Holden Catcher In The Rye Quotes

I'm quite illiterate, but I read a lot.

And I have one of those very loud, stupid laughs. I mean if I ever sat behind myself in a movie or something, I'd probably lean over and tell myself to please shut up.

People are always ruining things for you.

That's the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty, even if they're not much to look at, or even if they're sort of stupid, you fall in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are. Girls. Jesus Christ. They can drive you crazy. They really can.

Certain things, they should stay the way they are. You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone.

All morons hate it when you call them a moron.

If a girl looks swell when she meets you, who gives a damn if she's late?

People never notice anything.

Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean - except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be.

When you're dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.

I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. 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.

If you do something too good, then, after a while, if you don't watch it, you start showing off. And then you're not as good any more.

It was that kind of a crazy afternoon, terrifically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were disappearing every time you crossed a road.

I was trying to feel some kind of good-bye. I mean I’ve left schools and places I didn’t even know I was leaving them. I hate that. I don’t care if it’s a sad good-bye or a bad good-bye, but when I leave a place I like to know I’m leaving it. If you don’t you feel even worse.

Grand. There's a word I really hate. It's a phony. I could puke every time I hear it.

If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn't rub out even half the "Fuck you" signs in the world. It's impossible.

Goddam money. It always ends up making you blue as hell.

Sleep tight, ya morons!

It's partly true, too, but it isn't all true. People always think something's all true.

I don’t give a damn, except that I get bored sometimes when people tell me to act my age. Sometimes I act a lot older than I am - I really do - but people never notice it. People never notice anything.

It's not too bad when the sun's out, but the sun only comes out when it feels like coming out.

I don't even know what I was running for—I guess I just felt like it.

Anyway, I'm sort of glad they've got the atomic bomb invented. If there's ever another war, I'm going to sit right the hell on top of it. I'll volunteer for it, I swear to God I will.

It always smelled like it was raining outside, even if it wasn't, and you were in the only nice, dry, cosy place in the world.

It's really too bad that so much crumby stuff is a lot of fun sometimes.

I think, even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it'll say 'Holden Caulfield' on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it'll say 'Fuck you.' I'm positive, in fact.

If you sat around there long enough and heard all the phonies applauding and all, you got to hate everybody in the world, I swear you did.

The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where it was. Nobody'd move. You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with their pretty antlers and they're pretty, skinny legs, and that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that same blanket. Nobody's be different. The only thing that would be different would be you. Not that you'd be so much older or anything. It wouldn't be that, exactly. You'd just be different, that's all. You'd have an overcoat this time. Or the kid that was your partner in line the last time had got scarlet fever and you'd have a new partner. Or you'd have a substitute taking the class, instead of Miss Aigletinger. Or you'd heard your mother and father having a terrific fight in the bathroom. Or you'd just passed by one of those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them. I mean you'd be different in some way—I can't explain what I mean. And even if I could, I'm not sure I'd feel like it.

People never think anything is anything really. I'm getting goddam sick of it.

If I were a piano player, I'd play it in the goddam closet.

Just because somebody's dead, you don't just stop liking them-especially if they were about a thousand times nicer than the people you know that're alive and all.

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and 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.

I live in New York, and I was thinking about the lagoon in Central Park, down near Central Park South. I was wondering if it would be frozen over when I got home, and if it was, where did the ducks go? I was wondering where the ducks went when the lagoon got all icy and frozen over. I wondered if some guy came in a truck and took them away to a zoo or something. Or if they just flew away.

She was terrific to hold hands with. Most girls if you hold hands with them, their goddam hand dies on you, or else they think they have to keep moving their hand all the time, as if they were afraid they'd bore you or something. Jane was different. We'd get into a goddam movie or something, and right away we'd start holding hands, and we wouldn't quit till the movie was over. And without changing the position or making a big deal out of it. You never even worried, with Jane, whether your hand was sweaty or not. All you knew was, you were happy. You really were.

