Catcher in the rye. “The Catcher in the Rye” – the bible of American youth or a reference book for murderers? KDK The Catcher in the Rye

Jerome D. Salinger

Catcher in the rye

They each had their own room. They were about seventy years old, or even more. And yet they enjoyed life, even though they had one foot in the grave. I know it’s disgusting to say that, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I just want to say that I thought a lot about old Spencer, and if you think about him too much, you start to wonder why the hell he's still alive. You see, he’s all hunched over and can barely walk, and if he drops chalk in class, someone from the first desk has to bend down and give it to him. I think this is terrible. But if you don’t look into it too much, but just think about it, it turns out that he doesn’t live badly at all. For example, one Sunday, when he was treating me and several other guys to hot chocolate, he showed us a tattered Indian blanket - he and Mrs. Spencer bought it from some Indian in Yellowstone Park. It was clear that old Spencer was delighted with this purchase. Do you understand what I'm talking about? There lives a man like old Spencer, the sand is already pouring out of him, and he is still delighted with some blanket.

His door was open, but I still knocked, just out of politeness. I saw him - he was sitting in a large leather chair, wrapped in the very blanket I was talking about. He turned around when I knocked.

Who's there? - he yelled. - You, Caulfield? Come in, boy, come in!

He was always yelling at home, let alone in class. It really got on my nerves.

As soon as I entered, I already regretted why they brought me. He was reading the Atlantic Monthly, and there were some bottles and pills everywhere, everything smelled like runny nose drops. It made me sad. I actually don't like sick people too much. And everything seemed even more depressing because old Spencer was wearing a terribly pathetic, threadbare, old robe - he had probably worn it since birth, honestly. I don't like old people in pajamas or dressing gowns. Their chest is always out, all their old ribs are visible. And the legs are creepy. Have you seen old people on the beaches, how white and hairless their legs are?

Hello, sir! - I say. - I received your note. Thank you very much. - He wrote me a note so that I would come to him to say goodbye before the holidays; knew that I would never come back. - You wrote in vain, I would have come to say goodbye anyway.

“Sit over there, boy,” said old Spencer. He pointed to the bed.

I sat down on the bed.

How's your flu, sir?

You know, my boy, if I felt better, I would have to send for a doctor! - The old man made himself laugh. He started giggling like crazy. Finally I caught my breath and asked: “Why aren’t you at the match?” I think today is the final?

Yes. But I just returned from New York with the fencing team.

Lord, what a bed! Real stone!

He suddenly assumed terrible severity - I knew this would happen.

So, are you leaving us? - asks.

Yes sir, it seems so.

Then he started shaking his head. I have never seen in my life that a person could shake his head for so long in a row. You can’t tell if he’s shaking his head because he’s lost in thought, or just because he’s just an old man and doesn’t understand a damn thing.

What did Doctor Thurmer talk to you about, my boy? I heard that you had a long conversation.

Yes, I was. We talked. I sat in his office for two hours, if not more.

What did he tell you?

Well... all sorts of things. That life is a fair game. And that we must play by the rules. He spoke well. That is, he didn’t say anything special. It's all about the same thing: life is a game and all that. Yes, you know it yourself.

But life really It’s a game, my boy, and you have to play by the rules.

Yes, sir. I know. I know all this.

We compared it too! Good game! If you find yourself in a game where there are great players, then okay, whatever happens, this is really a game. And if you get to the other side, where there are only assholes, what kind of game is there? Not a damn thing like it. No game will be released.

Has Dr. Thurmer written to your parents yet? - asked old Spencer.

No, he's going to write to them on Monday.

And you didn’t tell them anything yourself?

No sir, I didn't tell them anything, I'll see them on Wednesday evening when I get home.

How do you think they will react to this news?

How to say... They’ll probably get angry, I say. - They must be angry. After all, I’m already in my fourth school.

And I shook my head. This is my habit.

Eh! - I say. It’s also a habit to say “Eh!” or “Wow!”, partly because I’m at a loss for words, and partly because I sometimes act way beyond my age. I was sixteen then, and now I’m already seventeen, but sometimes I act like I’m thirteen years old, no more. It seems terribly ridiculous, especially since I’m six feet two and a half inches and have gray hair. This is true. On one side, on the right, I have a million gray hairs. From early childhood. And yet sometimes I act like I’m twelve years old. That's what everyone says about me, especially my father. This is partly true, but not entirely. And people always think that they see right through you. I don’t care, although it makes me sad when they teach you to behave like an adult. Sometimes I act like I'm much older than my age, but people don't notice that. In general, they don’t notice a damn thing.

Old Spencer started shaking his head again. And at the same time he picked his nose. He tried to pretend that he was rubbing his nose, but in fact he stuck his entire finger there. He probably thought it was possible, because there was no one here except me. I don’t care, although it’s disgusting to see people picking their noses.

Then he spoke:

I had the honor of meeting your mother and your father when they came to talk to Dr. Thurmer a few weeks ago. They are amazing people.

Yes, sure. They are good.

"Amazing." I hate this word! Horrible vulgarity. It makes you sick when you hear such words.

And suddenly old Spencer’s face looked as if he was about to say something very good and smart. He straightened up in his chair and sat more comfortably. It turned out to be a false alarm. He just took the magazine from his lap and wanted to throw it on the bed where I was sitting. And I didn’t hit it. The bed was two inches away from him, and he still missed. I had to get up, pick up the magazine and put it on the bed. And suddenly I wanted to run the hell out of this room. I felt that a terrible sermon was about to begin. Actually, I don’t mind, let him talk, but to be scolded, and the smell of medicine all around and old Spencer sitting in front of you in pajamas and a robe - this is too much. I didn't want to listen.

That's where it started.

What are you doing to yourself, boy? - said old Spencer. He spoke very sternly, he had never spoken like that before. - How many subjects did you take this quarter?

Five, sir.

Five. How much did you fail?

Four. - I shifted on the bed. I have never sat on such a hard bed in my life. I did well in English because I learned Beowulf and Lord Randal My Son and all that stuff back at Hutton School. I only had to study English when I was assigned essays.

He didn't even listen to me. He never listened to what he was told.

I failed you in history because you learned absolutely nothing.

I understand, sir. I understand perfectly well. What were you supposed to do?

I didn't learn anything at all! - he repeated. It makes me angry when people repeat what you do straightaway agreed. And he repeated for the third time: “I didn’t teach you anything at all!” I doubt if you opened your textbook even once during the entire quarter. Did you open it? Just tell the truth, boy!

No, of course, I looked through it twice,” I say. I didn't want to offend him. He was obsessed with his story.

Oh, did you look? - he said very venomously. - Your exam paper, if I may say so, is over there on the shelf. Above, on the notebooks. Give it here, please!

It was terrible disgust on his part, but I took my notebook and handed it to him - there was nothing more left to do. Then I sat down on this concrete bed again. You can’t even imagine how sorry I was that I went to say goodbye to him!

He held my notebook like it was a dung cake or something worse.

We went through Egypt from the fourth of November to the second of December,” he said. - You yourself chose this topic for the exam paper. Would you like to listen to what you wrote?

No, sir, it’s not worth it, I say.

- “The Egyptians were an ancient race of Caucasian origin who lived in one of the northern regions of Africa. It is known to be the largest continent in the eastern hemisphere."

And I had to sit and listen to this utter nonsense. It's disgusting, honestly.

