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THE CATCHER IN THE RYE by J.D. Salinger He wrote this terrific book of .. The book I was reading was this book I took out of the library by mistake. They. PDF Drive is your search engine for PDF files. THE CATCHER IN THE RYE by J D Salinger () Salinger's last published work, IN THIS BOOK. □ Deal. CATCHER ON RYE ANDREW HUNTER Catcher on Rye by Andrew Hunter TO MY He wrote this terrific book of short stories, The Secret Goldfish, in case you .

Then I sat down on his cement bed again. I have to know. Share this link with a friend: I have hardly any wind at all. It cost him damn near four thousand bucks. Life is a game that one plays according to the rules. Mostly, I guess, because he wasn't too interested.

Not yet, anyway. I guess it hasn't really hit me yet. It takes things a while to hit me. All I'm doing right now is thinking about going home Wednesday. I'm a moron. Sure, I do. Not too much, I guess. You will when it's too late. It made me sound dead or something. It was very depressing. I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to help you, if I can. You could see that. But it was just that we were too much on opposite sides ot the pole, that's all.

No kidding. I appreciate it. Boy, I couldn't' ve sat there another ten minutes to save my life. I have quite a bit of equipment at the gym I have to get to take home with me. I felt sorry as hell for him, all of a sudden. But I just couldn't hang around there any longer, the way we were on opposite sides of the pole, and the way he kept missing the bed whenever he chucked something at it, and his sad old bathrobe with his chest showing, and that grippy smell of Vicks Nose Drops all over the place.

Don't worry about me," I said. I'll be all right. I'm just going through a phase right now. Everybody goes through phases and all, don't they? I don't know. Sure, they do," I said. Please don't worry about me. Spencer would be- -" "I would, I really would, but the thing is, I have to get going.

I have to go right to the gym. Thanks, though. Thanks a lot, sir. And all that crap. It made me feel sad as hell, though.

Take care of your grippe, now. I'm pretty sure he yelled "Good luck! I'd never yell "Good luck! It sounds terrible, when you think about it. It's awful. If I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera.

It's terrible.

So when I told old Spencer I had to go to the gym and get my equipment and stuff, that was a sheer lie. I don't even keep my goddam equipment in the gym. It was only for juniors and seniors.

I was a junior. My roommate was a senior. It was named after this guy Ossenburger that went to Pencey. He made a pot of dough in the undertaking business after he got out of Pencey. What he did, he started these undertaking parlors all over the country that you could get members of your family buried for about five bucks apiece.

You should see old Ossenburger. He probably just shoves them in a sack and dumps them in the river. Anyway, he gave Pencey a pile of dough, and they named our wing alter him. The first football game of the year, he came up to school in this big goddam Cadillac, and we all had to stand up in the grandstand and give him a locomotive— that's a cheer.

Then, the next morning, in chapel, be made a speech that lasted about ten hours. He started off with about fifty corny jokes, just to show us what a regular guy he was. Then he started telling us how he was never ashamed, when he was in some kind of trouble or something, to get right down his knees and pray to God.

He told us we should always pray to God-talk to Him and all— wherever we were. He told us we ought to think of Jesus as our buddy and all. He said he talked to Jesus all the time. Even when he was driving his car. That killed me. I just see the big phony baloney bastard shifting into first gear and asking Jesus to send him a few more stiffs.

The only good part of his speech was right in the middle of it. He was telling us all about what a swell guy he was, what a hot-shot and all, then all of a sudden this guy sitting in the row in front of me, Edgar Marsalla, laid this terrific fart.

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It was a very crude thing to do, in chapel and all, but it was also quite amusing. Old Marsalla. He damn near blew the roof off. Hardly anybody laughed out loud, and old Ossenburger made out like he didn't even hear it, but old Thurmer, the headmaster, was sitting right next to him on the rostrum and all, and you could tell he heard it.

Boy, was he sore. He didn't say anything then, but the next night he made us have compulsory study hall in the academic building and he came up and made a speech. He said that the boy that had created the disturbance in chapel wasn't fit to go to Pencey.

We tried to get old Marsalla to rip off another one, right while old Thurmer was making his speech, but be wasn't in the right mood. Anyway, that's where I lived at Pencey. Old Ossenburger Memorial Wing, in the new dorms. It was pretty nice to get back to my room, after I left old Spencer, because everybody was down at the game, and the heat was on in our room, for a change.

