Wallace Baine: What Morton Marcus leaves behind

One of the last times I saw my friend Morton Marcus, we were sitting together with Mort's wife Donna in the otherwise empty theater at the Nickelodeon one weekday morning.

[Gary Yules]

I met Morton Marcus when I was a grocery clerk in Aptos during the late 70's and 80's. Morton Marcus was a customer I always enjoyed having come through my line, as he almost always had something interesting to say. Years later, I would see him at boxing matches. We were both fight fans and, as always, Morton Marcus had something interesting to say. People wanted to listen to Morton Marcus, to hear what he had to say on a particular topic. It's been years since I saw Morton Marcus in person, but I enjoyed reading about him and seeing him on television when I had the opportunity.

He will be missed by many. More importantly, he was appreciated by many. My life was made better by my encounters with Morton Marcus. Thank you Morton for the time you spent here. GCY

[Pat]

Thank you for honoring Mort. He was an important influence in my life and his passing saddens me greatly.

[Local Girl]

That was beautiful Wallace. Thank you for sharing the intimacy of your friendship with Mort, with us.

[barbara]

I deeply appreciate you letting those of us who only knew him through his poetry to become closer to his joy in life even in death;what a fine man he was and leaves us with his lessons through your words
thank you for revealing him to us

[reginaldo de watsonville]

Morton Marcus was one of my first teachers at Cabrillo College when I moved to Santa Cruz over 30 years ago!
Definitely taught me to THINK and choose my words wisely.
Thanks Mort!

[Santa Cruz Native]

Mort was a friend, a teacher and an inspiration. I cannot express my feelings as well as those who were more talented. I merely add the words of W.H. Auden on the death of the poet, W.B. Yates:

In Memory of Morton Marcus

He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
The snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.

Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.

But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

[Santa Cruz Native]

Morton was a teacher and an inspiration. He introduced me to the world of literature and impacted my life in major ways. I cannot express my feelings about Mort better than to quote the poet, W.H. Auden in his poem in memory of William Butler Yates.

In Memory to Morton Marcus

He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
The snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.

Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.

But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

[lit lover]

If anyone's really interested in Mort Marcus, read his work. It's widely available, always accessible to any reader, and you can't go wrong.