“Nowadays we are interested in Egyptians for many reasons. Modern science is still seeking an answer to the question - what secret compounds did the Egyptians use when embalming their dead so that their faces would not rot for many centuries. This mysterious mystery still challenges modern science in the twentieth century."

He fell silent and put my notebook down. I almost hated him at that moment.

Your, so to speak, excursion into science ends here,” he said in the same poisonous voice. I would never have thought that such an ancient old man had so much poison in him. “But you also made a small note below for me personally,” he added.

Yes, yes, I remember, I remember! - I said. I hurried so that at least he wouldn’t read it out loud. Where there - how can you stop him! Sparks were flying out of it!

“Dear Mr. Spencer! - He read terribly loudly. - That's all I know about the Egyptians. For some reason they don’t interest me very much, although you read about them very well. It’s okay if you fail me - I’ve already failed in other subjects except English anyway. Respecting you Holden Caulfield».

Then he put down my damn notebook and looked at me as if he had given me a pass at ping-pong. I will never forgive him for reading that nonsense out loud. If he had written something like that, I would never have read it, I give you my word. And most importantly, I added this damned postscript so that he wouldn’t feel embarrassed about letting me down.

Are you angry that I failed you, my boy? - he asked.

What are you, sir, not at all! - I say. If only he would stop calling me “my boy,” damn it!

He threw my notebook on the bed. But, of course, I didn’t hit it again. I had to get up and pick her up. I put it on the Atlantic Monthly. Here's another thing: I wanted to bend over every minute.

What would you do if you were me? - he asked. - Just tell the truth, my boy.

Yes, apparently, he was very uncomfortable because he failed me. Then, of course, I started to screw things up. He said that I was mentally retarded, generally a cretin, that in his place I myself would have done the same thing, and that many people do not understand how difficult it is to be a teacher. And everything like that. In a word, he did it right.

But the funny thing is that I was thinking about something else all the time. I screw it up myself, but I think about something else. I live in New York, and I was thinking about that pond in Central Park, near the South Exit: does it freeze or not, and if it freezes, where do the ducks go? I couldn't imagine where the ducks go when the pond becomes covered in ice and freezes through. Maybe a truck pulls up and takes them to a zoo somewhere? Or maybe they just fly away?

Still, it works out well for me. I want to say that I can screw up old Spencer with anything, while at the same time I’m thinking about ducks. It turns out interesting. But when you talk to a teacher, you don’t need to think at all. And suddenly he interrupted me. He always interrupts.

Tell me, what do you think about this, my boy? It would be interesting to know. Very interesting.

Is this about me getting kicked out of Pencey? - I ask. If only he could wrap his stupid robe around him. It's unpleasant to watch.

If I'm not mistaken, you had the same difficulties at both Hutton School and Elkton Hill?

He said this not only poisonously, but also somehow disgustingly.

“I didn’t have any difficulties in Elkton Hill,” I say. - I didn't fail or anything. He just left - that's all.

Let me ask - why?

Why? It's a long story, sir. All this is generally quite complicated.

I really didn’t want to tell him what and how. He wouldn't understand anything anyway. It's not his thing. And I left Elkton Hill mainly because there was one continuous linden tree there. Everything was done for show - you won’t breathe. For example, their director, Mr. Haas. I have never met such a vile pretender in my life. Ten times worse than old Thurmer. On Sundays, for example, that damn Haas would go and shake the hands of all the parents who came. And so sweet, so polite - just a picture. But he did not greet everyone equally - some of the children had simpler, poorer parents. You should have seen how he, for example, greeted my roommate's parents. You see, if someone’s mother is fat or funny dressed, and his father wears a suit with terribly high shoulders and wears old-fashioned shoes, black and white, then this same Haas just held out two fingers to them and feigned a smile, and then he starts talking to others parents - it spills for half an hour! I can't stand it. Anger takes over. I'm so angry that I could go crazy. I hate this damn Elkton Hill.

Old Spencer asked me something, but I didn’t hear him. I kept thinking about that vile Haas.

What did you say, sir? - I say.

But are you at least sad that you have to leave Pencey?

Yes, of course, I’m a little upset. Of course... but still not very good. It probably hasn't dawned on me yet. I need time for this. For now, I'm thinking more about how I'll go home on Wednesday. Apparently, I'm still a cretin!

Are you really not thinking about your future at all, my boy?

No, how not to think - I think, of course. - I stopped. - Just not very often. Infrequently.

Come to think of it! - said old Spencer. - Then you’ll think about it when it’s too late!

I felt uncomfortable. Why did he say that - as if I was already dead? Terribly unpleasant.

“I’ll definitely think about it,” I say, “I’ll think about it.”

How can I explain to you, boy, hammer into your head what you need? After all, I want to help you, understand?

It was obvious that he really wanted to help me. For real. But he and I were pulled in different directions - that’s all.

“I know, sir,” I say, “and thank you very much.” Honestly, I really appreciate it, I really do!

Then I got out of bed. By God, I could not sit on it for another ten minutes even under pain of death.

Unfortunately, I have to go! I need to pick up my things from the gym, I have a lot of things there, and I will need them. By God, I have to go!

He just looked at me and started shaking his head again, and his face became so serious and sad. I suddenly felt so damn sorry for him. But I couldn’t hang around with him all my life, and we were pulling in different directions. And he was always throwing something on the bed and missing, and this pathetic robe of his, his whole chest was visible, and then there was the smell of flu medicine throughout the whole house.

You know what, sir, I say, don’t be upset because of me. It's not worth it, honestly. Everything will be alright. This is my transitional age, you know. It happens to everyone.

I don’t know, my boy, I don’t know...

I hate it when people mutter like that.

It happens, I say, it happens to everyone! Really, sir, you shouldn't be upset because of me. “I even put my hand on his shoulder.” - It’s not worth it! - I say.

Would you like a cup of hot chocolate on the way? Mrs. Spencer would be pleased to...

I would drink, sir, honestly, but I have to run. We need to get to the gym as soon as possible. Thank you very much, sir. Thanks a lot.

And then we started shaking hands. All this is nonsense, of course, but for some reason it made me terribly sad.

I'll drop you a line, sir. Stay safe after the flu, okay?

Goodbye my boy.

And when I had already closed the door and went out into the dining room, he shouted something after me, but I didn’t hear it. I think he was yelling “Have a nice trip!” Or maybe not. I hope no. I would never yell after him “Have a nice trip!” It's a nasty habit, if you think about it.

I'm a terrible liar - you've never seen anything like it in your life. It's a terrible thing. I go to the store to buy some magazine, and if they suddenly ask me where, I can say that I’m going to the opera. It's a terrible thing! And what I told old Spencer that I was going to the gym to pick up my things was also a lie. I don't keep anything in this damn room.

