Над пропастью во ржи

           Myhandstillhurtsmeonceinawhilewhenitrainsandall,andIcan’tmakearealfistanymore—notatightone,Imean—butoutsideofthatIdon’tcaremuch. ImeanI’mnotgoingtobeagoddamsurgeonoraviolinistoranythinganyway. 

           Anyway,that’swhatIwroteStradlater’scompositionabout. OldAllie’sbaseballmitt. Ihappenedtohaveitwithme,inmysuitcase,soIgotitoutandcopieddownthepoemsthatwerewrittenonit. AllIhadtodowaschangeAllie’snamesothatnobodywouldknowitwasmybrotherandnotStradlater’s. Iwasn’ttoocrazyaboutdoingit,butIcouldn’tthinkofanythingelsedescriptive. Besides,Isortoflikedwritingaboutit. Ittookmeaboutanhour,becauseIhadtouseStradlater’slousytypewriter,anditkeptjammingonme. ThereasonIdidn’tusemyownwasbecauseI’dlentittoaguydownthehall. 

           Itwasaroundten-thirty,Iguess,whenIfinishedit. Iwasn’ttired,though,soIlookedoutthewindowforawhile. Itwasn’tsnowingoutanymore,buteveryonceinawhileyoucouldhearacarsomewherenotbeingabletogetstarted. YoucouldalsohearoldAckleysnoring. Rightthroughthegoddamshowercurtainsyoucouldhearhim. Hehadsinustroubleandhecouldn’tbreathetoohotwhenhewasasleep. Thatguyhadjustabouteverything. Sinustrouble,pimples,lousyteeth,halitosis,crumbyfingernails. Youhadtofeelalittlesorryforthecrazysonuvabitch.