Every time you mention some guy that's strictly a bastard— very mean, or very conceited and all— and when you mention it to the girl, she'll tell you he has an inferiority complex. Maybe he has, but that still doesn't keep him from being a bastard, in my opinion.

I was surrounded by phonies...They were coming in the goddam window.

I felt so lonesome, all of a sudden. I almost wished I was dead.

That's the whole trouble. You 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. Try it sometime. I think, even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it'll say "Holden Caulfield" on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it'll say "Fuck you." I'm positive, in fact.

I think if you don't really like a girl, you shouldn't horse around with her at all, and if you do like her, then you're supposed to like her face, and if you like her face, you ought to be careful about doing crumby stuff to it, like squirting water all over it. It's really too bad that so much crumby stuff is a lot of fun sometimes.

Or you'd just passed by one of those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them. I mean you'd be different in some way—I can't explain what I mean. And even if I could, I'm not sure I'd feel like it.

The trouble with girls is, if they like a boy, no matter how big a bastard he is, they'll say he has an inferiority complex, and if they don't like him, no matter how nice a guy he is, or how big an inferiority complex he has, they'll say he's conceited. Even smart girls do it.

In every school I've gone to, all the athletic bastards stick together.

People are mostly hot to have a discussion when you're not.

It's one of those places that are supposed to be very sophisticated and all, and the phonies are coming in the window.

Liberate yourself from my vice-like grip!

But while I was sitting down, I saw something that drove me crazy. Somebody'd written 'fuck you' on the wall. It drove me damn near crazy. I thought how Phoebe and all the other little kids would see it, and how they'd wonder what the hell it meant, and then finally some dirty kid would tell them— all cockeyed naturally— what it meant, and how they'd all think about it and maybe even worry about it for a couple of days. I kept wanting to kill whoever'd written it.

That's something that annoys the hell out of me- I mean if somebody says the coffee's all ready and it isn't

You never even worried with Jane, whether your hand was sweaty or not. All you knew was, you were happy. You really were.

I don’t even like old cars. I mean, they don’t even interest me at all. I'd rather have a goddam horse. A horse is at least human

Don't tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody." - Holden Caulfield The Catcher in the Rye

Women kill me. They really do. I don't mean I'm oversexed or anything like that—although I am quite sexy. I just like them, I mean. They're always leaving their goddam bags out in the middle of the aisle.

Girls with their legs crossed, girls with their legs not crossed, girls with terrific legs, girls with lousy legs, girls that looked like swell girls, girls that looked like they'd be bitches if you knew them. It was really nice sightseeing, if you know what I mean. In a way, it was sort of depressing, too, because you kept wondering what the hell would happen to all of them. When they got out of school and college, I mean. You figured most of them would probably marry dopey guys. Guys that always talk about how many miles they get to a gallon in their goddam cars. Guys that get sore and childish as hell if you beat them at golf, or even just some stupid game like ping-pong. Guys that are very mean. Guys that never read books. Guys that are very boring— But I have to be careful about that. I mean about calling certain guys bores. I don't understand boring guys. I really don't.

That's the terrible part. I swear to God I'm a madman.

That’s what I liked about those nuns. You could tell, for one thing, that they never went anywhere swanky for lunch. It mad me so damn sad when I thought about it, their never going anywhere swanky for lunch or anything. I knew it wasn’t too important, but it made me sad anyway.

Lawyers are alright, I guess — but it doesn't appeal to me", I said. "I mean they're alright if they go around saving innocent guys' lives all the time, and like that, but you don't do that kind of stuff if you're a lawyer. All you do is make a lot of dough and play golf and play bridge and buy cars and drink Martinis and look like a hot-shot. And besides, even if you did go around saving guys' lives and all, how would you know if you did it because you really wanted to save guys' lives, or because you did it because what you really wanted to do was be a terrific lawyer, with everybody slapping you on the back and congratulating you in court when the goddam trial was over, the reporters and everybody, the way it is in the dirty movies? How would you know you weren't being a phony? The trouble is you wouldn't.