While I was at Pencey, I lived in the new dorm, the Ossenberger building. Only the elders and the youngest lived there. I was one of the younger ones, my neighbor was one of the older ones. The building was named after Ossenberger, there was one like him here, he previously studied at Pencey. And when I finished, I made a lot of money from funeral homes. He set them up all over the state - you know, those funeral homes through which you can bury your relatives for cheap - five dollars off the nose. You should look at this same Ossenberger. I guarantee that he simply stuffs the dead into a bag and throws them into the river. So this guy donated a lot of money to Pansy and our building was named after him. He arrived at the first match of the year in his luxurious Cadillac, and we had to jump into the stands and blow our horn with all our might, that is, shout “Hurray!” to him. And the next morning in the chapel he gave a speech for ten hours. At first he told fifty jokes with such a beard, he wanted to show what a young fellow he was. Force. And then he began to tell how, in case of any difficulties or anything else, he is never embarrassed - he will kneel down and pray to God. And he also advised us to always pray to God - to talk with him at any time. “You,” he says, “turn to Christ simply as a friend. I myself have heart-to-heart conversations with Christ all the time. Even when I’m driving.” I almost died. I imagine how this son of a bitch puts the car into first gear, and asks Christ to send him more dead bodies. But then, during his speech, the most remarkable thing happened. He had just reached the middle, talking to himself about what a wonderful guy he was, what a trickster, and suddenly Eddie Marsalla - he was sitting right in front of me - farted in front of the whole chapel. Of course, this is terrible, very impolite, in church, in front of everyone, but it turned out very funny. Well done Marsalla! Almost tore off the roof. No one laughed out loud, and this Ossenberger pretended that he had not heard anything, but old Termer, our director, was sitting next to him in the department, and it was immediately clear that he heard well. Wow, he got angry! He didn’t tell us anything, but in the evening he gathered everyone for additional classes and gave a speech. He said that a student who violated order during the service in such a way did not deserve to be within the school walls. We tried to get our Marsalla to fire another volley during old Thurmer's speech, but he was not in the mood. So, I lived in the building named after this Ossenberger, in a new dormitory.

It was nice to get into my room from old man Spencer, especially since everyone was at the football game, and the radiators, as an exception, warmed up well. It even felt somehow cozy. I took off my jacket, tie, unbuttoned my shirt collar, and then put on the red hat I bought in New York that morning. It was a hunting hat with a very, very long visor. I saw her in the window of a sports store when we got out of the subway, where I lost those damn rapiers. I only paid a dollar. I put it on backwards - stupid, of course, but I liked it that way. Then I took the book I was reading and sat down in the chair. There were two chairs in the room. One is mine, the other is my neighbor, Ward Stradlater. The arms of the chairs were completely broken because someone was always sitting on them, but the chairs themselves were quite comfortable.

I was reading the book that the library gave me by mistake. I just noticed at home that they gave me the wrong book. They gave me “In the Wilds of Africa” by Isak Deinsen. I thought it was rubbish, but it turned out to be interesting. Good book. In general, I am very uneducated, but I read a lot. My favorite writer is D.B., my brother, and second is Ring Lardner. On my birthday, my brother gave me a book by Ring Lardner - this was before I entered Pencey. There were plays in the book - terribly funny, and then a story about a traffic policeman, he falls in love with a very pretty girl who always breaks traffic rules. But the policeman is married and, of course, cannot marry the girl. And then the girl dies because she always breaks the rules. Amazing story. In general, I like books most of all that have at least something funny in them. Of course, I read all sorts of classic books like “Homecoming”, and all sorts of books about the war, and detective stories, but somehow they don’t really captivate me. But the kind of books that captivate me are that when you finish reading them, you immediately think: It would be nice if this writer became your best friend and that you could talk to him on the phone whenever you wanted. But this rarely happens. I would love to call this Dyinsen, and, of course, Ring Lardner, only D.B. said that he had already died. But, for example, a book like “The Burden of Human Passions” by Somerset Maugham is not at all like that. I read it last summer. The book, in general, is nothing, but I have no desire to call this Somerset Maugham on the phone. I don't know why. He's just not the kind of person you want to talk to. I'd rather call the late Thomas Hardy. I like his Eustacia Way.

So, I put on my new hat, sat down in a chair and began to read “In the Wilds of Africa.” I've already read it once, but I wanted to re-read some parts. I only managed to read about three pages when suddenly someone came out of the shower. Without even looking, I realized that it was Robert Ackley - he lived in the next room. In our wing there was a shared shower for every two rooms, and this Ackley burst into my room eighty times a day. In addition, he was the only one in the entire hostel who did not go to football. He didn't go anywhere at all. He was a strange guy. He was a high school student and had been studying at Pencey for four years, but everyone called him only by his last name - Ackley. Even his roommate, Herb Gale, never called him "Bob" or even "Eck." Probably his wife will call him “Ackley” - if he ever gets married. He was terribly tall - six feet four inches, terribly stooped, and his teeth were rotten. Not once while we lived nearby did I see him brush his teeth. They were somehow dirty and moldy, and when he stuffed his mouth with potatoes or peas in the dining room, I almost felt sick. And then - acne. Not only on his forehead or on his chin, like all boys, his whole face was pimply. And in general he was disgusting. And kind of mean. To tell the truth, I didn't really like him.

I felt that he was standing on the threshold of the shower, right behind my chair, looking to see if Stradlater was there. He hated Stradlater and never came into our room if he was at home. In general, he hated almost everyone.

He came out of the shower and approached me.

Hello! - speaks. He always spoke in a tone like he was bored to death or tired to death. He didn't want me to think he was visiting me. He pretended to come in by accident, damn him.

Hello! - I say, but I don’t throw the book away. If you quit reading with a guy like Ackley, he'll torture you. He will still torture you, but not right away if you read.

He began to wander around the room, slowly, as always, and touch all my things on the table and on the nightstand. He is always touching and reconsidering all things. How he got on my nerves!

So, how's the fencing? - speaks. He certainly wanted to stop me from reading, to ruin all the fun. He didn't care about fencing. - Who won - us or not us? - asks.

“Nobody won,” I say, but I don’t raise my head.

What? - he asked. He always asked again.

Nobody won. “I glanced sideways at him, looked at what he was playing there on my bedside table. He was looking at a photograph of a girl I was friends with in New York, her name was Sally Hayes. He probably held this damned card in his hands at least five thousand times. And he always put it in the wrong place. On purpose - it was immediately obvious.

No one won? - he said. - How so?

Yes, I forgot all this stupid equipment on the subway. - I never raised my head.

In the underground? What the hell! Lost it, or what?

We got on the wrong line. I always had to jump up and look at the metro map.

He came up and blocked the light for me.

“Listen,” I say, “because of you, I’ve been reading the same phrase for the twentieth time.”

Anyone but Ackley would have taken the hint. Not him.

Won't they make you pay? - asks.

I don't know and I don't want to know. Maybe you should sit down, Ackley, baby, otherwise you're blocking the whole world for me.

He hated it when I called him "Ackley, baby." And he himself always said that I was still small, because I was sixteen, and he was already eighteen. He got mad when I called him “baby.”

And he stood and stands. This was the kind of person he was - he would never leave the light if asked. Then, of course, he will move away, but if you ask him, he on purpose won't go away.

What are you reading? - asks.

Don't you see, I'm reading a book.

He turned the book over and looked at the title.

Good? - asks.

Yes, especially this phrase that I read all the time. “I can be quite poisonous sometimes too, if I’m in the mood.” But he didn’t get it. Again he began to walk around the room, again he began to claw at all my things and even Stradlater’s things. Finally I threw the book on the floor. It’s unthinkable to read in front of Ackley anyway. It's simply impossible.

I lounged in a chair and began to watch Ackley take charge of my room. I was pretty tired from the trip to New York and started yawning. But then he started playing the fool. Sometimes I like to fool around just out of boredom. I turned my hat with the visor forward and pulled it down over my eyes. I couldn't see a damn thing.

