when I don’t automatically love what she loves. Later, when we were having a drink at the station, she asked me if I didn’t think that kitten was ‘rather nice.’ She doesn’t use the word ‘cute’ any more. When did I ever frighten her out of her normal vocabulary? Bore that I am, I mentioned R. H. Blyth’s definition of sentimentality: that we are being sentimental when we give to a thing more tenderness than God gives to it. I said (sententiously?) that God undoubtedly loves kittens, but not, in all probability, with Technicolor bootees on their paws. He leaves that creative touch to script writers. M. thought this over, seemed to agree with me, but the ‘knowledge’ wasn’t too very welcome. She sat stirring her drink and feeling unclose to me. She worries over the way her love for me comes and goes, appears and disappears. She doubts its reality simply because it isn’t as steadily pleasurable as a kitten. God knows it is sad. The human voice conspires to desecrate everything on earth.

Once, at one of the very rare and savory moments when my own teammates grudgingly allowed me to take the ball around one of the ends, Seymour, playing for the opposite side, disconcerted me by looking overjoyed to see me as I charged in his direction, as though it were an unexpected, an enormously providential chance encounter. I stopped almost dead short, and someone, of course, brought me down, in neighborhood talk, like a ton of bricks.

When I’d checked into the bathroom with Seymour’s diary under my arm, and had carefully secured the door behind me, I spotted a message almost immediately. It was not, however, in Seymour’s handwriting but, unmistakably, in my sister Boo Boo’s. With or without soap, her handwriting was always almost indecipherably minute, and she had easily managed to post the following message up on the mirror; 'Raise high the roof beam, carpenters. Like Ares comes the bridegroom, taller far than a tall man. Love, Irving Sappho, formerly under contract to Elysium Studios Ltd. Please be happy happy happy with your beautiful Muriel. This is an order. I outrank everybody on this block.

He said he ate his food out of our big refrigerators, drove our eight-cylinder American cars, un-hesitatingly used our medicines when he was sick, and relied on the U.S. Army to protect his parents and sisters from Hitler's Germany, and nothing, not one single thing in all his poems, reflected these realities.

...my life itself couldn't very conceivably be less Zenful than it is, and what little I've been able to apprehend - I pick that verb with care - of the Zen experience has been a by-result of following my own rather natural path of extreme Zenlessness.

When Seymour and I were five and three, Les and Bessie played on the same bill for a couple of weeks with Joe Jackson -- the redoubtable Joe Jackson of the nickel-plated trick bicycle that shone like something better than platinum to the very last row of the theater. A good many years later, not long after the outbreak of the Second World War, when Seymour and I had just recently moved into a small New York apartment of our own, our father -- Les, as he'll be called hereafter -- dropped in on us one evening on his way home from a pinochle game. He quite apparently had held very bad cards all afternoon. He came in, at any rate, rigidly predisposed to keep his overcoat on. He sat. He scowled at the furnishings. He turned my hand over to check for cigarette-tar stains on my fingers, then asked Seymour how many cigarettes he smoked a day. He thought he found a fly in his highball. At length, when the conversation -- in my view, at least -- was going straight to hell, he got up abruptly and went over to look at a photograph of himself and Bessie that had been newly tacked up on the wall. He glowered at it for a full minute, or more, then turned around, with a brusqueness no one in the family would have found unusual, and asked Seymour if he remembered the time Joe Jackson had given him, Seymour, a ride on the handle bars of his bicycle, all over the stage, around and around. Seymour, sitting in an old corduroy armchair across the room, a cigarette going, wearing a blue shirt, gray slacks, moccasins with the counters broken down, a shaving cut on the side of his face that I could see, replied gravely and at once, and in the special way he always answered questions from Les -- as if they were the questions, above all others, he preferred to be asked in his life. He said he wasn't sure he had ever got off Joe Jackson's beautiful bicycle.

...but I do very emphatically believe there is an enormous amount of the androgynous in any all-or-nothing prose writer, or even a would-be one. I think that if he titters at male writers who wear invisible skirts he does so at his eternal peril. I'll say no more on the subject. This is precisely the sort of confidence that can be easily and juicily Abused.

We are required only to keep looking.

Horrible, but right. An honest Medusa’s Head.

Придворната пак ме зачеса: — За ваше сведение, аз зная също, че брат ви съвсем не е специалист по лекуване на мазоли. Не се правете на толкова хитър.

I remember a little dispersed band of unfamiliar faces that surreptitiously turned around, now and then, to see who was coughing.

Si el sentimiento, en última instancia, no vuelve mentirosa a alguna gente, los abominables recuerdos seguro que sí

No me atrevo acercarme a la forma del cuento corto. A los pequeños escritores gordos y subjetivos como yo, se los come vivos.

Струва ми се, че към мен я влече едновременно и майчинско, и чисто женско чувство.

...винаги съм готов да препоръчам на родителите и на по-големите братя на десетмесечни пеленачета да им четат за умиряване хубава проза...

По онова време пишех на една недоизлекувана, да не кажа неуравновесена, германска машина. I was using a very poorly rehabilitated, not to say unbalanced, German typewriter at the time.

