He was little more than halfway down the staircase when he heard an all-piercing, sustained scream--clearly coming from a small, female child. It was highly acoustical, as though it were reverberating within four tiled walls.
J.D. SalingerTag: teddy
La gente batte sempre le mani per le cose sbagliate.
J.D. SalingerGod damn it," he said, "there are nice things in the world- and I mean nice things. We're all such morons to get so sidetracked. Always, always referring every goddam thing that happens right back to our lousy little egos.
J.D. SalingerI can’t explain what I mean. And even if I could, I’m not sure I’d feel like it.
J.D. SalingerYou can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there isn't any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you're not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write "Fuck you" right under your nose.
J.D. SalingerIf a girl looks swell when she meets you, who gives a damn if she's late?
J.D. SalingerMostra la citazione in tedesco
Mostra la citazione in francese
Mostra la citazione in italiano
She was there, and she was the whole city, and that’s that.
J.D. SalingerThey're not. That's partly what's so awful. I mean they're not real poets. They're just people that write poems that get published and anthologized all over the place but they're not poets.
J.D. SalingerMy father wrote beautifully,” Esmé interrupted. “I’m saving a number of his letters for posterity.”
I said that sounded like a very good idea. I happened to be looking at her enormous-faced, chrono-graphic-looking wristwatch again. I asked if it had belonged to her father.
She looked down at her wrist solemnly. “Yes, it did,” she said. “He gave it to me just before Charles and I were evacuated.” Self-consciously, she took her hand off the table, saying, “Purely as a momento, of course.” She guided the conversation in a different direction. “I’d be extremely flattered if you’d write a story exclusively for me sometime. I’m an avid reader.”
I told her I certainly would, if I could. I said that I wasn’t terribly prolific.
“It doesn’t have to be terribly prolific! Just so that isn’t childish and silly.” She reflected. “I prefer stories about squalor.”
“About what?” I said, leaning forward.
“Squalor. I’m extremely interested in squalor.
There isn't anyone anywhere who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. Don't you know that? Don't you know that goddam secret yet? And don't you know — listen to me, now — don't you know who that Fat Lady really is? . . . Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It's Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.
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