Seymour Sarason Eulogy

Dear Fellow Friends of Seymour:

I have learned of Seymour's death too late to be with you at his funeral today. I see, looking at the clock, that the service is just starting now. A have appreciated reading the various memorials to him, as I think of this extraordinary, wonderful, man who touched us so deeply that even the third time we always laughed at the joke; "What does it feel like? It feels like talking to the wall!" because we just wanted Seymour to talk just a little longer, wanted him to be happy for a moment, wanted to be with him.

In reading other's thoughts, I began thinking about what made Seymour so special, why he might have inspired such feelings of love and devotion, and his final moving out of this world kindles such keen feelings of loss for me, and for all of us together.

There are many extraordinarily intelligent people around, some of them in universities. There are a number of professors who take genuine personal interest in their students. But Seymour was different: if you worked with him in any way, you eventually came to the realization that there was only single reason that Seymour was helping you: because he loved you. And because he loved you and loved to help you to grow and flourish, the entire breadth of his mind was at your disposal. He had no other consideration than you, and you felt it.

A couple of months ago, Seymour told me that the hardest thing about his existence was that "I don't have anybody to care for now."

Beneath the rough exterior that only served to make him more endearing, this was the guy who cheerfully told me once that he was a really good psychotherapy supervisor. "Have you ever practiced psychotherapy? I asked?

"Oh, no," he quickly replied, almost shuddering. "I'm way too sensitive for that!"

It seems like there must be a good ironic Jewish joke in there somewhere.


Just like his mentor Henry Shaffer-Simmern, Seymour's care for you would most often be expressed in giving you a blank sheet of paper. "Artistic creativity is life, he said. For some of us, Seymour's blank sheet of paper was the charge to write a book. It was his medium: when he was teaching, he seemed to regularly turn one out a year. After he retired, I think it went up to two. "He writes them faster than I can read him!" my friend Hank Bersani complained. You'd go see Seymour, and he would tell you to write a book, and two weeks later there'd be a letter from a publisher asking of if you were interested in a book contract.

Well, I wrote that book, and just as Seymour had no doubt planned, now I don't seem to be able to stop. The next one, I dedicated to him with these words of Seneca, My guess is that is what we all experienced.

What would you think of a memorial symposium that brings all of us together to talk about Seymour's influence on us and the world, so that we can all get to know each other a bit? Maybe somebody could write a book. Seymour would like that.


Suppose, again, that the other endured labor and weariness in teaching me; that, besides the ordinary sayings of teachers, there are things which he has transmitted and instilled into me; that by his encouragement he aroused the best that was in me, at one time inspirited me by his praise; at another warned me to put aside sloth; that, laying hand, so to speak, on my mental powers that then were hidden and inert, he drew them forth into the light; that, instead of doing out his knowledge grudgingly in order that there might be the longer need of his service, he was eager, if he could, to pour the whole of into me – if I do not owe to such a man all the love I give to those to the most grateful ties, I am indeed ungrateful.



Sincerely,


David B. Schwartz