Doug, early in September at one of
the first meetings, had talked about the individual, and how, for all
the complaints about the plight one might find oneself in, most
people wouldn't change places with another even if begged or paid.
“Most of us are, healthily, in love with ourselves.” True, very
true, Morris thought, though he couldn't imagine why some of these
poor men wouldn't want to be him. He was fit, somewhat popular, not
bad looking, had money, drove a Jaguar, slept with escorts, had free
time, was intelligent, read and sort of understood Tillich, possessed
an okay jump shot, and with the aid of several ancient guides such as
Plato, he was slowly crawling up out of the cave. On the other hand,
when he looked at the men around him in the group, he wanted nothing
to do with their lives. Doug, the egalitarian leader? No, too old and
boring. Mervine? Too pitiful, too painful to consider. Peter, the
Filipino who lived with seventeen other family members? No, too
servile, too simple. Ezra, the fallen Jew? No, though there was
something attractive about the tribal camaraderie. Morris had been
raised a Mennonite stoic in a tribe that wasn't a tribe at all, but
more a failed cult whose main sources of entertainment were music,
wordplay, and suffering. He had shucked that off quite quickly. And
so on. If he would be forced to choose under the pressure of torture,
he would surrender to the possibility of something beyond this room,
into the realm of film. He would be Jason Bourne, and he would marry
Mia from Pulp Fiction, and they would live in humid bliss on a
small island off the coast of Cambodia.
David Bergen, The Matter With Morris
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