High, I think, like someone you love coming up on the porch, grinning, grinning, after three hard sets of tennis, victorious tennis, to ask you if you saw the last shot he made. Yes. Oui.

Would you like to know how Charlotte got those nine stitches?" I asked suddenly, in a tone of voice that sounded perfectly normal to me. "We were up at the Lake. Seymour had written to Charlotte, inviting her to come up and visit us, and her mother finally let her. What happened was, she sat down in the middle of our driveway one morning to pet Boo Boo's cat, and Seymour threw a stone at her. He was twelve. That's all there was to it. He threw it at her because she looked so beautiful sitting there in the middle of the driveway with Boo Boo's cat. Everybody knew that for God's sake-me, Charlotte, Boo Boo, Waker, Walt, the whole family." I stared at the pewter ashtray on the coffee table. "Charlotte never said a word to him about it. Not a word." I looked up at my guest, rather expecting him to dispute me, to call me a liar. I am a liar, of course. Charlotte never did understand why Seymour threw that stone at her. My guest didn't dispute me though.

The connection was so bad, and I couldn't talk at all during most of the call. How terrible it is when you say I love you and the person at the other end shouts back 'What?' I've been reading a miscellany of Vedanta all [358] day. Marriage partners are to serve each other. Elevate, help, teach, strengthen each other, but above all, serve. Raise their children honorably, lovingly, and with detachment. A child is a guest in the house, to be loved and respected-never possessed, since he belongs to God. How wonderful, how sane, how beautifully difficult, and therefore true. The joy of responsibility for the first time in my life.

Не, беше само голяма палавница. Но пееше не по-лошо, отколкото сега. И ни беше чудесна морална подкрепа. Винаги сядаше до брат ми Сиймор пред масата с микрофоните и щом ѝ харесваше някоя негова реплика, настъпваше го по крака. Един вид ръкостискане, само че с крак.

You wrote down that you were a writer by profession. It sounded to me like the loveliest euphemism I had ever heard. When was writing ever your profession? It's never been anything but your religion. Never. I'm a little over-excited now. Since it is your religion, do you know what you will be asked when you die? But let me tell you first what you won't be asked. You won't be asked if you were working on a wonderful moving piece of writing when you died. You won't be asked if it was long or short, sad or funny, published or unpublished. You won't be asked if you were in good or bad form while you were working on it. You won't even be asked if it was the one piece of writing you would have been working on if you had known your time would be up when it was finished--I think only poor Soren K. will get asked that. I'm so sure you'll get asked only two questions.' Were most of your stars out? Were you busy writing your heart out? If only you knew how easy it would be for you to say yes to both questions. If only you'd remember before ever you sit down to write that you've been a reader long before you were ever a writer. You simply fix that fact in your mind, then sit very still and ask yourself, as a reader, what piece of writing in all the world Buddy Glass would most want to read if he had his heart's choice. The next step is terrible, but so simple I can hardly believe it as I write it. You just sit down shamelessly and write the thing yourself. I won't even underline that. It's too important to be underlined. Oh, dare to do it, Buddy ! Trust your heart. You're a deserving craftsman. It would never betray you.

Walt, at about eleven, had a routine of looking at Seymour's wrists and telling him to take off his sweater. "Take off your sweater, hey, Seymour. Go ahead, hey. It's warm in here." S. would beam back at him, shine back at him. He loved that kind of horseplay from any of the kids. I did, too, but only off and on. He did invariably. He thrived, too, waxed strong, on all tactless or underconsidered remarks directed at him by family minors. In 1959, in fact, when on occasion I hear rather nettling news of the doings of my youngest brother and sister, I think on the quantities of joy they brought S. I remember Franny, at about four, sitting on his lap, facing him, and saying, with immense admiration, "Seymour, your teeth are so nice and yellow!" He literally staggered over to me to ask if I'd heard what she said.

He didn't disagree with me, but he seemed to feel that I have a perfection complex of some kind. Much talk from him, and quite intelligent, on the virtues of living the imperfect life, of accepting one's own and others' weaknesses. I agree with him, but only in theory. I'll champion indiscrimination till doomsday, on the grounds that it leads to health and a kind of very real, enviable happiness. Followed purely it's the way of the Tao, and undoubtedly the highest way. But for a discriminating man to achieve this, it would mean that he would have to dispossess himself of poetry, go beyond poetry. That is, he couldn't possibly learn or drive himself to like bad poetry in the abstract, let alone equate it with good poetry. He would have to drop poetry altogether. I said it would be no easy thing to do. Dr Sims said I was putting it too stringently – putting it, he said, as only a perfectionist would.

Този ден — бог е свидетел на това — беше забележителен не само с най-неочаквани знамения и поличби, но и с широко използване на писмената реч като средство за предаване на мисли. Скачаш в препълнена кола и ето че съдбата по своите неведоми пътища се погрижва у теб да се намерят тефтерче и молив, в случай че някой от спътниците ти се окаже глухоням. Промъкваш се в банята и нещо те накарва да се огледаш над мивката, да видиш няма ли там някакви откровения.