It felt sort of cosy. I took off my coat and my tie and unbuttoned my shirt collar; and then I put on this hat that I'd bought in New York that morning. It was this red hunting hat, with one of those very, very long peaks.

I saw it in the window of this sports store when we got out of the subway, just after I noticed I'd lost all the goddam foils. It only cost me a buck. The way I wore it, I swung the old peak way around to the back— very corny, I'll admit, but I liked it that way. I looked good in it that way.

Then I got this book I was reading and sat down in my chair.

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There were two chairs in every room. I had one and my roommate, Ward Stradlater, had one. The arms were in sad shape, because everybody was always sitting on them, but they were pretty comfortable chairs. The book I was reading was this book I took out of the library by mistake. They gave me the wrong book, and I didn't notice it till I got back to my room. They gave me Out of Africa, by Isak Dinesen.

I thought it was going to stink, but it didn't. It was a very good book. I'm quite illiterate, but I read a lot. My favorite author is my brother D. My brother gave me a book by Ring Lardner for my birthday, just before I went to Pencey. It had these very funny, crazy plays in it, and then it had this one story about a traffic cop that falls in love with this very cute girl that's always speeding.

Only, he's married, the cop, so be can't marry her or anything. Then this girl gets killed, because she's always speeding. That story just about killed me. What I like best is a book that's at least funny once in a while. I read a lot of classical books, like The Return of the Native and all, and I like them, and I read a lot of war books and mysteries and all, but they don't knock me out too much.

What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though. I wouldn't mind calling this Isak Dinesen up. And Ring Lardner, except that D.

I read it last summer. It's a pretty good book and all, but I wouldn't want to call Somerset Maugham up. I don't know, He just isn't the kind of guy I'd want to call up, that's all. I'd rather call old Thomas Hardy up. I like that Eustacia Vye. Anyway, I put on my new hat and sat down and started reading that book Out of Africa. I'd read it already, but I wanted to read certain parts over again.

I'd only read about three pages, though, when I heard somebody coming through the shower curtains. Even without looking up, I knew right away who it was. It was Robert Ackley, this guy that roomed right next to me. There was a shower right between every two rooms in our wing, and about eighty-five times a day old Ackley barged in on me.

He was probably the only guy in the whole dorm, besides me, that wasn't down at the game. He hardly ever went anywhere. He was a very peculiar guy. He was a senior, and he'd been at Pencey the whole four years and all, but nobody ever called him anything except "Ackley. The whole time he roomed next to me, I never even once saw him brush his teeth. They always looked mossy and awful, and he damn near made you sick if you saw him in the dining room with his mouth full of mashed potatoes and peas or something.

Besides that, he had a lot of pimples. Not just on his forehead or his chin, like most guys, but all over his whole face. And not only that, he had a terrible personality. He was also sort of a nasty guy.

I wasn't too crazy about him, to tell you the truth. I could feel him standing on the shower ledge, right behind my chair, taking a look to see if Stradlater was around.

He hated Stradlater's guts and he never came in the room if Stradlater was around. He hated everybody's guts, damn near. He came down off the shower ledge and came in the room. He always said it like he was terrifically bored or terrifically tired. He didn't want you to think he was visiting you or anything. He wanted you to think he'd come in by mistake, for God's sake.

With a guy like Ackley, if you looked up from your book you were a goner. You were a goner anyway, but not as quick if you didn't look up right away. He started walking around the room, very slow and all, the way he always did, picking up your personal stuff off your desk and chiffonier.

He always picked up your personal stuff and looked at it. Boy, could he get on your nerves sometimes. He just wanted me to quit reading and enjoying myself. He didn't give a damn about the fencing. Without looking up, though. He always made you say everything twice. I sneaked a look to see what he was fiddling around with on my chiffonier. He must've picked up that goddam picture and looked at it at least five thousand times since I got it. He always put it back in the wrong place, too, when he was finished.

He did it on purpose. You could tell. Ya lost them, ya mean? I had to keep getting up to look at a goddam map on the wall. Not him, though. How 'bout sitting down or something, Ackley kid? You're right in my goddam light. It drove him mad when I called him "Ackley kid.