When I was all set to go, when I had my bags and all, I stood for a while next to the stairs and took a last look down the goddam corridor. I was sort of crying. I don't know why. I put my red hunting hat on, and turned the peak around to the back, the way I liked it, and then I yelled at the top of my goddam voice, "Sleep tight, ya morons!" I'll bet I woke up every bastard on the whole floor. Then I got the hell out. Some stupid guy had thrown peanut shells all over the stairs, and I damn near broke my crazy neck.

When the weather's nice, my parents go out quite frequently and stick a bunch of flowers on old Allie's grave. I went with them a couple of times, but I cut it out. In the first place, I don't enjoy seeing him in that crazy cemetery. Surrounded by dead guys and tombstones and all. It wasn't too bad when the sun was out, but twice—twice—we were there when it started to rain. It was awful. It rained on his lousy tombstone, and it rained on the grass on his stomach. It rained all over the place. All the visitors that were visiting the cemetery started running like hell over to their cars. That's what nearly drove me crazy. All the visitors could get in their cars and turn on their radios and all and then go someplace nice for dinner—everybody except Allie. I couldn't stand it. I know it's only his body and all that's in the cemetery, and his soul's in Heaven and all that crap, but I couldn't stand it anyway. I just wished he wasn't there.

I don't hate too many guys. What I may do, I may hate them for a little while, like this guy Stradlater I knew at Pencey, and this other boy, Robert Ackley. I hate them once in a while—I admit it—but it doesn't last too long, is what I mean. After a while, if I didn't see them, if they didn't come in the room, or if I didn't see them in the dining room for a couple of meals, I sort of missed them. I mean I sort of missed them.

D.B. asked me what I thought about all this stuff I just finished telling you about. I didn't know what the hell to say. If you want to know the truth, I don't know what I think about it. I'm sorry I told so many people about it. All I know about it is, I sort of miss everybody I told about. Even old Stradlater and Ackley, for instance. I think I even miss that goddam Maurice. It's funny. Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.

I'd never seen that look on another face before, had never identified it in another person. I'd only met with it in fiction. But everyone falls in love with Holden Caulfield when they're sixteen. They read Catcher in the Rye and don't feel so alone.

He once told Allie and I that if he'd had to shoot anybody, he wouldn't've known which direction to shoot in. He said the Army was practically as full of bastards as the Nazis were.

Girls with their legs crossed, girls with their legs not crossed, girls with terrific legs, girls with lousy legs, girls that looked like swell girls, girls that looked like they'd be bitches if you knew them... You figured most of them would probably marry dopey guys. Guys that always talk about how many miles they get to a gallon in their goddam cars. Guys that get sore and childish as hell if you beat them at golf, or even just some stupid game like ping-pong. Guys that are very mean. Guys that never read books. Guys that are very boring.

And yes, Holden would keep those kids from falling off the cliff, but WHO WOULDN'T? Does she think I would just fold my arms or give them a pat on the back before they sailed headfirst to the ground? We are all catchers, and it's sad that she doesn't see it. Instead she sees the PHONINESS, she deplores the world even after I point out that I am in it.

That digression business got on my nerves. I don't now. The trouble with me is, I like it when somebody digresses. It's more interesting and all. ...lots of time you don't know what interests you most till you start talking about something that doesn't interest you most. ...I like it when somebody gets excited about something.

The thing is, it's really hard to be roommates with people if your suitcases are much better than theirs - if yours are really good ones and theirs aren't. You think if they're intelligent and all, the other person, and have a good sense of humor, that they don't give a damn whose suitcases are better, but they do.