…he is invariably a kind of super-size but unmistakably ‘classical’ neurotic, an aberrant who only occasionally, and never deeply, wishes to surrender his aberration; or, in English, a Sick Man who not at all seldom, though he’s reported to childishly deny it, gives out terrible cries of pain, as if he would wholeheartedly let go of both his art and soul to experience what passes in other people for wellness, and yet (the rumor continues) when his unsalutary-looking little room is broken into and someone - not infrequently, at that, someone who actually loves him - passionately asks him where the pain is, he either declines or seems unable to discuss it an any constructive critical length, and in the morning, when even great poets and painters presumably feel a bit more chipper than usual, he looks more perversely determined than ever to see his sickness run its course, as though by the light of another, presumably working day he had remembered that all men, the healthy ones included, eventually die, but that he, lucky man, is at least being done in by the most stimulating companion, disease or no, he has ever known.

In this entre-nous spirit, then, old confidant before we join the others, the grounded everywhere, including, I’m sure, the middle-aged hot-rodders who insist on zooming us to the moon, the Dharma Bums, the makers of cigarette filters for thinking men, the Beat and the Sloppy and the Petulant, the chosen cultists, all the lofty experts who know so well what we should or shouldn’t do with our poor little sex organs, all the bearded, proud, unlettered young men and unskilled guitarists and Zen-killers and incorporated aesthetic Teddy boys who look down their thoroughly unenlightened noses at this splendid planet where (please don’t shut me up) Kilroy, Christ, and Shakespeare all stopped – before we join these others, I privately say to you, old friend (unto you, really, I’m afraid), please accept from me this unpretentious bouquet of very early-blooming parentheses: (((()))).

By far the majority of the hundred and eighty-finer poems are immeasurably not light- but high-hearted, and can be read by anyone, anywhere, even aloud in rather progressive orphanages on stormy nights, but I wouldn't unreservedly recommend the last thirty or thirty-five poems to any living soul who hasn't died at least twice in his lifetime, preferably slowly.

I think it should be done over, Buddy. …Please make peace with your wit. It's not going to go away, Buddy. To dump it on your own advice would be as bad and unnatural as dumping your adjectives and your adverbs because Prof. B. wants you to. What does he know about it? What do you really know about your own wit? I've been sitting here tearing up notes to you. I keep starting to say things like 'This one is wonderfully constructed,' and 'The conversation between the two cops is terrific.' So I'm hedging. I'm not sure why. I started to get a little nervous right after you began to read. It sounded like the beginning of something your arch-enemy Bob B. calls a rattling good story. Don't you think he would call this a step in the right direction? Doesn't that worry you? Even what is funny about the woman on the back of the truck doesn't sound like something you think is funny. It sounds much more like something that you think is universally considered funny. I feel gypped. Does that make you mad? You can say our relatedness spoils my judgement. It worries me enough. But I'm also just a reader. Are you a writer or just a writer of rattling good stories. I mind getting a rattling good story from you.

ازم پرسید :« می شود اینقدر نشانه گیری نکنی؟ اگر با نشانه گیری بزنیش, فقط شانس آورده ای.» جواب دادم:«چطور شانسی می برم وقتی نشانه بگیرم؟» لحظه ای چیزی نگفت, همانطور بر لبه ی جدول ایستاد و, آنطوری که من فهمیدم, با عشق و محبت به من نگاه کرد. گفت: «چون که شانسی است. اگر تیله ی او را بزنی خوشحال می شوی, نه؟ خوشحال نمی شوی؟ و اگر از زدنِ تیله ی کسی خوشحال بشوی, یعنی پیش خودت انتظار نداشتی این کار را بکنی. پس حتما شانس هم در کار است,حتما مقدار زیادیش تصادف است.»

В погледа ѝ имаше нещо заплашително. Имах чувството, че в нея е въплътена цяла тълпа жени и че в друго време тя би могла да седи с плетката си пред гилотината и да се наслаждава на гледката. А аз цял живот съм изпитвал панически страх от всякакви тълпи. There was something distinctly intimidating about her stare. It seemed to come from a one-woman mob, separated only by time and chance from her knitting bag and a splendid view of the guillotine. I've been terrified of mobs, of any kind, all my life.

Години наред ние, седемте деца в нашето семейство, разполагащо само с една баня, имахме малко досадния, но полезен навик да си пишем бележки с парченца сапун върху огледалцето на аптечката. Обикновено тези бележки съдържаха изключително строги наставления, а понякога — и нескрити заплахи: „Бу Бу прибирай си кесето след къпане! Не го захвърляй на пода! Много целувки. Сиймор.“; „Уолт, днес е твой ред да изведеш Ф. и З. из парка. Вчера ги извеждах аз. Познай кой.“; „В сряда е годишнината от сватбата им. Не ходи на кино, не се мотай в радиото след предаването, за да не се набуташ в шамарите! Това се отнася и за теб, Бъди!“; „Мама се оплаква, че Зуи едва не изгълтал разхлабителното. Не оставяй разни вредни неща на мивката, че той може да ги достигне и изгълта!