He was exactly the kind of a guy that wouldn't get out of your light when you asked him to. He'd do it, finally, but it took him a lot longer if you asked him to. He didn't get It, though. He started walking around the room again, picking up all my personal stuff, and Stradlater's. Finally, I put my book down on the floor. You couldn't read anything with a guy like Ackley around.

It was impossible.

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I slid way the hell down in my chair and watched old Ackley making himself at home. I was feeling sort of tired from the trip to New York and all, and I started yawning. Then I started horsing around a little bit. Sometimes I horse around quite a lot, just to keep from getting bored.

What I did was, I pulled the old peak of my hunting hat around to the front, then pulled it way down over my eyes. That way, I couldn't see a goddam thing. I swear to God," Ackley said. I kept saying, "Mother darling, why won't you give me your hand? That stuff gives me a bang sometimes. Besides, I know it annoyed hell out of old Ackley. He always brought out the old sadist in me.

I was pretty sadistic with him quite often. Finally, I quit, though. I pulled the peak around to the back again, and relaxed.

He was holding my roommate's knee supporter up to show me. That guy Ackley'd pick up anything. He'd even pick up your jock strap or something. I told him it was Stradlater's.

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So he chucked it on Stradlater's bed. He got it off Stradlater's chiffonier, so he chucked it on the bed. He came over and sat down on the arm of Stradlater's chair. He never sat down in a chair. Just always on the arm. He was always cleaning his fingernails. It was funny, in a way. His teeth were always mossy-looking, and his ears were always dirty as hell, but he was always cleaning his fingernails.

I guess he thought that made him a very neat guy. He took another look at my hat while he was cleaning them. I sort of closed one eye, like I was taking aim at it. He's got a date. I was yawning all over the place. For one thing, the room was too damn hot. It made you sleepy. At Pencey, you either froze to death or died of the heat. Lend me your scissors a second, willya? Ya got 'em handy? I packed them already. They're way in the top of the closet. I got them for him though. I nearly got killed doing it, too.

The second I opened the closet door, Stradlater's tennis racket— in its wooden press and all-fell right on my head. It made a big clunk, and it hurt like hell. It damn near killed old Ackley, though. He started laughing in this very high falsetto voice. He kept laughing the whole time I was taking down my suitcase and getting the scissors out for him.

Something like that— a guy getting hit on the head with a rock or something-tickled the pants off Ackley. I'll get you on the goddam radio. I don't feel like walking on your crumby nails in my bare feet tonight. What lousy manners. I mean it. He was always keeping tabs on who Stradlater was dating, even though he hated Stradlater's guts. Boy, I can't stand that sonuvabitch. He's one sonuvabitch I really can't stand. He told me he thinks you're a goddam prince," I said.

I call people a "prince" quite often when I'm horsing around. It keeps me from getting bored or something. You'd think he-" "Do you mind cutting your nails over the table, hey? He thinks he is. He thinks he's about the most-" "Ackley! For Chrissake. Willya please cut your crumby nails over the table? I've asked you fifty times. The only way he ever did anything was if you yelled at him.

I watched him for a while. Then I said, "The reason you're sore at Stradlater is because he said that stuff about brushing your teeth once in a while. He didn't mean to insult you, for cryin' out loud. He didn't say it right or anything, but he didn't mean anything insulting. All he meant was you'd look better and feel better if you sort of brushed your teeth once in a while.

Don't gimme that. I've seen you, and you don't," I said. I didn't say it nasty, though. I felt sort of sorry for him, in a way. I mean it isn't too nice, naturally, if somebody tells you you don't brush your teeth. He's a conceited sonuvabitch. He really is," I said. Suppose, for instance, Stradlater was wearing a tie or something that you liked.

Say he had a tie on that you liked a helluva lot—I'm just giving you an example, now. You know what he'd do? He'd probably take it off and give it ta you. He really would. Or-you know what he'd do? He'd leave it on your bed or something. But he'd give you the goddam tie. Most guys would probably just— " "Hell," Ackley said. If you had his dough, you'd be one of the biggest—" "Stop calling me 'Ackley kid,' God damn it.

