Над пропастью во ржи

           Themanfallingisn’tpermittedtofeelorhearhimselfhitbottom.Hejustkeepsfallingandfalling.Thewholearrangement’sdesignedformenwho,atsometimeorotherintheirlives,werelookingforsomethingtheirownenvironmentcouldn’tsupplythemwith.Ortheythoughttheirownenvironmentcouldn’tsupplythemwith.Sotheygaveuplooking.Theygaveitupbeforetheyeverreallyevengotstarted.Youfollowme?"

           "Yes,sir."

           "Sure?"

           "Yes."

           Hegotupandpouredsomemoreboozeinhisglass.Thenhesatdownagain.Hedidn’tsayanythingforalongtime.

           "Idon’twanttoscareyou,"hesaid,"butIcanveryclearlyseeyoudyingnobly,onewayoranother,forsomehighlyunworthycause."Hegavemeafunnylook."IfIwritesomethingdownforyou,willyoureaditcarefully?Andkeepit?"

           "Yes.Sure,"Isaid.Idid,too.Istillhavethepaperhegaveme.

           Hewentovertothisdeskontheothersideoftheroom,andwithoutsittingdownwrotesomethingonapieceofpaper.Thenhecamebackandsatdownwiththepaperinhishand."Oddlyenough,thiswasn’twrittenbyapracticingpoet.ItwaswrittenbyapsychoanalystnamedWilhelmStekel.Here’swhathe—Areyoustillwithme?"

           "Yes,sureIam."