Възпроизведох тази приказка не само защото винаги съм готов да препоръчам на родителите и на по-големите братя на десетмесечни пеленачета да им четат за умиряване хубава проза, но и по съвсем друга причина. Сега ще ви опиша една сватба, която се състоя през 1942 година. Според мен това е напълно завършен разказ — с начало и край, дори с предчувствие за смърт. Но тъй като са ми известни по-нататъшните факти, чувствам се задължен да отбележа, че сега, в 1955 година, младоженецът не е вече между живите. Той се самоуби през 1948 година, когато беше на курорт с жена си във Флорида. Всъщност най-същественото, което искам да кажа, е следното: откакто младоженецът слезе завинаги от сцената, аз не мога да намеря на негово място друг, комуто да се доверя в избора на кон.

Виж какво, седнеш ли да пишеш, винаги гледай да се сещаш, че преди да станеш писател, дълго време си бил читател. Запечатал веднъж това в главата си, сядаш спокойно и се запитваш каква творба би се харесала най-много на Бъди Глас като читател, ако трябва да избира по сърце. Следващата стъпка, решителната, е толкова проста, че чак не е за вярване. Сядаш и без да ти мигне окото, написваш сам творбата. Дори не подчертавам това. То е толкова важно, че не се нуждае от подчертаване. О, Бъди, имай тази смелост. Довери се на сърцето си. Ти си достоен художник и то няма да ти изневери. If only you'd remember before ever you sit down to write that you've been a reader long before you were ever a writer. You simply fix that fact in your mind, then sit very still and ask yourself, as a reader, what piece of writing in all the world Buddy Glass would most want to read if he had his heart's choice. The next step is terrible, but so simple I can hardly believe it as I write it. You just sit down shamelessly and write the thing yourself. I won't even underline that. It's too important to be underlined. Oh, dare to do it, Buddy ! Trust your heart. You're a deserving craftsman. It would never betray you.

می‌دانی به چه لبخند می‌زدم؟ در فرم نوشتی که حرفه‌ات نویسندگی است. به نظرم قشنگ‌ترین حسن تعبیری بود که به عمرم شنیده بودم. از کی تا حالا نوشتن حرفه‌ی تو شده؟ نوشتن هیچ‌چیز نبوده جز مذهب تو. هیچ‌چیز. حالا کمی بیش‌ازحد هیجان‌زده‌ام. ازآنجاکه این مذهب توست, می‌دانی وقتی بمیری ازت چه سؤالی می‌کنند؟ نه, اول بگذارم بگویم ازت چه نمی‌پرسند. ازت نمی‌پرسند که دمِ مرگ داشتی یک قطعه‌ی معرکه و تأثیرگذار می‌نوشتی یا نه. ازت نمی‌پرسند که آن قطعه کوتاه بود یا بلند, غم‌انگیز بود یا خنده‌دار, چاپ شد یا نشد. ازت نمی‌پرسند که موقع کار کردن روی آن سرحال بودی یا نه. حتی ازت نمی‌پرسند که اگر می‌دانستی وقتت سر آماده بازهم بر روی این قطعه کار می‌کردی یا روی چیزی دیگر - فکر کنم این را فقط از سورِن ک. بیچاره بپرسند.. ولی مطمئنم از تو فقط دو چیز می‌پرسند. بیش‌تر ستاره‌هایت در آسمان بودند؟ آیا داشتی می‌نوشتی که دلت را کنار بگذاری؟

Казах, че хич не ми пука какво дрънка мисис Федър за Сиймор. И какво мислят разни професионални дилетантки или любителки и тям подобни кучки. Казах, че още от десетгодишна възраст Сиймор е бил обсъждан от какви ли не — от дипломирани философи до интелигентни прислужници в мъжките клозети. И че те биха имали право, ако Сиймор беше някой, който се фука с високата си интелигентност. Но той мразеше да се показва. За предаванията в сряда тръгваше, сякаш предстоеше собственото му погребение. Седи до теб в автобуса или метрото и през целия път зъб не обелва, ей богу! Казах, че всички тези проклетници — разни евтини критици и драскачи — знаеха само да го потупват по гърба, но нито един от тях не разбра какво всъщност представлява той. А той е поет, бога ми! Истински поет, разбирате ли? И въпреки че още не е написал и един стих, може всички да сложи в джоба си, стига да иска.

I'm profoundly attracted to classical Zen literature, I have the gall to lecture on it and the literature of Mahayana Buddhism one night a week at college, but my life itself couldn't very conceivably be less Zenful than it is, and what little I've been able to apprehend - I pick that verb with care - of the Zen experience has been a by-result of following my own rather natural path of extreme Zenlessness. Largely because Seymour himself literally begged me to do so, and I never knew him to be wrong in these matters.) Happily for me, and probably for everybody, I don't believe it's really necessary to bring Zen into this. The method of marble-shooting that Seymour, by sheer intuition, was recommending to me can be related, I'd say, legitimately and un-Easternly, to the fine art of snapping a cigarette end into a small wastebasket from across a room. An art, I believe, of which most male smokers are true masters only when either they don't care a hoot whether or not the butt goes into the basket or the room has been cleared of eyewitnesses, including, quite so to speak, the cigarette snapper himself. I'm going to try hard not to chew on that illustration, delectable as I find it, but I do think it proper to append - to revert momentarily to curb marbles - that after Seymour himself shot a marble, he would be all smiles when he heard a responsive click of glass striking glass, but it never appeared to be clear to him whose winning click it was. And it's also a fact that someone almost invariably had to pick up the marble he'd won and hand it to him.

