Do it for the Fat Lady, by Zooey

"Seymour'd told me to shine my shoes just as I was going out the door with Waker. I was furious. The studio audience were all morons, the announcer was a moron, the sponsors were morons, and I just damn well wasn't going to shine my shoes for them, I told Seymour. I said they couldn't see them anyway, where we sat.

He said to shine them anyway. He said to shine them for the Fat Lady.

I didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but he had a very Seymour look on his face, and so I did it. He never did tell me who the Fat Lady was, but I shined my shoes for the Fat Lady every time I ever went on the air again — all the years you and I were on the program together, if you remember. I don't think I missed more than just a couple of times. This terribly clear, clear picture of the Fat Lady formed in my mind. I had her sitting on this porch all day, swatting flies, with her radio going full-blast from morning till night. I figured the heat was terrible, and she probably had cancer, and — I don't know. Anyway, it seemed goddam clear why Seymour wanted me to shine my shoes when I went on the air. It made sense.
I don't care where an actor acts. It can be in summer stock, it can be over a radio, it can be over television, it can be in a goddam Broadway theatre, complete with the most fashionable, most well-fed, most sunburned-looking audience you can imagine. But I'll tell you a terrible secret — Are you listening to me? There isn't anyone out there who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. That includes your Professor Tupper, buddy. And all his goddam cousins by the dozens. There isn't anyone anywhere that isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. Don't you know that? Don't you know that goddam secret yet? And don't you know — listen to me, now — don't you know who that Fat Lady really is? . . . Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It's Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy."

Kill the Buddha if you meet him on the street!

Vântul bate ca şi cum ar intenţiona, în bunătatea lui, să mă mângâie. Oamenii sunt sentimentali şi, conform definiţiei lui blyth, îşi arătă unii altora mai multă tandreţe decât le arată însuşi Dumnezeu. Everybody likes everybody - ca în poza mea de messenger pe vremea când aveam laptop. Şi timpul trece mai repede sau mult mai încet în funcţie de bătăile inimii. Eu am pielea bronzată, maro-aurie ca într-o vară eternă. Are o poveste a ei, dar nu şopteşte nici un cuvânt să nu rupă vraja. E expresivă. Cu semne de punctuaţie, cum zice Marius. Port doar rochii albe, de in sau de bornagic, cu dantelă sau broderie. Cele de gală sunt ţesute de păianjeni într-un gherghef complicat, doar de ei ştiut, drept mulţumire că nu le-am stricat prea multe pânze şi i-am scos afară din casă pe geam.

Maestrul îmi spune prima lecţie: "Kill the Buddha if the Buddha exists somewhere else. Kill the Buddha, because you should resume your own Buddha nature."

Oamenii povestesc şi îşi zâmbesc, punându-şi mâna pe inimă. Eu mă întreb dacă am gesticula la fel când am dori să spunem ceva din suflet şi dacă nu am şti în ce parte e inima. Dar nu aştept, de fapt, nici un răspuns.

Şi maestrul îmi zice: "Without thinking of good or evil, show me your original face before your mother and father were born."

Majoritatea femeilor îşi urăsc picioarele, dar eu mi le ador aşa de mult încât umblu tot timpul desculţă. Şi în rarele momente în care mă încalţ, am nisip în sandale.