I'm old enough to be your lousy father. He never missed a chance to let you know you were sixteen and he was eighteen. He was always in a big hurry. Everything was a very big deal. He came over to me and gave me these two playful as hell slaps on both cheeks— which is something that can be very annoying. I might. What the hell's it doing out-snowing?

If you're not going out anyplace special, how 'bout lending me your hound's-tooth jacket? We're leaving," Stradlater said. I spilled some crap all over my gray flannel. We were practically the same heighth, but he weighed about twice as much as I did. He had these very broad shoulders. He was at least a pretty friendly guy, Stradlater. It was partly a phony baloney kind of friendly, but at least he always said hello to Ackley and all.

Ackley just sort of grunted when he said "How'sa boy? Then he said to me, "I think I'll get going. See ya later. He never exactly broke your heart when he went back to his own room.

Old Stradlater started taking off his coat and tie and all. He had a pretty heavy beard. He really did. No shirt on or anything. He always walked around in his bare torso because he thought he had a damn good build. He did, too. I have to admit it. We were the only ones in the can, because everybody was still down at the game.

It was hot as hell and the windows were all steamy. There were about ten washbowls, all right against the wall. Stradlater had the middle one. I sat down on the one right next to him and started turning the cold water on and off-this nervous habit I have.

Stradlater kept whistling 'Song of India" while he shaved. He had one of those very piercing whistles that are practically never in tune, and he always picked out some song that's hard to whistle even if you're a good whistler, like "Song of India" or "Slaughter on Tenth Avenue.

You remember I said before that Ackley was a slob in his personal habits? Well, so was Stradlater, but in a different way. Stradlater was more of a secret slob. He always looked all right, Stradlater, but for instance, you should' ve seen the razor he shaved himself with. It was always rusty as hell and full of lather and hairs and crap. He never cleaned it or anything.

He always looked good when he was finished fixing himself up, but he was a secret slob anyway, if you knew him the way I did. The reason he fixed himself up to look good was because he was madly in love with himself. He thought he was the handsomest guy in the Western Hemisphere. He was pretty handsome, too—I'll admit it. But he was mostly the kind of a handsome guy that if your parents saw his picture in your Year Book, they'd right away say, "Who's this boy?

I knew a lot of guys at Pencey I thought were a lot handsomer than Stradlater, but they wouldn't look handsome if you saw their pictures in the Year Book. They'd look like they had big noses or their ears stuck out. I've had that experience frequently. Anyway, I was sitting on the washbowl next to where Stradlater was shaving, sort of turning the water on and off. I still had my red hunting hat on, with the peak around to the back and all. I really got a bang out of that hat. Not too enthusiastic.

He was always asking you to do him a big favor. You take a very handsome guy, or a guy that thinks he's a real hot-shot, and they're always asking you to do them a big favor. Just because they're crazy about themseif, they think you're crazy about them, too, and that you're just dying to do them a favor.

It's sort of funny, in a way. I might not. I'll be up the creek if I don't get the goddam thing in by Monday, the reason I ask. How 'bout it? It really was. The thing is, though, I'll be up the creek if I don't get it in.

Be a buddy. Be a buddyroo. Suspense is good for some bastards like Stradlater. Anything descriptive. A room. Or a house. Or something you once lived in or something— you know. Just as long as it's descriptive as hell. Which is something that gives me a royal pain in the ass. I mean if somebody yawns right while they're asking you to do them a goddam favor. So I mean don't stick all the commas and stuff in the right place. I mean if you're good at writing compositions and somebody starts talking about commas.

Stradlater was always doing that. He wanted you to think that the only reason he was lousy at writing compositions was because he stuck all the commas in the wrong place.

He was a little bit like Ackley, that way. I once sat next to Ackley at this basketball game. We had a terrific guy on the team, Howie Coyle, that could sink them from the middle of the floor, without even touching the backboard or anything.

Ackley kept saying, the whole goddam game, that Coyle had a perfect build for basketball. God, how I hate that stuff. I got bored sitting on that washbowl after a while, so I backed up a few feet and started doing this tap dance, just for the hell of it.

I was just amusing myself. I can't really tap-dance or anything, but it was a stone floor in the can, and it was good for tap-dancing. I started imitating one of those guys in the movies. In one of those musicals. I hate the movies like poison, but I get a bang imitating them. Old Stradlater watched me in the mirror while he was shaving.