Alas, alas! I think I'm going blind! - I say in a hoarse voice. - Oh my dear mother, how dark it has become around.

You're crazy, by God! - says Ackley.

Mother, dear, give your hand to your unfortunate son! Why don't you give me a helping hand?

Stop it, you idiot!

I began to fumble around like a blind man, without getting up. And all the time he wheezed:

Mother, mother! Why don't you give me your hand?

Of course, I was just fooling around. This makes me happy sometimes. Besides, I knew Ackley was mad as hell. With him I became a real sadist. I made him angry with all my might, I made him angry on purpose. But then I got tired of it. I put my hat back on again and lounged in a chair.

Whose is this? - asked Ackley. He picked up my neighbor's knee brace. That damned Ackley grabbed everything. He could grab anything - shoelaces, anything. I told him the knee brace was Stradlater's. He immediately threw it onto Stradlater's bed; He took it from the nightstand and deliberately threw it on the bed.

Then he walked over and sat on the arm of the second chair. Never sits like a human, always on a hand.

Where did you get that stupid hat? - asks.

In NYC.

How much did you give?

They cheated you. - He began to clean his vile nails with the end of a match. He was always cleaning his nails. Strange habit. His teeth were moldy and his ears were dirty, but he always cleaned his nails. He probably thought he was clean. He cleaned them, and he looked at my hat. - In my area they wear these for hunting, okay? They shoot game at them.

Hell no! - I say. Then I take off my hat and look at it. I squinted one eye as if I was taking aim. “They shoot people in it,” I say, “I shoot people in it.”

Do your family know that you were kicked out?

Where's your Stradlater?

At the match. He has a date there. - I yawned again. The yawning overcame me. There was terrible heat in the room, I was exhausted, I wanted to sleep. At this school we either froze like dogs or perished from the heat.

The famous Stradlater,” Ackley said. - Listen, give me the scissors for a minute. Are they close to you?

No, I've already removed them. They are in the closet, at the very top.

Take them out for a minute, will you? My nail is stuck up and needs to be cut off.

He didn’t care at all whether you removed the thing or not, whether it was at the very top or anywhere else. Still, I got him some scissors. It almost killed me. As soon as I opened the cabinet, Stradlater's racquet was in a frame! - fell right on my head. It hit me so hard, it hurt terribly. Ackley almost died, he laughed so hard. His voice is shrill and thin. I take off my suitcase for him, take out the scissors - and he floods. Don't feed people like Ackley bread - let him see how a person was hit on the head with a stone or something else: he'll just laugh.

It turns out you have a sense of humor, Ackley, baby, I tell him. -You didn’t know that? - Here I hand him the scissors. - Do you want me to be your manager and get you a job on the radio?

I sat down in a chair, and he began to cut his lousy nails.

Maybe you will cut them over the table? - I say. - Cut it over the table, I don’t want to walk barefoot on your disgusting nails. “But he still threw them right on the floor.” A disgusting habit. Honestly, it's disgusting.

Who is Stradlater dating? - he asked. He always asked who Stradlater was hanging out with, even though he hated him.

Don't know. What do you want?

Just. I can't stand this bastard. I really can’t stand it!

And he adores you! He said that you are a real prince! - I say. I often tell someone that he is a real prince. In general, I often fool around, then I’m not so bored.

He always turns his nose up,” Ackley says. - I can't stand this bastard. You might think that he...

Listen, maybe you will still cut your nails over the table? - I say. - I asked you fifty times...

He turns up his nose all the time,” Ackley repeated. - In my opinion, he's just a blockhead. And he thinks he's smart. He thinks he is the smartest...

Ackley! Damn you! Are you going to cut your lousy nails over the table or not? I asked you fifty times, do you hear?

Then, of course, he began to cut his nails over the table. The only way you can get him to do something is by yelling at him.

I looked at him, then said:

You're angry at Stradlater for telling you to brush your teeth sometimes. He didn't mean to offend you at all! And he didn’t say it on purpose, he didn’t say anything offensive. He just wanted to say that you would feel better and look better if you brushed your teeth at least once in a while.

But I don’t read, or what? And you too!

No, you don't! How many times have I watched you, if you don’t clean it, that’s all!

I spoke to him calmly. I even felt sorry for him. I understand that it’s not very nice when people tell you that you don’t brush your teeth.

Stradlater is not an asshole. He's not that bad. You just don't know him, that's the whole point.

And I say - bastard. And I imagined.

He may be imaginative, but in some things he is a broad person, I say. - This is true. You understand. Imagine, for example, that Stradlater has a tie or some other thing that you like. Well, for example, he’s wearing a tie, and you really liked this tie - I’m just saying for example. So what would he do? He would probably take off this tie and give it to you. Yes, I gave it. Or do you know what he would do? He would leave that tie on your bed or on your desk. In general, he would give you this tie, okay? And others - never.

Damn bald! - said Ackley. - If I had so much money, I would also give ties.

No, I wouldn’t give it! - I even shook my head. - I wouldn’t have thought it, baby! If you had as much money as he does, you would be the real deal...

Don't you dare call me "baby"! Crap! I'm old enough to be your father, you fool!

No, you're not good enough! “I can’t say how much he irritated me.” And he won’t miss an opportunity to poke you in the eye that he’s eighteen and you’re only sixteen. - First of all, I wouldn’t let you into my house...

In short, don’t you dare call me...

Suddenly the door opened and Stradlater himself rushed in. He was always flying somewhere. He always had no time for all the important things. He ran up to me, patted me on the cheeks - also a rather unpleasant habit - and asked:

Are you going somewhere in the evening?

Don't know. Maybe. What's the weather like there - snow, or what?

He was covered in snow.

Yes, snow. Look, if you don't have to go anywhere, give me your suede jacket for the evening.

Who won? - I ask.

It's not over yet. We are leaving. No, seriously, will you give me your jacket if you don't need it? I filled my gray one with some kind of rubbish.

Yes, but you’ll stretch it all out for me, God knows what kind of shoulders you have,” I say. He and I are almost the same height, but he weighed twice as much and his shoulders were broad.

I won't stretch it! - He ran to the closet. - How are you doing, Ackley? - speaks. He's quite a friendly fellow, this Stradlater. Of course, this is pretense, but still he always said hello to Ackley.

And he just muttered something when Stradlater asked: “How are you doing?” Ackley did not want to answer, but still muttered something - he did not have the courage to remain silent. And he says to me:

Well, I'll go! See you.

OK! - I say. No one was going to cry that he had finally gone to his place.

Stradlater was already taking off his jacket and tie.

I should shave! - he said. His beard was growing well. Real beard!

Where's your girl?

He’s waiting in that wing,” he says. He took a towel and a razor and left the room. So he went shirtless. He always walked around naked to the waist; he thought he was well built. And this is true, nothing can be said here.

I had nothing to do, so I followed him into the washroom to pat my tongue while he shaved. There was no one there except us, the guys were sitting at the match. The heat was hellish, all the windows were fogged up. There were about ten shells along the wall. Stradlater stood at the middle sink, and I sat down on the other one, next to him, and began turning the cold tap on and off. This is purely nervous for me. Stradlater was shaving and whistling "Indian Song." He whistled terribly shrilly and was always out of tune, and chose songs that would be difficult for even a good whistler to whistle, such as “The Indian Song” or “Murder on Tenth Avenue.” He could distort any song.