Dont's ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everyone- Holden Caulfield

It's 'If a body meet a body coming through the rye'!" old Phoebe said. "It's a poem. By Robert Burns." "I know it's a poem by Robert Burns." She was right, though. It is "If a body meet a body coming through the rye." I didn't know it then, though. "I thought it was 'If a body catch a body,'" I said. "Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around — nobody big, I mean — except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff — I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy.

The Navy guy and I told each other we were glad to've met each other. Which always kils me. I'm always saing 'Glad to've met you' to somebody I'm not at all glad I met. If you want to stay alive, you have to say that stuff, though.

Then I’d throw my automatic down the elevator shaft-after I’d wiped off all the fingerprints and all. Then I’d crawl back up to my room and call up Jane and have her come over and bandage up my guts. I pictured her holding a cigarette for me to smoke while I was bleeding and all. The goddam movies. They can ruin you. I’m not kidding.

We have a bad habit of seeing books as sort of cheaply made movies where the words do nothing but create visual narratives in our heads. So too often what passes for literary criticism is "I couldn't picture that guy", or "I liked that part", or "this part shouldn't have happened." That is, we've left language so far behind that sometimes we judge quality solely based on a story's actions. So we can appreciate a novel that constructs its conflicts primarily through plot - the layered ambiguity of a fatal car accident caused by a vehicle owned by Gatsby but driven by someone else, for instance. But in this image-drenched world, sometimes we struggle to appreciate and celebrate books where the quality arises not exclusively from plot but also from the language itself.

When I really worry about something, I don´t just fool around. I even have to go to the bathroom when I worry about something. Only, I don´t go. I´m too worried to go. I don´t want to interrupt my worrying to go.

So the Trustees of Ohio State were right in 1956 when they canned the English instructor for assigning Catcher in the Rye to his freshman class. They knew there is no qualitative difference between the kid who thinks it's funny to fart in chapel, and Che Guevara. They knew then Holden Caulfield would found SDS.

Catholics are always trying to find out if you’re Catholic.

People are always ruining things for you. Holden Caulfield

Non voglio spaventarti, ma non stento affatto a vederti morire nobilmente, in un modo o nell'altro, per una causa indicibilmente ignobile.

Last year I made a rule that I was going to quit horsing around with girls that, deep down, gave me a pain in the ass. I broke it, though, the same week I made it - the same night, as a matter of fact.

Royal Young’s memoir is about a dreamer, set in the post- apocalyptic celebrity world of today, and Young, who grew up in New York — like Holden Caulfield if he wanted to be famous — is looking for adventure and action and becomes entangled in all sorts of romantic and sordid relationships. He points out the perplexing tragedy (and good fortune, I think) of what it means to be talented and rebellious, but not a celebrity.

Then I thought of something, all of a sudden. “Hey, listen,” I said. “You know those ducks in that lagoon right near Central Park South? That little lake? By any chance, do you happen to know where they go, the ducks, when it gets all frozen over? Do you happen to know, by any chance?” I realized it was only one chance in a million.

In Catcher in the Rye, the protagonist Holden Caulfield mentions reading books that make him wish he could be friends with the author and be able to call him on the phone and so forth. I would consider a literary work that made someone feel this way a success. Furthermore, it’s the only kind of success in literature that means anything to me.

Besides, I'm not going to tell you my whole 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.

Jesse believed stories were the collective memories of the world, recorded in books so that each of us could know who we were before we became who we are. He said that's why people love The Catcher in the Rye when they're teenagers, but fall out of love with it as adults. We're all Holden Caulfield at fifteen, but when we grow up we want to be Atticus Finch.

this sentence I'm reading is terrific" i can be quite sarcastic when I'm in the mood. 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. 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 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 think I'm going blind,"I said in this very hoarse voice."Mother darling, everything's getting do dark in here." "You're nuts. I swear to God,"Ackley said. "Mother darling, give me your hand, Why won't you give me your hand?" "For Chrissake, grow up." I started groping around in front of me, like a blind guy, but without getting up or anything. I kept saying,"mother darling, why wont you give me you're hand ?" I was only horsing around, naturally.