All I need's an audience. I'm an exhibitionist. I was knocking myself out. Tap- dancing all over the place. He wants me to go to Oxford. But it's in my goddam blood, tap- dancing. He didn't have too bad a sense of humor. I have hardly any wind at all. He's drunk as a bastard. So who do they get to take his place? Me, that's who. The little ole goddam Governor's son.

He meant my hunting hat. He'd never seen it before. I was out of breath anyway, so I quit horsing around. I took off my hat and looked at it for about the ninetieth time.

For a buck. Ya like it? He was only flattering me, though, because right away he said, "Listen. Are ya gonna write that composition for me? I have to know. If I don't, I won't," I said. I went over and sat down at the washbowl next to him again. I told ya. I'm through with that pig. Give her to me, boy. She's my type. She's too old for you. That's a wrestling hold, in case you don't know, where you get the other guy around the neck and choke him to death, if you feel like it.

So I did it.

I landed on him like a goddam panther. He didn't feel like horsing around. He was shaving and all. I had a pretty good half nelson on him. He was a very strong guy. I'm a very weak guy. He started shaving himself all over again. He always shaved himself twice, to look gorgeous. With his crumby old razor. I sat down on the washbowl next to him again. It was supposed to he, but the arrangements got all screwed up.

I got Bud Thaw's girl's roommate now. I almost forgot.

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She knows you. Jean Gallagher. I even got up from the washbowl when he said that. I damn near dropped dead. She practically lived right next door to me, the summer before last. She had this big damn Doberman pinscher. That's how I met her. Her dog used to keep coming over in our—" "You're right in my light, Holden, for Chrissake," Stradlater said. I really was. Where is she? In the Annex?

Does she go to B. She said she might go there. She said she might go to Shipley, too. I thought she went to Shipley. How'd she happen to mention me? Lift up, willy a? You're on my towel," Stradlater said. I was sitting on his stupid towel. I couldn't get over it. My Vitalis. She used to practice about two hours every day, right in the middle of the hottest weather and all.

She was worried that it might make her legs lousy— all thick and all. I used to play checkers with her all the time. She wouldn't move any of her kings. What she'd do, when she'd get a king, she wouldn't move it.

She'd just leave it in the back row. She'd get them all lined up in the back row. Then she'd never use them. She just liked the way they looked when they were all in the back row.

That kind of stuff doesn't interest most people. I caddy'd for her mother a couple of times. She went around in about a hundred and seventy, for nine holes. He was combing his gorgeous locks. It took him about an hour to comb his hair. Her mother was married again to some booze hound," I said. I remember him. He wore shorts all the time. Jane said he was supposed to be a playwright or some goddam thing, but all I ever saw him do was booze all the time and listen to every single goddam mystery program on the radio.

And run around the goddam house, naked. With Jane around, and all.

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That really interested him. About the booze hound running around the house naked, with Jane around. Stradlater was a very sexy bastard. I'm not kidding. Only very sexy stuff interested him.

I couldn't get her off my mind. I really couldn't. I wasn't, either. You have to be in the mood for those things. I could' ve sworn she went to Shipley. I didn't have anything else to do. For Chrissake, I only just met her," Stradlater said. He was finished combing his goddam gorgeous hair. He was putting away all his crumby toilet articles. Give her my regards, willy a? You take a guy like Stradlater, they never give your regards to people.

He went back to the room, but I stuck around in the can for a while, thinking about old Jane. Then I went back to the room, too. Stradlater was putting on his tie, in front of the mirror, when I got there. He spent around half his goddam life in front of the mirror. I sat down in my chair and sort of watched him for a while. You didn't have to explain every goddam little thing with him, the way you had to do with Ackley.

Mostly, I guess, because he wasn't too interested. That's really why. Ackley, it was different. Ackley was a very nosy bastard. He put on my hound's-tooth jacket.

I'd only worn it about twice. Where the hell's my cigarettes? I pulled the peak of my hunting hat around to the front all of a sudden, for a change. I was getting sort of nervous, all of a sudden.

I'm quite a nervous guy. New York, if we have time. She only signed out for nine-thirty, for Chrissake. If she'd known, she probably would' ve signed out for nine- thirty in the morning. You couldn't rile him too easily.