I have already said that Ackley was brutally unclean. Stradlater was also unscrupulous, but in a different way. It was unnoticeable from the outside. He always looked great. But you should have looked at the razor he used to shave. Rusty as hell, covered in hair and dried foam. He never washed it. And although he looked great, especially when he put on his beauty, he was still unclean, I knew him well. And he loved to make things beautiful, because he was madly in love with himself. He believed that there was no more beautiful person in the entire Western Hemisphere than him. He was actually quite handsome - that's true. But his beauty was such that all his parents, when they saw his portrait in the school yearbook, would certainly ask: “Who is this boy?” You see, he had some kind of landscape beauty. We had any number of guys at Pencey who, in my opinion, were a thousand times more handsome than Stradlater, but in photographs they didn’t look nearly as handsome. Either their noses seemed too long, or their ears stuck out. I know this well.

I sat on the sink next to Stradlater and kept turning the tap on and off. I still had my red hunting cap on backwards. I really liked this hat.

Listen! Stradlater said. -Can you do me a huge favor?

Which? - I asked. I didn't feel any particular pleasure. He was always asking me to do him a huge favor. These handsome guys consider themselves the center of the earth and are always asking you to do them a huge favor. They are so in love with themselves that they believe that you are in love with them too and only dream of doing them a favor. Weirdos, really.

Are you going somewhere in the evening? - he asks.

Maybe I'll go, maybe I won't. And what?

I need to read almost a hundred pages of history by Monday,” he says. -Will you write an English essay for me? It will be bad for me if I don’t turn in anything on Monday, that’s why I’m asking. Will you write?

Well, isn't it a mockery? Honestly, it's a joke!

They kick me out of school to hell, and you ask me to write some essay for you! - I say.

I know I know. But the trouble is that I will feel bad if I don’t submit it. Be a friend. Eh, buddy? Will you do it?

I didn't answer right away. It's good to keep guys like him on their toes.

What to write about? - I ask.

Anything you want. Any description. Describe the room. Or a house. Or some place where you lived. Anything, you know? If only it turned out picturesque, damn it. -Here he yawned loudly. This kind of attitude turns my guts! You see, he’s asking you to do a favor, but he’s yawning with all his might! - Don't try too hard! - he says. - This damn Hartsell thinks that you ate the dog in English, but he knows that you and I live together. So don’t try too hard to place commas and all these punctuation marks correctly.

Talking like this makes me feel sick in my stomach. A person knows how to write essays well, but they start telling him about commas. That was the only way Stradlater understood it. He tried to prove that he couldn’t write solely because he put commas in the wrong place. Just like Ackley - he is like that too. I once sat with Ackley at a basketball game. There was an amazing player on the team, Howie Coyle, he could throw the ball from the very middle right into the basket, without even touching the backboard. And Ackley mumbled the whole game that Coyle had a good height for basketball - and that’s all, you understand? I hate this kind of chatter!

Finally I got tired of sitting on the sink, so I jumped off and started tap dancing, just for fun. I wanted to exercise - but I don’t know how to tap dance at all. But the washroom has a stone floor, which is great for tap dancing on. I began to imitate an actor from a movie. I saw him in a musical comedy. I hate movies to bits, but I really love impersonating actors. Stradlater kept looking at me in the mirror while he shaved. Just give me the audience. In general, I love exhibiting.

I am the son of the governor himself! - I say. Actually, I started trying here. I wear it all over the washbasin. - My father doesn’t allow me to become a dancer. He sends me to Oxford. But tap dancing is in my blood, damn it!

Stradlater laughed. He did have a sense of humor.

Today is the premiere of the Ziegfeld review. - I already began to choke. I'm out of breath. - The hero cannot perform! Drunk as hell. Who is being hired to take his place? Me, that's who! Me, the poor, unfortunate governor's son!

Where did you get a hat like that? asked Stradlater. He just now noticed my hunting cap.

I was already out of breath and stopped fooling around. He took off his hat and looked at it for the hundredth time.

I bought it in New York this morning. Paid a dollar. Like?

Stradlater nodded.

Chic,” he said. He was just sucking up to me and immediately asked: “Listen, will you write an essay for me or not?” I need to know.

When I have time, I’ll write, but when I don’t, I won’t write.

I sat down on the washbasin next to him again.

Who are you on a date with? With Fitzgerald?

What the heck! I haven't messed with this pig for a long time.

Well? So give it to me, friend! Seriously. She's my type.

Take it, please! But she's a little too old for you.

And suddenly, just like that, for no reason at all, I wanted to jump off the sink and give the fool Stradlater a double nelson. Now I’ll explain - this is a technique in wrestling where you grab your opponent by the neck and break him to death, if necessary. I jumped. Jumped on him like a panther!

Come on, Holden, you idiot! Stradlater said. He didn't like it when people played the fool. Moreover, he shaved. - Do you want me to cut my own throat?

But I didn't let him go. I gave him a good double nelson squeeze.

Try, I say, break out of my iron grip!

Oh shit! “He put down the razor and suddenly threw up his hands and broke away from me. He is very strong. And I'm very weak. - Stop fooling around! - he said. He began to shave a second time. He always shaves a second time to make him look beautiful. And his razor is dirty.

Who are you on a date with if not Fitzgerald? - I ask. I sat down next to him on the washbasin again. - With little Phyllis Smith, or what?

No. I was supposed to meet her, but everything got mixed up. The girl's friend Bad Toe is waiting for me. Wait, I almost forgot. She knows you.

Who knows me?

My girlfriend.

Well, yes! - I said. - What is her name? - I even became interested.

Now I remember... Yes, Gene Gallagher.

God, I almost died when I heard it.

J ane Gallagher! - I say. I even jumped up from the sink when I heard it. Honestly, I almost died! - Well, of course, I know her! The summer before last she lived very close. She also had this huge Doberman Pinscher. We met because of him. This dog ran around to shit in our garden.

"You're going to darken my light, Holden," Stradlater says. - Go to the demon, there is no other place, or what?

Oh, how I was worried, honestly!

Where is she? In that wing, right?

How did she remember me? Where is she going to school now - Bryn Mawr? She said that maybe she would go there. Or Shipley, she said maybe she'd go to Shipley. I thought she was studying at Shipley. How did she remember me? - I was actually worried, really!

How the hell do I know, damn it! Get up, do you hear?

I sat on his filthy towel.

Jane Gallagher! - I said. I couldn't come to my senses. - That's the story!

Stradlater anointed his hair with grease. My briolin.

“She’s dancing,” I said. - He does ballet. I exercised for two hours every day, even in the hottest weather. She was afraid that her legs would deteriorate - they would get fat and all that. I played checkers with her all the time.

What?

In checkers.

Ew, devil, he was playing checkers!!!

Yes, she never moved the queens. If she gets a king of some kind of checker, she won’t budge it. So he will leave it in the back row. He will line up all the queens in the last row and not make a single move. She just liked that they were standing in the last row.

Stradlater remained silent. In general, such things are usually of no interest to anyone.

Her mother was in the same club as us,” I said. - I carried golf clubs there and worked part-time. I carried her mother's putter several times. She hit almost one hundred and seventy times on nine holes.

Stradlater hardly listened. He was combing his luxurious hair.

“I should go say hello to her or something,” I said.

Why aren't you going?

I'll go in a minute.

He began to part his hair again. He always combed his hair for an hour.

