Muriel Glass Quotes in A Perfect Day for Bananafish
“[…] He calls me Miss Spiritual Tramp of 1948,” the girl said, and giggled.
“It isn’t funny, Muriel. It isn’t funny at all. It’s horrible. It’s sad, actually. When I think how—”
“Mother,” the girl interrupted, “listen to me. You remember that book he sent me from Germany? You know—those German poems. What’d I do with it? I’ve been racking my—”
“You have it.”
“Are you sure?” said the girl.
“Certainly. That is, I have it. It’s in Freddy’s room. You left it here […] —Why? Does he want it?”
“[…] He wanted to know if it’d read it.”
“It was in German!”
“[…] He said that the poems happen to be written by the only great poet of the century. He said I should’ve bought a translation or something. Or learned the language, if you please.”
“[…] he said it was a perfect crime the Army released him from the hospital—my word of honor. He very definitely told your father there’s a chance—a very great chance, he said—that Seymour may completely lose control of himself. My word of honor.”
“[…] he asked me if Seymour’s been sick or something, So I said—”
“Why’d he ask that?”
“I don’t know, Mother. I guess because he’s so pale and all,” said the girl. “Anyway, […] His wife was horrible. You remember that awful dinner dress you saw in Bonwit’s window? The one you said you’d have to have a tiny, tiny—”
“The green?”
“She had it on. And all hips. […]”
“What’d he say though? The doctor.”
“Oh. Well, nothing much, really. I mean we were in the bar and all. It was terribly noisy.”
The room smelled of new calfskin luggage and nail-lacquer remover.
He glanced at the girl lying asleep on one of the ten beds. Then he went over to one of the pieces of luggage, opened it, and from under a pile of shorts and undershirts he took out an Ortgies caliber 7.65 automatic. […] He cocked the piece. Then he went over and sat down on the unoccupied twin bed, looked at the girl, aimed the pistol, and fired a bullet through his right temple.
Muriel Glass Quotes in A Perfect Day for Bananafish
“[…] He calls me Miss Spiritual Tramp of 1948,” the girl said, and giggled.
“It isn’t funny, Muriel. It isn’t funny at all. It’s horrible. It’s sad, actually. When I think how—”
“Mother,” the girl interrupted, “listen to me. You remember that book he sent me from Germany? You know—those German poems. What’d I do with it? I’ve been racking my—”
“You have it.”
“Are you sure?” said the girl.
“Certainly. That is, I have it. It’s in Freddy’s room. You left it here […] —Why? Does he want it?”
“[…] He wanted to know if it’d read it.”
“It was in German!”
“[…] He said that the poems happen to be written by the only great poet of the century. He said I should’ve bought a translation or something. Or learned the language, if you please.”
“[…] he said it was a perfect crime the Army released him from the hospital—my word of honor. He very definitely told your father there’s a chance—a very great chance, he said—that Seymour may completely lose control of himself. My word of honor.”
“[…] he asked me if Seymour’s been sick or something, So I said—”
“Why’d he ask that?”
“I don’t know, Mother. I guess because he’s so pale and all,” said the girl. “Anyway, […] His wife was horrible. You remember that awful dinner dress you saw in Bonwit’s window? The one you said you’d have to have a tiny, tiny—”
“The green?”
“She had it on. And all hips. […]”
“What’d he say though? The doctor.”
“Oh. Well, nothing much, really. I mean we were in the bar and all. It was terribly noisy.”
The room smelled of new calfskin luggage and nail-lacquer remover.
He glanced at the girl lying asleep on one of the ten beds. Then he went over to one of the pieces of luggage, opened it, and from under a pile of shorts and undershirts he took out an Ortgies caliber 7.65 automatic. […] He cocked the piece. Then he went over and sat down on the unoccupied twin bed, looked at the girl, aimed the pistol, and fired a bullet through his right temple.