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He was too conceited. Do that composition for me," he said. He had his coat on, and he was all ready to go. I didn't feel like it. All I said was, "Ask her if she still keeps all her kings in the back row.

I sat there for about a half hour after he left. I mean I just sat in my chair, not doing anything. I kept thinking about Jane, and about Stradlater having a date with her and all. It made me so nervous I nearly went crazy. I already told you what a sexy bastard Stradlater was.

All of a sudden, Ackley barged back in again, through the damn shower curtains, as usual. For once in my stupid life, I was really glad to see him. He took my mind off the other stuff. He stuck around till around dinnertime, talking about all the guys at Pencey that he hated their guts, and squeezing this big pimple on his chin. He didn't even use his handkerchief. I don't even think the bastard had a handkerchief, if you want to know the truth. I never saw him use one, anyway.

It was supposed to be a big deal, because they gave you steak. I'll bet a thousand bucks the reason they did that was because a lot of guys' parents came up to school on Sunday, and old Thurmer probably figured everybody's mother would ask their darling boy what he had for dinner last night, and he'd say, "Steak.

You should've seen the steaks. They were these little hard, dry jobs that you could hardly even cut. You always got these very lumpy mashed potatoes on steak night, and for dessert you got Brown Betty, which nobody ate, except maybe the little kids in the lower school that didn't know any better- and guys like Ackley that ate everything.

It was nice, though, when we got out of the dining room. There were about three inches of snow on the ground, and it was still coming down like a madman. It looked pretty as hell, and we all started throwing snowballs and horsing around all over the place. It was very childish, but everybody was really enjoying themselves.

I didn't have a date or anything, so I and this friend of mine, Mai Brossard, that was on the wrestling team, decided we'd take a bus into Agerstown and have a hamburger and maybe see a lousy movie. Neither of us felt like sitting around on our ass all night. I asked Mai if he minded if Ackley came along with us. The reason I asked was because Ackley never did anything on Saturday night, except stay in his room and squeeze his pimples or something.

Mai said he didn't mind but that he wasn't too crazy about the idea. He didn't like Ackley much. Anyway, we both went to our rooms to get ready and all, and while I was putting on my galoshes and crap, I yelled over and asked old Ackley if he wanted to go to the movies. He could hear me all right through the shower curtains, but he didn't answer me right away. He was the kind of a guy that hates to answer you right away.

Finally he came over, through the goddam curtains, and stood on the shower ledge and asked who was going besides me. He always had to know who was going. I swear, if that guy was shipwrecked somewhere, and you rescued him in a goddam boat, he'd want to know who the guy was that was rowing it before he'd even get in.

I told him Mai Brossard was going. He said, "That bastard. All right. Wait a second. It took him about five hours to get ready.

While he was doing it, I went over to my window and opened it and packed a snowball with my bare hands. The snow was very good for packing. I didn't throw it at anything, though. I started to throw it. At a car that was parked across the street. But I changed my mind. The car looked so nice and white.

Then I started to throw it at a hydrant, but that looked too nice and white, too. Salinger TO MY MOTHER 1 If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, an what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.

In the first place, that stuff bores me, and in the second place, my parents would have about two hemorrhages apiece if I told anything pretty personal about them.

They're quite touchy about anything like that, especially my father. They're nice and all--I'm not saying that--but they're also touchy as hell. Besides, I'm not going to tell you my whole goddam autobiography or anything.

I'll just tell you about this madman stuff that happened to me around last Christmas just before I got pretty run-down and had to come out here and take it easy. I mean that's all I told D. He's in Hollywood. That isn't too far from this crumby place, and he comes over and visits me practically every week end. He's going to drive me home when I go home next month maybe. He just got a Jaguar. One of those little English jobs that can do around two hundred miles an hour.

It cost him damn near four thousand bucks. He's got a lot of dough, now. He didn't use to. He used to be just a regular writer, when he was home. He wrote this terrific book of short stories, The Secret Goldfish, in case you never heard of him. The best one in it was "The Secret Goldfish. It killed me. Now he's out in Hollywood, D. If there's one thing I hate, it's the movies.

Don't even mention them to me. Where I want to start telling is the day I left Pencey Prep.

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Pencey Prep is this school that's in Agerstown, Pennsylvania. You probably heard of it. You've probably seen the ads, anyway.