Her mother divorced her father. Then she married some alcoholic,” I said. - Such a skinny devil, with hairy legs. I remember him well. He always wore his underpants. Jane said that he was some kind of writer, screenwriter, who knows, but in front of me he just drank like a horse and listened to all these idiotic detective stories on the radio. And he ran around the house naked. In front of Jane, in front of everyone.

Well? Stradlater said. Then he suddenly perked up when I said that the alcoholic was running around naked in front of Jane. That Stradlater is a terribly slutty bastard.

Her childhood was terrible. I speak seriously.

But that didn't interest him, Stradlater. He was only interested in all sorts of obscenities.

Oh shit! Jane Gallagher! - I couldn’t come to my senses. Well, no way! - You should at least say hello to her, or something.

Why the hell aren't you going? Standing here, chatting.

I went to the window, but nothing was visible, the windows were fogged up from the heat.

“I’m not in the mood right now,” I say. And in fact I was not in the mood at all. And without the mood you can’t do anything. - I thought she went to Shipley. I could have sworn she was studying at Shipley. - I walked around the washroom. - Did she like football? - I ask.

Yes, as if. Don't know.

Did she tell you how we played checkers with her, did she tell you anything at all?

I don't remember. We just met, don't bother me! - Stradlater had already combed his luxurious curls and was putting away his dirty razor.

Listen, say hi to her for me, okay?

Okay,” Stradlater said, but I knew he wouldn’t convey anything. People like Stradlater never say hello.

He went into our room, and I still hung around in the washroom, remembering old Jane. Then he also went into the room.

Stradlater was tying his tie in front of the mirror when I entered. He spent half his life in front of the mirror. I sat down in my chair and began to look at him.

“Hey,” I said, “don’t tell her that I was kicked out.”

I will not say.

Stradlater had one good trait. He didn't have to explain every little detail like Ackley did. Probably because Stradlater didn't care. But Ackley is a different matter. He poked his long nose into everything.

Stradlater put on my jacket.

Don't stretch it, do you hear? - I said. - I only wore it twice.

I won't stretch it. Where did my cigarettes go?

Over there on the table... - He never knew where anything was. - Under your scarf. - He put the cigarettes in the pocket of his jacket - my jacket.

I suddenly turned my red hat over in a different way, with the visor facing forward. I was starting to get nervous. I have no nerves at all.

Tell me, where will you go with her? - I asked. -Have you already decided?

I don't know myself. If we have time, we will go to New York. She foolishly took leave only until half past nine.

I didn’t like the way he said it, so I told him:

She only took leave until half past nine because she didn’t see how handsome and charming you are, you son of a bitch. If only she saw, she would take leave until half past nine in the morning!

And rightly so! Stradlater said. You can't pry it off with anything. He imagines too much. “Stop being so dark,” he says, “will you write an essay for me or not?” - He had already put on his coat and was about to leave. - Don’t try too hard, just let it be picturesque, understand? Will you write?

I didn't answer him. There was no mood. I just said:

Ask her if she still places queens in the last row?

Okay, Stradlater said, but I knew he wouldn't ask. - Bye then! - He slammed the door and disappeared.

And I sat there for another half hour. I just sat in a chair, didn't do a damn thing. I kept thinking about Jane and that she had a date with Stradlater. I was so nervous, I almost went crazy. I already told you what a lewd man he is, such a bastard.

And suddenly Ackley again crawled out of the shower into our room. For the first time in my entire life here, I was happy about him. Distracted me from various thoughts.

He sat with me until lunchtime, talking about the guys he hated, and picking at a huge pimple on his chin. With fingers, without a handkerchief. I don’t know if this brute had a handkerchief. I've never seen a scarf on him.

On Saturdays we always had the same lunch. The dinner was considered luxurious because they served steak.

I'll bet a thousand dollars that they fed us steak because the kids' parents came to visit on Sundays, and old Thurmer probably imagined how someone's mother would ask her dear son what they gave him for lunch yesterday, and he would say - steak. This is all a scam. You should look at those steaks. Tough as a shoe, can't handle a knife. They were always served with lumpy mashed potatoes, and for dessert - "Red Betty", treacle pudding, but no one ate it, except for the kids in the first classes and people like Ackley, who attacked everything.

After lunch we went outside, the weather was nice. There was about three inches of snow on the ground and it was still falling like crazy. It was beautiful as hell. We started playing snowballs and teasing each other. Childish, of course, but everyone had a lot of fun.

I had nothing to do, so my friend Mel Brossard and I from the wrestling team decided to take the bus to Egerstown to eat a cutlet and maybe watch some stupid movie. I didn't want to stay at home all evening. I asked Mel if it would be okay if Ackley came with us too? I decided to call Ackley because he is even on Saturdays nowhere I didn’t go, I sat at home and squeezed pimples. Mel said it was nothing, of course, although he wasn't happy about it. He didn't really like this Ackley. In a word, we went to our place to get dressed, and while I was putting on my galoshes and so on, I shouted to Ackley if he wanted to go to the cinema. People like him don’t answer right away. Finally he appeared, pulled back the shower curtain, stood on the threshold and asked who else would come. He definitely needed to know who and who was coming. Honestly, if he had been shipwrecked and some boat had come to rescue him, he would probably have demanded to be told who was rowing that very boat, otherwise he would not have gotten into it. I said Mel Brossard was coming. And he says:

Oh, this bastard... Oh well. Wait a minute for me.

You would think that he was doing you the greatest favor.

It took him five hours to get dressed. In the meantime, I went to the window, opened it wide and made a snowball. The snow stuck together very well. But I didn’t throw the snowball anywhere, although I was about to throw it at the car - it was parked across the road. But then I changed my mind - the car was all so clean and white. Then I wanted to throw a snowball into the water pump, but it was also clean and white. So I didn’t throw the snowball anywhere. He closed the window and began to roll it to make it even harder. I was still holding it in my hands when Brossard, Ackley, and I got on the bus. The conductor opened the door and told me to throw a snowball. I said I wasn't going to throw it at anyone, but he didn't believe me. People never believe you.

Both Brossard and Ackley had already seen the movie, so we ate a cutlet each, played the roulette machine, and then drove back to school. I didn't regret that we didn't go to the cinema. There was some kind of comedy with Gary Grant on - it was probably dregs. And then I once went to the cinema with Ackley and Brossard. They both cackled like hyenas, even in unfunny places. I hated sitting next to them.

It was only a quarter to ten when we returned to the hostel. Brossard loved bridge and went looking for a partner. Ackley, of course, came into my room. Only now he didn’t sit on the arm of Stradlater’s chair, but plopped down on my bed, with his face directly into the pillow. He lay down and started playing bagpipes in a monotonous voice, while he kept picking at his pimples. I hinted to him a hundred times, but I just couldn’t get rid of him. He kept talking and talking, in such a monotonous voice, about some girl with whom he got mixed up last summer. He told me about this a hundred times, and each time differently. Either he got tangled up with her in his cousin’s Buick, or somewhere in the entrance. The main thing is that it was all a lie. I guarantee that he didn’t know women, it was immediately obvious. He probably didn’t touch anyone, honestly. In general, I had to frankly tell him that I needed to write an essay for Stradlater and that he get out, otherwise I couldn’t concentrate. In the end he left, but not right away - he's always a terrible mess. And I put on pajamas, a robe and my wild hunting hat and sat down to write an essay.