I don't care if it's a sad good-by or a bad good-by, but when I leave a place, I want to know I'm leaving it. If you don't, you feel even worse.

Now, listen… Lots of boys get more out of school than that. [Sally] But that’s all I get out of it. See? … I’m in bad shape. I’m in lousy shape [Holden]

E' una domanda talmente stupida, secondo me. Nel senso, come fa uno a sapere quello che farà finchè non lo fa? La risposta è: non lo sa. io penso di saperlo, ma alla fin fine che ne so?

How'd she happen to mention me? Does she do to B.M. now? 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?" - Personally after reading chapters 1-5 and learning about Jane and Holden's relationship as friends or just to people you can tell that obviously he does truly care about this girl. To make situations between Holden and Stradlater I see jealousy come with in the mix when a date between "Strad" and jane come up to holden during one of there normal horsing around moods

On je uvijek tražio od čovjeka da mu čini velike usluge. Uzmite takvog veoma lijepog mladića, ili nekog tko za sebe misli kako je u svemu glavni, i te stvari, takvi će ljudi od vas vječito tražiti da im činite velike usluge. Samo zbog toga što je takav čovjek lud za samim sobom, on misli kako ste i vi ludi za njim i kako umirete od želje da mu na svaki mogući način ugodite. To je pomalo smiješno, u jednu ruku.

[Ackley] took another look at my hat . . . “Up home we wear a hat like that to shoot deer in, for Chrissake,” he said. “That’s a deer shooting hat.” “Like hell it is.” I took it off and looked at it. I sort of closed one eye, like I was taking aim at it. “This is a people shooting hat,” I said. “I shoot people in this hat.

Where I lived at Pencey, I lived in the Ossenburger Memorial Wing of the new dorms. 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, he 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. Very big deal. 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 can just see the big phony 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 hotshot and all, then all of a sudden this guy sitting in the row in front of me, Edgar Marsalla, laid this terrific fart. 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.

We always had the same meal on Saturday nights at Pencey. 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.

What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff- I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy." = Stop People From Becoming Phony

Eso es lo malo. Que no hay forma de dar con un sitio tranquilo porque no existe. Cuando tu crees que por fin lo has encontrado, te encuentras con que alguien ha escrito un "joder" en la pared. De verdad les digo que cuando me muera y me entierren en un cementerio y me pongan encima una lápida que diga Holden Caufield y los años de mi nacimiento y de mi muerte, debajo alguien escribirá la dichosa palabrita.

Eso es lo malo. Que no hay forma de dar con un sitio bonito y tranquilo porque no existe. Puedes creer que existe, pero una vez que llegas allí, cuando no estás mirando, alguien se cuela y escribe «Que te jodan» delante de tus narices. Prueben y verán. Creo que si algún día me muero y me meten en un cementerio y me ponen encima una lápida que diga Holden Caulfield y el año en que nací y el año de mi muerte, debajo alguien escribirá «Que te jodan». De hecho estoy convencido.

That’s the whole trouble. You 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. Try it sometime. I think, even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it’ll say “Holden Caulfield” on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it’ll say “Fuck you.” I’m positive, in fact.

I was the only one left in the tomb then. I sort of liked it, in a way. It was so nice and peaceful. Then, all of a sudden, you’d never guess what I saw on the wall. Another “Fuck you.” It was written with a red crayon or something, right under the glass part of the wall, under the stones. That’s the whole trouble. You 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. Try it sometime. I think, even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it’ll say “Holden Caulfield” on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it’ll say “Fuck you.” I’m positive, in fact.

I was the only one left in the tomb then. I sort of liked it, in a way. It was so nice and peaceful. Then, all of a sudden, you'd never guess what I saw on the wall. Another "Fuck you." It was written with a red crayon or something, right under the glass part of the wall, under the stones. That's the whole trouble. You 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. Try it sometime. I think, even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it'll say "Holden Caulfield" on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it'll say "Fuck you." I'm positive, in fact.

