The Unabridged Second Edition of Webster’s Dictionary—a volume of no small repute—gives the following as the second definition of the word plant: “any living thing that cannot move voluntarily, has no sense organs and generally makes its own food.…” I have chosen the second definition in favor of the first because it better serves my purpose, which is to prove once and for all that, except in extremely rare instances, a plant is really not the sort of thing that one ought to have around the house. That this might be accomplished in an orderly manner, I have elected to consider each aspect of the above definition individually. Let us begin at the beginning:
In furnishing one’s place of residence one seeks to acquire those things which will provide the utmost in beauty, comfort, and usefulness. In the beauty department one is invariably drawn to such fixtures as Cocteau drawings, Ming vases, and Aubusson rugs. Comfort is, of course, assured by the ability to possess these objects. Usefulness is something best left to those trained in such matters.
It should, then, be apparent that at no time does Any Living Thing enter the picture except in the past tense. In other words, it is perfectly acceptable to surround oneself with objects composed of that which while alive may have been Any Living Thing but in death has achieved dignity by becoming a nice white linen sheet.
Here one is confronted with the problem that arises when Any Living Thing takes the form of an extra person. An extra person is quite simply a person other than oneself. Living things of this nature undoubtedly have their place in both town and country, as they usually prove to be the most adept at typing, kissing, and conversing in an amusing fashion. It must be pointed out, however, that moving voluntarily is the very key to their success in performing these functions; the necessity of having to actually operate them would quite eliminate their appeal.
I have previously stated my contention that plants are acceptable in extremely rare instances. This type of extremely rare instance occurs when one is presented with a leaf-ridden token of affection by an extra person who has provided valuable service. Refusal of a plant thus offered will almost certainly result in the termination of this bond. Therefore, while the decision as to who exactly should be allowed to burden one with such a memento is, of course, a matter of personal conscience, one is wise to remember that talk is cheap, a kiss is just a kiss, but manuscripts do not type themselves.
It is necessary to remember that, although No Sense Organs does most assuredly guarantee no meaningful glances, no snorting derisively, and no little tastes, it also, alas, guarantees no listening spellbound.
There is, I believe, something just the tiniest bit smug in that statement. And Generally Makes Its Own Food, does it? Well, bully for It. I do not generally make my own food, nor do I apologize for it in the least. New York City is fairly bristling with restaurants of every description and I cannot help but assume that they are there for a reason. Furthermore, it is hard to cherish the notion of a cuisine based on photosynthesis. Thus, since I have yet to detect the aroma of Fettuccine Alfredo emanating from a Boston fern, I do not consider And Generally Makes Its Own Food to be a trait of any consequence whatsoever. When you run across one that Generally Makes Its Own Money, give me a call.