The trouble was that I couldn’t figure out what kind of room or house I could write about picturesquely, as Stradlater was asked. In general, I don’t particularly like to describe all kinds of houses and rooms. I took it and began to describe my brother Allie’s baseball mitt. This mitten was very picturesque, honestly. My brother, Allie, had a baseball mitt for his left hand. He was left-handed. And it was picturesque because he covered it all with poetry - on the palm and all around, everywhere. Green ink. He wrote these poems so that he could read them when the ball did not come to him and there was nothing to do on the field. He died. He became ill with leukemia and died on July 18, 1946, while we were living in Maine. You would like him. He was two years younger than me, but fifty times smarter. He was terribly smart. His teachers always wrote to his mother how nice it was that they had a boy like Alli in their class. And they weren’t lying, they actually thought so. But he was not only the smartest in our family. He was also the nicest, in many ways. He will never get angry or flare up. They say that redheads just start getting angry, but Alli never got angry, and he was a terribly redhead. I'll tell you how red he was. I started playing golf when I was ten years old. I remember one spring, when I was already about twelve years old, I was kicking a ball, and all the time I had this feeling that if I turned around, I would see Alli. And I turned around and saw that it was so - he was sitting on his bicycle behind the fence - behind that fence that went around the whole field - sitting there, a hundred and fifty yards from me, and watching me hit. That's how red he was! And terribly nice, by God. Sometimes at the table something will come to his mind, and he will suddenly start laughing and almost fall out of his chair. I was thirteen years old at the time, and my parents wanted to take me to a psychiatrist because I had broken all the windows in the garage. I understand them, honestly. The night Allie died, I spent the night in the garage and completely broke all the windows, just with my fist, I don’t know why. I even wanted to break out the windows in the car - that summer we had a pickup truck - but I had already broken my hand and there was nothing I could do. I understand that it was stupid, but I didn’t know what I was doing, and besides, you don’t know what Allie was like. My hand still sometimes hurts, especially in the rain, and I can’t clench my fist tightly as it should, but in general it’s nonsense. All the same, I’m not going to become some kind of surgeon, or violinist, or anything like that.

That's what I wrote the essay for Stradlater about. About our Alli's baseball mitt. It accidentally ended up in my suitcase, I took it out and rewrote all the poems that were on it. I just had to change Allie's last name so that no one would guess that he was my brother and not Stradlater's. I didn't particularly want to change my last name, but I couldn't think of anything else. And besides, I even liked writing about it. I sat there for an hour because I had to write on Stradlater’s crappy typewriter, and it kept jamming. And I lent my car to a guy in another corridor.

I finished around half past ten. But he wasn’t particularly tired and began to look out the window. The snow stopped, and from a distance the sound of an engine could be heard that would not start. And you could also hear Ackley snoring. Even through the shower you could hear his obnoxious snoring. He had sinusitis and could not breathe properly in his sleep. He had everything: sinusitis, acne, rotten teeth - his breath smelled, his nails were breaking. I even somehow feel sorry for him, the fool.

It happens that you can’t remember at all how it was. I keep wondering - when did Stradlater get back from his date with Jane? You see, I can’t remember what I was doing when I suddenly heard his steps in the corridor, impudent and loud. I was probably still looking out the window, but for the life of me I can’t remember for sure. I was terribly worried, that’s why I can’t remember how it was. And if I'm worried, it's not pretense. I even feel like going to the restroom when I'm worried. But I'm not going. I'm worried, that's why I'm not going. If you knew Stradlater, you'd be worried too. I went on dates with this scoundrel twice. I know what I'm talking about. He has no conscience, by God, no.

And in our corridor there was solid linoleum, so from afar we could hear him, the bastard, approaching our room. I don’t even remember where I was sitting when he came in - in my chair, or by the window, or in his chair. Honestly, I can't remember.

He came in and immediately began to complain about how cold it was. Then he asks:

Where the hell has everyone gone? Not a living soul - just a morgue.

I didn’t even think to answer him. If he, the idiot, doesn’t understand that on Saturday evening everyone left, or was sleeping, or went to see their relatives, why should I go out of my way to explain to him. He began to undress. And not a word about Jane. Not a single word. And I am silent. I just look at him. True, he thanked me for the jacket. He put it on a hanger and hung it in the closet.

And when he untied his tie, he asked me if I wrote this stupid essay for him. I said there it was, on his own bed. He walked over and began to read while he unbuttoned his shirt. He stands there reading, while he strokes his bare chest with the most idiotic expression on his face. He was always stroking himself first on the chest, then on the stomach. He simply adored himself.

And suddenly he says:

What the hell is this, Holden? It's about some stupid mitten!

That is, how is it - what? I told you, you need to describe a room or a house, you idiot!

You said you need some description. Does it matter what you describe - a mitten or something else?

Oh, damn you! - He was seriously angry. I just got furious. - You do everything through... head over heels. - Then he looked at me. “It’s not surprising that you were thrown out of here,” he says. - You will never do anything humanely. Never! Understood?

Okay, okay, give me the paper! - I say. He walked up, snatched the damned piece of paper from him, took it and tore it up.

What the hell? - speaks. - Why did you break it?

I didn't even answer him. I threw the scraps into the basket and that was it. Then he lay down on the bed, and we were both silent for a long time. He undressed, remained in his shorts, and I lit a cigarette, lying on the bed. Smoking is not allowed in bedrooms, but late at night, when some are asleep and others have left, no one will notice that there is a smell of smoke. And then I wanted to annoy Stradlater. He lost his temper when the rules were broken. He himself never smoked in the bedroom. And I smoked.

So he never said a single word about Jane, nothing. Then I spoke myself:

You showed up late, damn if she wasn't released until nine-thirty. She wasn't late because of you, did she come back on time?

He was sitting on the edge of his bunk, cutting his toenails, when I spoke to him.

“I was just a little late,” he says. - Why the hell did she have to ask for time off only until half past nine, and on Saturday too?

Oh God, how I hated him at that moment!

Have you been to New York? - I ask.

You are crazy? How could we get to New York if she only asked until half past nine?

Sorry, sorry! - I said.

He looked at me.

Listen, if you want to smoke, you should go to the restroom. You're getting out of here, and I'm stuck at school until I graduate.

I didn’t even pay attention to him, as if he didn’t exist. I smoke like crazy, that's all. I just turned on my side and watched him cut his vile nails. Yes, wow school! Always in front of you, they are either squeezing out pimples or cutting your toenails.

Did you say hello to her from me? - I ask.

He passed the damn bald man, the bastard!

What did she say? You asked her if she still puts all the queens in the last row?

No. Didn't ask. What do you think, did she and I play checkers all evening?

I didn't answer him. God, how I hated him!

Since you didn't go to New York, where were you and her? - I asked a little later. I tried really hard to keep my voice from shaking like jelly. I was very nervous. Apparently, he felt that something was wrong.

He finally cut his nails. He got out of bed wearing only his panties and suddenly started acting the fool. He came up to me, bent down and started pushing me on the shoulder - he was playing, the bastard.

Come on, - I say, - where did you go, since you didn’t go to New York?

Nowhere. We sat in the car and that was it! “He started pushing me on the shoulder again, such a fool.”

Give it up! - I say. - In whose car?

Eda Banky.

Ed Banky was our basketball coach. This Stradlater was one of his favorites, he played center on the school team, and Ed Banky always gave him his car. In general, students were not allowed to borrow a car from teachers, but these brutes of athletes are always together. In all the schools where I studied, these brutes are at the same time.