И ако предпочитам да не сравнявам съветите на Сиймор за играта на топчета със зен-стрелбата (с лък), то е, защото не съм нито зен-стрелец, нито зен-будист, а още по-малко познавач на зен. (Нали няма да е нередно, ако кажа, че Сийморовите и моите корени в източната философия — колебая се дали трябва да ги нарека „корени“ — водят началото си от новия и стария завет, от адвайта веданта и класическия даоизъм? Склонен съм да смятам себе си — ако изобщо мога да използвам звучните източни названия — за карма-йога, може би с щипка тжнана-йога, за да стане по пикантна гозбата. Дълбоко съм привързан към класическата зен-литература и дори имам дързостта да чета веднъж седмично лекции върху тази литература и литературата на махаяна, но начина ми на живот няма нищо общо със зен, а малкото, което съм успял да схвана от това учение — подбрах глагола много внимателно — е страничен резултат от това, че следвам своя собствен, почти естествен път на пълна беззеност. Главно, защото самият Сиймор буквално ме молеше да сторя това, а по тези въпроси той винаги беше прав.)

At length, when the conversation-in my view, at least -was going straight to hell, he got up abruptly and went over to look at a photograph of himself and Bessie that had been newly tacked up on the wall. He glowered at it for a full minute, or more, then turned around, with a brusqueness no one in the family would have found unusual, and asked Seymour if he remembered the time Joe Jackson had given him, Seymour, a ride on the handle bars of his bicycle, all over the stage, around and around. Seymour, sitting in an old corduroy armchair across the room, a cigarette going, wearing a blue shirt, gray slacks, moccasins with the counters broken down, a shaving cut on the side of his face that I could see, replied gravely and at on cc, and in the special way he always answered questions from Les - as if they were the questions, above all others, he preferred to be asked in his life. He said he wasn't sure he had ever got off Joe Jackson's beautiful bicycle. And aside from its enormous sentimental value to my father personally, this answer, in a great many ways, was true, true, true.

Тук си заслужава да отбележа — не само от добри чувства към брат ми, — че за него съм писал и преди. Всъщност, ако ме попридумате, може и да си призная, че много редки са периодите, в които не съм писал за него. И ако примерно под дулото на пистолет утре ме заставят да напиша разказ за динозавъра, не се съмнявам, че съвсем несъзнателно ще припиша на тази животинка някои черти, напомнящи за Сиймор — по какъв неповторим начин прегризва върха на някой столетен бор, да речем, или колко мило върти чудовищната си опашка. Някои хора — не близки приятели — са ме питали дали главният герой на една моя новела не носи повечето от чертите на Сиймор. Всъщност повечето от тези хора не питаха, те ми казваха. Изприщвам се, когато изобщо трябва да говоря на тази тема, но ще подчертая, че нито един от тези, които познаваха добре брат ми, не ме е питал и не ми е казвал нищо от този род — за което съм благодарен и което в известен смисъл ми е направило впечатление, тъй като не един и двама от моите герои говорят свободно манхатънски жаргон, имат еднаквия стремеж да се хвърлят там, където глупаците не смеят да припарят, и са преследвани от едно Същество, което предпочитам да нарека Стареца от планината.

Той беше много ценен и обичан от много и много хора, а за нас, неговите братя и сестри от наднорменото ни семейство, беше всичко. Да, наистина всичко: нашият еднорог, нашата двойна запалителна леща, нашият гениален консултант, нашата портативна съвест, нашият едничък истински поет и неизбежно — не само защото имаше развързан език, а и защото близо седем години от детството си беше звездата на една детска национална програма, тъй че почти всичко, което имаше да каже, тъй или инак се разнасяше из ефира — и неизбежно, струва ми се, той беше нашият бележит „мистик“ и „неуравновесен тип“. И понеже вече подхванах тази тема, ще уточня още — ако е възможно едновременно да уточняваш и да крещиш, — че въпреки червея на самоубийството, загнездил се в главата му, той беше единственият човек, с когото естествено съм си допадал и щурувал и който в повечето случаи отговаряше на класическата представа, както аз я разбирам, за мукта — наивна високопросветена личност, богопомазан. Във всеки случай неговият характер не се поддава на нито едно от познатите ми правила за стегнат стил и аз не мога да си представя някой — а още по-малко себе си, — който би се наел да го обрисува с един замах или в поредица от сеанси, дори ако той позира цял месец или цяла година.