I went out the doors and started down these stone stairs to meet her. The thing I couldn't understand, she had this big suitcase with her. She was just coming across Fifth Avenue, and she was dragging this goddam big suitcase with her. She could hardly drag it. When I got up closer, I saw it was my old suitcase, the one I used to use when I was at Whooton. I couldn't figure out what the hell she was doing with it. "Hi," she said when she got up close. She was all out of breath from that crazy suitcase. "I thought maybe you weren't coming," I said. "What the hell's in that bag? I don't need anything. I'm just going the way I am. I'm not even taking the bags I got at the station. What the hellya got in there?" She put the suitcase down. "My clothes," she said. "I'm going with you. Can I? Okay?" "What?" I said. I almost fell over when she said that. I swear to God I did. I got sort of dizzy and I thought I was going to pass out or something again. "I took them down the back elevator so Charlene wouldn't see me. It isn't heavy. All I have in it is two dresses and my moccasins and my underwear and socks and some other things. Feel it. It isn't heavy. Feel it once...Can't I go with you? Holden? Can't I? Please?

He probably likes you. That's no reason to put ink all--" "I don't want him to like me," she said. Then she started looking at me funny. "Holden," she said, "how come you're not home Wednesday?" "What?" Boy, you have to watch her every minute. If you don't think she's smart, you're mad. "How come you're not home Wednesday?" she asked me. "You didn't get kicked out or anything, did you?" "I told you. They let us out early. They let the whole--" "You did get kicked out! You did!" old Phoebe said. Then she hit me on the leg with her fist. She gets very fisty when she feels like it. "You did! Oh, Holden!" She had her hand on her mouth and all. She gets very emotional, I swear to God. "Who said I got kicked out? Nobody said I--" "You did. You did," she said. Then she smacked me again with her fist. If you don't think that hurts, you're crazy. "Daddy'll kill you!" she said. Then she flopped on her stomach on the bed and put the goddam pillow over her head. She does that quite frequently. She's a true madman sometimes. "Cut it out, now," I said. "Nobody's gonna kill me. Nobody's gonna even--C'mon, Phoeb, take that goddam thing off your head. Nobody's gonna kill me." She wouldn't take it off, though. You can't make her do something if she doesn't want to.