And Stradlater keeps pretending to shadow box, keeps pushing and pushing me on the shoulder. He had a toothbrush in his hands and put it in his mouth.

What did you do with her? Confused about Ed Banky's car? - My voice was trembling just horribly.

Ay-ay-ay, what nasty words! Now I’ll smear soap on your tongue!

Was it the case?

This is a professional secret, my brother!

I don’t really remember anything else after that. I only know that I jumped out of bed, as if I needed somewhere, and suddenly hit him with all my strength, right on the toothbrush, so that it would tear his vile throat. Just didn't hit it. Missed. Hit him on the head and that was it. It probably hurt him, but not as much as I wanted. I could have hit him more painfully, but I hit him with my right hand. But I can’t squeeze it properly. Remember, I told you how I broke this hand.

But then I found myself on the floor, and he was sitting on top of me, red as a lobster. You see, he rested his knees on my chest, and he weighed a ton. He pinched my hands so that I wouldn’t hit him. I would have killed him, the scoundrel.

End of free trial.

This July marks the 65th anniversary of the publication of the most popular work of the American writer D. Salinger - the story “The Catcher in the Rye”. The public's reaction was very contradictory: from deification to banning the story in several countries for obscenity, foul language and depressiveness. Many readers recognized themselves in the main character Holden Caulfield, who rebelled against society, and some even committed crimes...

Jerome David Salinger's father, a merchant of smoked meats and cheeses, dreamed of his son continuing his business. But Jerome never graduated from any of the educational institutions. In 1942 he was drafted into the army, where he served in counterintelligence. His first story was published in 1940, 11 years later the story “The Catcher in the Rye” was published, which brought the author worldwide popularity. The writer worked on this work for about 9 years.

The image of the main character, 16-year-old Holden Caulfield, is so close and understandable to American youth of the 1950s and 1960s that Salinger’s story soon received the status of “the bible of American students.” Indeed, for several generations this book has become a cult book, and the main character is an exponent of the views and sentiments of young people opposing falsehood and hypocrisy in society.

The ideas of protest against social order were adopted not only by young rebels, nihilists and beatniks, but also by people prone to deviant behavior and violent scenarios of struggle for their own beliefs. John Hinckley, the criminal who attempted to assassinate the 40th US President Ronald Reagan in 1981, was obsessed with Salinger's book.

John Hinckley - criminal who attempted to assassinate R. Reagan

Mark Chapman - John Lennon's killer

Mark Chapman, the killer of John Lennon, after shooting his idol five times, sat down under a lamppost and began reading “The Catcher in the Rye” while waiting for the police. During interrogation, he stated that he found a coded order to kill Lennon on the pages of this book. Maniac Robert John Bardo stalked and then in 1989 killed actress Rebecca Schafer for three years. At the time of the crime, he had the book “The Catcher in the Rye” with him.

The tradition of connecting the philosophical beliefs of Holden Caulfield with the psychology of murderers was continued by film scriptwriters and writers. In the movie "Conspiracy Theory", the story "The Catcher in the Rye" is the link for a group of killers who do not know their victims. And the main character of D. Picoult’s book “19 Minutes,” who shot 10 classmates, also reads Salinger, and during a search they find “The Catcher in the Rye” in his possession. Of course, the story contains neither propaganda of violence nor calls for murder, but everyone is free to interpret the protest against the existing social order in their own way.

Holden Caulfield really does not accept everything that surrounds him: “Lord, how much I hate all this! And not only school, I hate everything. I hate taxis, buses where the conductor yells at you to get out through the back platform, I hate getting to know scrap workers, ... I hate riding in elevators when I just want to go outside, I hate trying on suits...” But despite his maximalism, depression, infantilism and nonconformism, the main character professes completely different principles. His dream is to catch children over the abyss in the rye: “I imagine how little children play in the evening in a huge field in the rye. Thousands of kids, but not a soul around, not a single adult except me... And my job is to catch the kids so that they don’t fall into the abyss.”

10 years after its first publication, the story “The Catcher in the Rye” was translated in 12 countries, including the USSR. Minister of Culture E. Furtseva, however, published an indignant review: “What kind of abstract kindness and supra-class tenderness is this? The main character could have come up with something more concrete than an abyss.” However, no matter how hard one tried, one could not find any propaganda of revolutionary ideas against bourgeois society in Salinger.

After the story brought the author worldwide popularity, he decided not to publish anymore; since 1965, not a single work of his has been published. Jerome Salinger led a reclusive life, practiced Eastern spiritual practices and had no contact with journalists. In his last years, he studied Buddhism, practiced yoga and alternative medicine and did not communicate with the outside world. The writer died in 2010 at the age of 91.

Today, The Catcher in the Rye is included in the list of the 100 best English-language novels of the twentieth century. and the 12 best-selling books in history.

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[Verse 1, Kavabanga]:
The Catcher in the Rye, my thoughts are completely in lies.
The voice trembles uncertainly, prop your head up and lie down.
The city makes me sick, like someone
Deliberately ruined my life.

The smell of gasoline makes you sick to your stomach.
The heart asks “Don’t rush, wait...”
Movements where days are like one algorithm, mechanism;
A long look from the curtains to the cornice.

I killed all my dreams as a side dish.
He swam with a smile, poking around with his fork for a long time in love;
Remembering how many passionate grievances there were -
Now I forgot...

Chorus:
I give myself to you!

Take away everything that's left in me!
Get on my nerves! Burn my letters -
You are above the abyss, and I am there - at the bottom!

[Verse 2, Depo]:
And again the guitars whine, the angels cry for us,
After all, it’s to your advantage. Touching the bottom
Stormy days passed, as she leaves -
Funny, really inaccessible...

I tend to miss everything
If I could, I would become different...
[But something|but-for some reason] is destined to be empty,
How trains leave the station.

What happened to us? What warms your hand?
Yes, mom, your son has managed to grow up.
It seemed that I could do anything, but it only seemed;
So few touches […]

Chorus:
I give myself to you!
Hold my heart, read my thoughts -
Take away everything that's left in me!
Get on my nerves! Burn my letters -
You are above the abyss, and I am there - at the bottom!

Hold my heart, read my thoughts -
Take away everything that's left in me!
Get on my nerves! Burn my letters -
You are above the abyss, and I am there - at the bottom!

[Verse 3, Kolibri]:
I was already ready and drank coffee three times.
In the morning, half past six... The rain was hitting the windows.
Frankly, if I hadn’t smoked so much -
I would have left the night before for the half-asleep city.

Your look seems to be done for the camera;
Yes, there was something of the devil in your eyes.
Speech was interrupted by ever-contrived pauses -
“Simple magic,” I thought..
"Yes, that's what you are!"

We ourselves chose the path - a dead end.
Being yourself, here, alas, only makes you more confused.
The lights no longer guide you, but the memories call you.

Chorus:
I give myself to you!
Hold my heart, read my thoughts -
Take away everything that's left in me!
Get on my nerves! Burn my letters -
You are above the abyss, and I am there - at the bottom!

Hold my heart, read my thoughts -
Take away everything that's left in me!
Get on my nerves! Burn my letters -
You are above the abyss, and I am there - at the bottom!

Lyrics of the song kavabanga Depo kolibri - Over the abyss.
Album "Why do we need stars."
Teejay prod.
April, 2017.