NAPLÓK: nélküled
Legutóbbi olvasó: 2025-11-03 19:27 Összes olvasás: 205786| 218. | [tulajdonos]: Seymour | 2016-02-11 18:40 |
"The next voice to speak up was not the Lieautenant's but mine. My mouth was dry, and my groin felt damp. I said I didn't give a good God damn what Mrs Fedder had to say on the subject of Seymour. Or, for that matter, what any professional dilettante or amateur bitch had to say. I said that from the time Seymour was ten years old, every summa-cum-laude Thinker and intellectual men's room attendant in the country had been having a go at him. I said it might be different if Seymour had just been some nasty little high-I.Q. showoff. I said he had never been an exhibitionist. ... I said that not one God-damn person, of all the patronising, fourth-rate critics and column writers, had ever seen him for what he really wa. A poet, for God's sake. And I mean a poet. If he never wrote a line of poetry, he could still flash what he had at you with the back of his ear if he wanted to."
Seymour on Mrs Fedder:
"She's an irritating, opinionated woman, a type Buddy can't stand. I don't think he could ever see her for what she is. A person deprived, for life, of any understanding or taste for the main current of poetry that flows through things, all things. She might as well be ded, and yet she goes on living, stopping off at delicatessens, seeing her analyst, consuming a novel every night, putting on her girdle, plotting for Muriel's health and prosperity. I love her. I find her unimaginably brave."
She hates him.
/Salinger: Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters/ |
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