I'm in the unique position of being able to call my brother, straight out, a non-stop talker - which is a pretty vile thing to call somebody, I think - and yet at the same time to sit back, rather, I'm afraid, like a type with both sleeves full of aces, and effortlessly remember a whole legion of mitigating factors (and 'mitigating' is hardly the word for it). I can condense them all into one: By the time Seymour was in mid-adolescence - sixteen, seventeen - he not only had learned to control his native vernacular, his many, many less than elite New York speech mannerisms, but had by then already cone into his own true, bull's-eye, poet's vocabulary. His non-stop talks, his monologues, his nearharangues then came as close to pleasing from start to finish - for a good many of as, anyway -as, say, the bulk of Beethoven's output after lie ceased being encumbered with a sense of hearing, and maybe I'm thinking especially, though it seems a trifle picky, of the B-flat-major and C-sharp-minor quartets. Still, we were a family of seven children, originally. And, as it happened, none of us was in the least tongue-tied. It's an exceedingly weighty matter when six naturally profuse verbalizers and expounders have an undefeatable champion talker in the house. True, he never sought the title. And he passionately yearned to see one or another of us outpoint or simply outlast him in a conversation or an argument. Аз съм стигнал до завидното положение да мога направо да нарека брат си кречетало — което не е много ласкателно — и същевременно да седя спокойно, сякаш съм пълен господар на положението, и без усилие да си припомням цяла редица смекчаващи вината обстоятелства (при все че „смекчаващи вината“ едва ли е най-подходящият израз в случая). Мога да ги обобщя в едно: по времето, когато Сиймор бе достигнал средата на юношеската си възраст — на шестнайсет-седемнайсет години, — той не само владееше до съвършенство родния си език с всичките му тънкости, но си беше създал и собствен, много точен поетически речник. Неговата говорливост, неговите монолози, неговите едва ли не прокламации звучеха почти толкова приятно — поне за мнозина от нас, — колкото, да речем, повечето от творбите на Бетховен, създадени, след като се е освободил от бремето на слуха; макар и да звучи претенциозно, тук имам предвид по-специално квартетите в си бемол мажор и до диез миньор. В нашето семейство бяхме седем деца. И нито едно от тях не беше лишено в ни най-малка степен от дар слово. Е, не е ли голямо тегло, когато шестима словоохотливци и тълкуватели имат в къщата си един непобедим шампион по речовитост? Вярно, той никога не се е стремил към тази титла. Дори жадуваше някой от нас да го надмине ако не по красноречие, то поне до дългоречие в някой спор или прост разговор.

It seems to me indisputably true that a good many people, the wide world over, of varying ages, cultures, natural endowments, respond with a special impetus, a zing, even, in some cases, to artists and poets who as well as having a reputation for producing great or fine art have something garishly Wrong with them as persons: a spectacular flaw in character or citizenship, a construably romantic affliction or addiction-extreme self-centredness, marital infidelity, stone-deafness, stone-blindness, a terrible thirst, a mortally bad cough, a soft spot for prostitutes, a partiality for grand-scale adultery or incest, a certified or uncertified weakness for opium or sodomy, and so on, God have mercy on the lonely bastards. If suicide isn't at the top of the list of compelling infirmities for creative men, the suicide poet or artist, one can't help noticing, has always been given a very considerable amount of avid attention, not seldom on sentimental grounds almost exclusively, as if he were (to put it much more horribly than I really want to) the floppy-eared runt of the litter. It's a thought, anyway, finally said, that I've lost sleep over many times, and possibly will again. Според мен много и много хора по широкия свят, хора на различна възраст, с различна култура и различни заложби гледат с особен възторг и дори понякога величаят онези художници и поети, които освен дето са си спечелили име с голямото си или добро изкуство имат нещо шантаво в себе си: нетърпими недостатъци в характера или в гражданското поведение, любовна страст или скръб, изключителен егоцентризъм, извънбрачна връзка, глухота, слепота, неутолима жажда, смъртоносна кашлица, слабост към проститутки, склонност към чудовищни прелюбодеяния или кръвосмешение, документирана или недокументирана страст към опиума или содомията и прочее — пази боже, самотните копелета. Макар самоубийството да не стои на първо място в списъка на задължителните за твореца недостатъци, не можем да не забележим, че самоубилият се поет или художник винаги се радва на много голямо, завидно внимание, нерядко само по чисто сантиментални причини, сякаш е (ще се изразя по-ужасно, отколкото ми се ще) клепоухото недорасло кутре от кучилото. Тази мисъл — това е последно — много пъти не ми е давала мира по цели нощи и сигурно пак ще върши същото.

Спомням си, че докато тримата — придворната, мъжът ѝ и мисис Силзбърн — не сваляха поглед от мен, следейки как кашлям, самият аз поглеждах към дребничкото старче отзад. То все така гледаше неотклонно право пред себе си. Забелязах, едва ли не с чувство на благодарност, че краката му не стигаха до пода. Те ми се сториха като стари, добри приятели. — С какво се занимава въобще този човек? — попита ме придворната, след като се окопитих от втория пристъп на кашлицата. — За Сиймор ли става дума? — казах аз. Тонът ѝ ме накара да си помисля в първия момент, че тя го подозира в нещо крайно подло. Но после чисто интуитивно реших, че е събрала тайно разни биографични данни за него, тоест всички онези незначителни, но за съжаление, биещи на очи факти, които според мен дават съвсем погрешна представа за Сиймор. Например, че като дете в течение на шест години той е бил знаменитост от радиото. Или, да речем, че е постъпил в Колумбийския университет едва петнадесетгодишен. — Да, за Сиймор — отвърна придворната. — С какво се е занимавал той, преди да постъпи в армията. И отново в мен проблесна чисто интуитивно усещане, че тя знаеше за него много неща, но по някаква причина не искаше да ги разкрие. Изглежда много добре ѝ беше известно, че преди влизането си в армията Сиймор е преподавал английски език, че е бил преподавател в колеж. Да, преподавател. Поглеждайки я, за миг ми мина и такава неприятна мисъл а дали тя не знае, че съм брат на Сиймор? Но не си струваше да разсъждавам върху това. Аз само я погледнах изпод вежди и отговорих: — Неговата специалност е лекуване на мазоли.