― Ce se întîmplă cu tine, băiete? mă întrebă. Vorbea destul de aspru pentru felul lui de a fi. Cîte materii ai urmat în trimestrul ăsta? ― Cinci, domnule profesor. ― Cinci? Şi la cîte ai căzut? ― La patru. Îmi amorţise fundul stînd pe pat. În viaţa mea nu stătusem pe un pat atît de tare. ― La engleză am trecut, i-am spus, fiindcă poveştile cu Beowulf şi cu Lord Randal, fiul meu le-am învăţat încă de pe vremea cînd eram la Whooton. Şi, de fapt, la engleză nu trebuia să fac mai nimic, decît să scriu din cînd în cînd cîte o compunere. Bătrînul nici nu mă asculta. N-asculta niciodată cînd îi vorbeai. ― Eu unul te-am trîntit la istorie fiindcă n-ai ştiut absolut nimic. ― Ştiu, domnule profesor, vă înţeleg. Ce era să faceţi? ― Absolut nimic, repetă el. Tare mă înfurie cînd oamenii repetă de două ori un lucru pe care tu l-ai recunoscut de prima dată. Şi pe urmă a mai spus-o şi a treia oară. ― Dar absolut nimic. Ai deschis cartea măcar o dată, în trimestrul ăsta? Eu mă îndoiesc. Spune drept! ― Păi, ştiţi, am răsfoit-o... de vreo două ori, am spus. Nu voiam să-l jignesc. Îi plăcea istoria la nebunie! ― A, ai răsfoit-o! spuse el foarte ironic. Uite, hm, teza ta e acolo sus pe raft, deasupra teancului de caiete. Ad-o, te rog, încoace. Era o figură urîtă din partea lui. Dar n-am avut încotro, m-am dus şi i-am adus-o. Pe urmă, m-am aşezat din nou pe patul lui de ciment. Mamă, nici nu ştiţi ce rău începuse să-mi pară că venisem să-mi iau rămas bun. Ţinea lucrarea mea de parc-ar fi fost o bucată de rahat sau mai ştiu eu ce. ― Am studiat cu voi egiptenii de la 4 noiembrie la 2 de¬cembrie, îmi zise. Singur ai ales să scrii despre ei la lucrarea facultativă de control. Vrei să auzi ce-ai scris? ― Nu, domnule profesor, nu face, i-am răspuns. Cu toate astea, începu să citească. Nu poţi opri niciodată un profesor să facă un anumit lucru, dacă s-a hotărît să-l facă. Oricum, face tot ce vrea el! Egiptenii sînt o rasă veche de caucazieni care locuiesc într-una din regiunile din nordul Africii. Africa, după cum ştim cu toţii, e cel mai mare continent în emisfera răsăriteană. Şi eu eram obligat să stau şi s-ascult toate tîmpeniile astea! Zău că era urît din partea lui. Pe noi, astăzi, egiptenii ne interesează din mai multe motive. Ştiinţa modernă n-a descoperit nici pînă azi ce substanţe misterioase întrebuinţau cînd îmbălsămau morţii, pentru ca feţele lor să nu putrezească secole la rînd. Această enigmă interesantă continuă să constituie o sfidare pentru ştiinţa modernă a secolului XX. Se opri şi puse jos lucrarea. Începusem să-l urăsc! ― Eseul tău, ca să-i zicem aşa, se opreşte aici, spuse cît se poate de ironic. N-ai crede că un tip atît de bătrîn poate fi atît de ironic şi aşa mai departe. Apoi adăugă: Şi în josul paginii mi-ai scris şi mie cîteva cuvinte. ― Ştiu, ştiu, i-am răspuns precipitat, ca să-l opresc înainte de a-ncepe să citească. Dar parcă mai putea cineva să-l oprească?! Ardea ca un fitil de dinamită. Dragă domnule Spencer (citi el cu glas tare), asta e tot ce ştiu eu despre egipteni. Nu reuşesc să mă intereseze, cu toate că dumneavoastră predaţi foarte frumos. Să ştiţi totuşi că nu mă supăr dacă mă trîntiţi ― că în afară de engleză tot am picat la toate materiile. Cu stimă, al dumnea¬voastră, Holden Caulfield. În sfîrşit, a pus jos lucrarea mea nenorocită şi mi-a arun¬cat o privire de parcă m-ar fi bătut măr la ping-pong sau mai ştiu eu ce. Cît oi trăi nu cred c-am să-l iert c-a citit cu glas tare toate rahaturile alea. Dacă le-ar fi scris el, eu unul nu i le-aş fi citit niciodată. Zău că nu. Şi, de fapt, nu-i scrisesem notiţa aia nenorocită decît ca să nu-i pară prea rău că mă trînteşte. ― Mă condamni că te-am trîntit, băiete? m-a întrebat el. ― Nu, domnule profesor, zău că nu! i-am răspuns eu. Numai de-ar fi încetat naibii să-mi mai zică "băiete"!

Historians, to be sure, have subsequently dug about in the byways of American culture and exposed signs of rebellion and dissatisfation with the conservative values of the early Eisenhower years. Some young people, mostly in university circles, identified with Holden Caulfield, the restless anti-hero of J. D. Salinger's novel The Catcher in the Rye (1951). Mad magazine, a zany and highly irreverent publication, began its commercially very successful career (it was number two in circulation behind Life by the early 1960s) in 1952.53