The Matter With Morris

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And a wonderful book.

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Thomas Morris does for the history of cardiac surgery what The Right Stuff and Hidden Figures did for the space race… The book is — appropriately — pulse-thumpingly gripping and will be enjoyed by anyone who, in any sense of the phrase, has a heart. Mark Lawson. An exhilarating sweep through ancient history and contemporary practice in surgery of the heart. A wonderful book. Melvyn Bragg. Crammed full of compelling characters and dramatic scenes, this book gets to the heart of a fascinating matter and demonstrates why it matters so much.

Thomas Wright, author of Circulation. Fascinating and compelling… There are also remarkable tales of survival against the odds, perseverance, ingenuity and awe-inspiring feats… Morris deftly constructs an engaging narrative that covers a vast range of material. Manjit Kumar , Literary Review. He had tried university, disliked it, and dropped out. He played online poker.

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He smoked too much weed. There was some concern that he might be dealing, though there were worse things than selling dope—like accosting old women and stealing their purses, or having sex with animals.


Morris longed for the true and the beautiful and the good in his column, and though he could not be certain, he anticipated that we are saved by hope. Readers responded with hopeful thoughts. As is the case with most columnists, readers believed that because Morris wrote in the first person, the life he described was his own. They identified with the domestic dramas, the small failures, the financial burdens, and the difficulties of family relationships. Men especially recognized themselves and wrote to Morris as if he were a friend.

A History of the Heart in Eleven Operations

The Matter With Morris book. Read 64 reviews from the world's largest community for readers. Shortlisted for the Scotiabank Giller Prize!When Morr. The Matter with Morris [David Bergen] on *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. When Morris Schutt, a prominent newspaper columnist, surveys his.

As is also the case with columnists, Morris did little to dissuade anyone. As a journalist, he knew the fine line that existed between truth and fiction and he felt he was adept at walking that tightrope. But he understood that he worked in a temporal, modern world, and if he had doubts or took the time to reflect on the thinness of his thoughts, it did not take long for him to push these doubts aside and then to sit down and write another column.

And he died. His wife let her hair go grey and she stopped having sex with Morris. She confessed that at night, when she knew that her two daughters and her grandson were safely sleeping, she imagined a dark place she might run to, but there was no place far enough, there was no corner dark enough. And Morris, who had always cunningly told the world about his private life, began to lose his grasp of himself.

Thomas Morris

The madness trickled into his columns, and in one of the last pieces he wrote in the late summer of , he borrowed overtly from the seventeenth-century mystic Jacob Boehme, and he descended into the second-person voice, alienating many of his readers. You are like a fugitive. The hardness is fixed and you are on a turning wheel, one part of you striving upwards, the other striving downwards, and you are full of both desire and will.

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So the wheel spins and has no destination and there then results the greatest disquietude, comparable to a furious madness, from which results a terrible anguish. You wish to bend time, to pass through it. Of course.

Maren Morris - The Bones 💖 1 HOUR 💖 [Lyrics]

You desperately wish to regain your son. You desire him, you want to experience your own reflection, and so you grasp, you lay out crafty plans, you manoeuvre and beg. Yet, to no avail, because your son is dead. The wheel turns and you have no destination where to arrive.

His agent, Robert, a rational man with a sharp chin and a distrust of anything contemplative, phoned Morris and said that his columns had become too wistful and he told him to retool them. He said that he was not a word processor, that he could not just mass-produce essays on demand. And finally I offered up my dead son, hoping it would bring some peace.

All of this, and now you complain about seepage?

Peter Morris

You are a philistine and you are, contrary to your highfalutin sense of yourself, astonishingly middle class. Before, when you first began writing this column, you were generous. Of course you excavated your own life, but you did it circumspectly, with a kind of mockery. You nailed the truth in a lighthearted manner. Nobody wants to read about unhappiness. What the fuck is all this mysticism?

The letters! Numbers are way down.

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Gradually stripped of his defences, Morris finds some redemption in the basics of human life -- but only after a searing disintegration that breaks his marriage, destroys relations with one of his daughters and separates him from his grandson, pushes him into sexual but impotent connections with call-girls who dated his son, and ultimately sees him wandering the streets of a bleak Winnipeg with visions of suicide. Published by Penguin This is not a light read, although I did finish it in almost one sitting. It all seems so logical but probably it isn't, it is more like real life-- not logical! About this Item: penguin books ltd. All I can offer is this: Morris Schutt is little more than a walking cock.

Take a leave. Sort things out. Better than losing the column completely. You need this column. You need the money. But take some time. Morris closed his eyes, then opened them. Perhaps an aneurism. It will be done tastefully. Keep writing the columns for yourself and at some point you will pass through this. But gently. You talk to her? After a dinner of poached pickerel and wild rice, he made himself an espresso and drank it in one shot.

Then he rolled a joint and smoked it on his third-floor balcony overlooking the street below. It was warm for September and in the sky to the west dark clouds were piling up. There were girls in tight jeans and sleeveless tops strolling along the sidewalk. Some had boys on their arms, some had big purses, and many had both. The boys were immature; they seemed coltish and awkward and were always half a step behind the girls.

On the corner there was a patio bar that was filling up with mostly young people, though there was an older couple, perhaps in their late forties, who had found a distant table. They were drinking red wine and the woman was smoking and leaning toward the man, touching his arm and then stroking his face. Morris experienced an ache in his chest and stepped inside his condo. He sat down at his computer and began a column that was truncated and elliptical and was lifted from Petrarch.

You will stand safely on the shore, watching others being shipwrecked and hearing their cries in silence. That is why I am sure you will eventually get rid of all your sadness. Just so. But then you will think, What if I am not safe on shore? What if I am in the midst of the wreck?


And you will have to reckon with yourself. This particular piece was unfinished, and in any case, the claim to truth was fraudulent. Everyone—his readers, his editors, those who wrote letters back to him—all of them liked that he announced the truth. Only his family rebuked him.

Lucille had said that he was exploiting those who loved him. She no longer wanted to be fodder for his writing. She had an office on the fifteenth floor of a downtown corporate building and she would come home and tell Morris about her patients. Though these people remained nameless, they were very real. The woman who kept changing her identity, using the phone book to discover new names. The adolescent boy who tried to kill his father as he slept. And there were those, ordinary people like him, who were overwhelmed by staying alive. They were addicted to the material, to commerce, to the comfort of stuff.

The world was mad. Very much disguised, these people had entered his column. And then there came the day—he can still remember the tiny quiver of recognition—when he began to use his own life, and though he suspected he was betraying his family, he saw himself harnessed to some great fated and unguided wagon. The astounding fact was that his readership grew. People were hungry for the personal and the private.

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He offered himself up as if he were both Abraham and Isaac, and he laid himself out on the altar and took up the knife as if to slay himself. And how he had succeeded. Using the convoluted logic of politicians and generals, Morris reasoned thus: 1 Freedom is everything. Or so he thought.