Somewhat overly legibly, I wrote on a sheet of paper, "We're held up indefinitely by the parade. We're going to find a phone and have a cold drink somewhere. Will you join us?" I folded the paper once, then handed it to the Matron of Honor, who opened it, read it, and then handed it to the tiny old man. He read it, grinning, and then looked at me and wagged his head up and down several times vehemently. I thought for an instant that this was the full and perfectly eloquent extent of his reply, but he suddenly motioned to me with his hand, and I gathered that he wanted me to pass him my pad and pencil, I did so- without looking over at the Matron of Honor, from whom great waves of impatience were rising. The old man adjusted the pad and pencil on his lap with the greatest care, then sat for a moment, pencil poised, in obvious concentration, his grin diminished only a very trifle. Then the pencil began, very unsteadily, to move. An "i" was dotted. And then both pad and pencil were returned personally to me, with a marvellously cordial extra added wag of the head. He had written, in letters that had not quite jelled yet, the single word "Delighted." The Matron of Honor, reading over my shoulder, gave a sound faintly like a snort, but I quickly looked over at the great writer and tried to show by my expression that all of us in the car knew a poem when we saw one, and were grateful. На едно листче — някак прекалено четливо — написах: „Парадът ще ни задържи неопределено време. Искаме да потърсим телефон и да пием нещо разхладително. Ще дойдете ли с нас?“ После сгънах листчето на две и го подадох на придворната, която го прочете и предаде на дребничкия старец. Той го прочете ухилен, погледна ме и усилено закима с глава. Реших, че това е изчерпателен и напълно красноречив отговор, но той махна с ръка към мен и разбрах, че иска да му подам тефтерчето и молива. Подадох му ги, без да поглеждам придворната, която на вълни, на вълни излъчваше нетърпение. Старчето намести много внимателно тефтерчето и молива на коленете си, застина така, явно събирайки мислите си, после, почти все със същата усмивка, вдигна молива. Много неуверено моливът започна да се движи. Накрая бе сложена акуратна точка. След това с изключително сърдечно кимане тефтерчето и моливът ми бяха върнати. Още пресните букви гласяха: „С удоволствие.“ Придворната погледна през рамото ми бележката и издаде звук, подобен на пръхтене, но аз веднага обърнах лице към великия писател и се постарах да покажа с изражението си, че всички ние веднага можем да различим една истинска поема и сме му много благодарни.

Това е един от малко известните епизоди в биографията ми, но от мен да мине, ще го разкажа. На около девет години нечувано ме блазнеше мисълта, че съм най-бързият бегач в света. Това, нека добавя, е едно странно, невключено в учебната програма самомнение, което трудно умира, и дори сега, на свръхзаседналите си четирийсет години, аз се виждам как префучавам — с градски дрехи — покрай тумби от бележити, но запъхтени олимпийци и им махам приятелски, без помен от високомерие. И тъй, една прекрасна пролетна вечер — все още живеехме на Ривърсайд Драйв — Беси ме прати да купя сладолед. Излязох от къщи в същия вълшебен час, за който стана дума преди няколко страници. Не по-малко фатален за изграждането на този анекдот е фактът, че бях с гуменки, които за всеки най-бърз бегач в света са същото или почти същото, каквото са червените обувки за малкото момиченце на Ханс Кристиан Андерсен. Откъснал се веднъж от къщи, превърнах се в самия Меркурий и ударих в страхотен спринт по дългата отсечка до Бродуей. Завоя на Бродуей взех на едно колело и продължих нататък, постигайки невъзможното: увеличение на скоростта. Дрогерията, в която продаваха сладолед „Луис Шери“, неизменният избор на Беси, отстоеше на още три преки на север. Някъде по средата на тази отсечка профучах край книжарницата, от която обикновено си купувахме вестници и списания, но профучах слепешката, без да забележа наоколо някакви познати или роднини. Изведнъж, при следващата пряка, долових шум от преследване зад себе си, което явно се извършваше на крака. Първата ми, може би типична за нюйоркчанина мисъл, беше, че ме гони полицията — най-вероятно заради нарушаване на пределната скорост в извънучилищна зона. Напрегнах се, за да изстискам още малко скорост от тялото си, но напразно. Нечия ръка ме сграбчи за пуловера, и то точно на мястото, където би трябвало да раздават номерата на победителите, и аз, здравата уплашен, понамалих, понамалих и спрях тромаво като чернокрак албатрос. Преследвачът, разбира се, беше Сиймор, който изглеждаше не по-малко уплашен от мен. „Какво става? Какво става?“, заповтаря като обезумял. Все още ме държеше за пуловера. Освободих се с рязко движение от ръката му и го осведомих на уличен мръснишки жаргон, който няма да възпроизвеждам дословно, че нищо не става, нищо не се е случило, аз просто тичам и няма защо да се крещи. „Боже, как ме уплаши! — възкликна той с огромно облекчение. — Ама как тичаш! Едвам те настигнах.“ После тръгнахме заедно за сладоледа. Това може да е чудно, може и да не е, но духът на миналия на второ място най-бърз бегач в света не беше много забележимо понижен. Преди всичко, беше ме надбягал не друг, а Сиймор. Освен това вниманието ми беше привлечено от неговото тежко дишане. То ми действаше някак успокоително.

What, I wonder, does the reader know of large families? More important, how much can he stand hearing on the subject, from me? I must say at least this much: If you're an older brother in a large family (particularly where, as with Seymour and Franny, there's an age difference of roughly eighteen years), and you either cast yourself or just not very advertently become cast in the role of local tutor or mentor, it's almost impossible not to turn into a monitor, too. But even monitors come in individual shapes, sizes, and colors. For example, when Seymour told one of the twins or Zooey or Franny, or even Mme Boo Boo (who was only two years younger than myself, and often entirely the Lady), to take off his or her rubbers on coming into the apartment, each and all of them knew he mostly meant that the floor would get tracked up if they didn't and that Bessie would have to get out the mop. When I told them to take off their rubbers, they knew I mostly meant that people who didn't were slobs. It was bound to make no small difference in the way they kidded or ragged us separately. Но, питам се, какво знае читателят за многочислените семейства? И което е по-важното, ще изтърпи ли не друг, а аз да му обясня този въпрос? Мога да кажа поне следното: ако си по-голям брат в многочислено семейство (в което разликата между Сиймор и Франи е горе-долу осемнайсет години) и сам си поел или някой е имал непредпазливостта да ти възложи ролята на наставник и опекун, почти невъзможно е да не се превърнеш и в надзирател. Но дори надзирателите се произвеждат в различни форми, размери и цветове. Така например, когато Сиймор кажеше на близнаците, на Зуи или Франи или дори на мадам Бу Бу (която е само две години по-малка от мен) да си събуват галошите, преди да влязат в апартамента, всеки от тях възприемаше думите му така: не се ли събуете, ще оставите стъпки по пода и после Беси ще трябва да се трепе с парцала. А когато аз им кажех да си събуят галошите, те го приемаха като обида: който не се събува е палачор. Оттук произтичаше и разликата в начина, по който те се шегуваха с него и с мен.

В едно-две поддаващи се на описание отношения очите му приличаха на моите и на очите на Лес и Бу Бу, защото (а) цветът на очите на тези типове може да бъде определен скромно като много тъмна супа от волска опашка или като еврейско тъжнокафяво, и (б) защото всички ние имахме кръгове под очите, а в два случая — направо торби. С това обаче се изчерпват всички интрасемейни сравнения. Може би ще бъде малко некавалерско спрямо дамите от групата, но ако трябва да се гласува за най-хубавите очи в семейството, ще дам гласа си за Сиймор и Зуи. Въпреки че техните очи бяха съвсем различни, и не само по цвят. Преди няколко години публикувах един изключително досаден, запомнящ се, неприятно спорен и напълно безуспешен разказ за даровито момченце, което пътува с презокеански параход, и някъде в този разказ имаше подробно описание на очите на момчето. По едно щастливо съвпадение разполагам със същия разказ, който в момента е забоден с вкус на ревера, на банския ми халат. Цитирам: „Очите му, светлокафяви на цвят и не много големи, леко бягаха — лявото повече от дясното. Но не бягаха дотам, че да изглежда кривоглед или да се забелязва това от пръв поглед. Бягаха точно толкова, колкото да се отбележи този факт, и то само с уговорката, че човек би трябвало много дълго и сериозно да се замисли, преди да си каже, че повече биха му харесали, ако бяха по-прави, по-дълбоки, по-кафяви или по-раздалечени.“ (Дали да не спра за секунда, че да си поемем дъх?) Истината е (не се шегувам), че това изобщо не са очите на Сиймор. Неговите очи бяха тъмни, много големи и съразмерно разположени, да не говорим, че в тях нямаше и помен от кривогледство. Въпреки това най-малко двама от членовете на нашето семейство бяха убедени и го казваха, че с това описание съм се бил домогвал до очите на Сиймор; и дори намираха, че в известен смисъл съм се справил нелошо. В действителност над неговите очи се спускаше свръхефирен воал и се получаваше нещо като тук съм, няма ме — само дето нямаше никакъв воал и точно там е цялата мъчнотия. Друг един палав писател — Шопенхауер, се опитва в една от веселяшките си творби да опише подобни очи и забърква каша, която, драго ми е да го отбележа, по нищо не се различава от моята.