FRANNY AND ZOOEY JD SALINGER PDF
Franny and Zooey and Me: The Mystical Writings of J.D. Salinger Laura Michetti “ Sing to me oh muse, of a man.” -Homer, The Odyssey That the second oldest. different from the Franny in the later Glass stories because Salinger originally pilgrims as shown by J.D. Salinger in Franny and Zooey are, according to. Remembering Salinger's Franny And Zooey Through Pari And The Royal versus Institutions in JD Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye and Franny and Zooey .
|Language:||English, Spanish, Arabic|
|Genre:||Fiction & Literature|
|ePub File Size:||24.43 MB|
|PDF File Size:||17.81 MB|
|Distribution:||Free* [*Regsitration Required]|
custom-speeches.comer. Zooey, Source: Salinger J.D. Nine Stories. Franny and Zooey. Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters. Moscow: Progress Publishers, This thesis explores how J.D. Salinger's short fiction concerning the Glass family . “A Perfect Day for Bananafish” from Nine Stories, Franny and Zooey, Raise. Franny comes home from college in a state of collapse. She is Zooey. By J. D. Salinger. April 26, May 4, P. The New Yorker, May 4, P.
I can't seem to find ,us anymore. I reach out and we're just not there. I'm frightened. I'm a frightened child. Looks out window I hate this rain. Sometimes I see me dead in it. Tina Turns, furious: Get out of here. Get out! Get out of here before I jump out of this window. Do you hear me? Rick grabbing her: Now you listen to me.
You beautiful little moron. You adorable, childish, self-dramatizing-. Zooey's reading was suddenly interrupted by his mother's voice-importunate, quasi-constructive-addressing him from outside the bathroom door: Are you still in the tub? Zooey took a parting look at the page he had been reading, then closed the manuscript and dropped it over the side of the tub.
Sitting forward, Zooey reached for it and shot it the length of the tub, closing himself off from view. Come in if you're coming in," he said.
His voice had no conspicuous actor's mannerisms, but it was rather excessively vibrant; it "carried" implacably when he had no interest in controlling it. Years earlier, as a child panelist on "It's a Wise Child," he had been advised repeatedly to keep his distance from the microphone.
The door opened, and Mrs.
Glass, a medium-stout woman in a hairnet, sidled into the bathroom. Her age, under any circumstance, was fiercely indeterminate, but never more so than  when she was wearing a hairnet. Her entrances into rooms were usually verbal as well as physical. Exactly forty-five-". Leave me the goddam illusion you haven't been out there counting the minutes I've-".
Glass said. She was already very busy. She had brought into the bathroom a small, oblong package wrapped in white paper and tied with gold tinsel.
It appeared to contain an object roughly the size of the Hope diamond or an irrigation attachment. Glass narrowed her eyes at it and picked at the tinsel with her fingers. When the knot didn't give, she applied her teeth to it.
She was wearing her usual at-home vesture-what her son Buddy who was a writer, and consequently, as Kafka, no less, has told us, not a nice man called her pre-notification-of-death uniform. It consisted mostly of a hoary midnight-blue Japanese kimono.
She almost invariably wore it throughout the apartment during the day. With its many occultish-looking folds, it also served as the repository for the paraphernalia of a very heavy cigarette smoker and an amateur handyman; two oversized pockets had been added at the hips, and they usually contained two or three packs of cigarettes, several match folders, a screwdriver, a claw-end hammer, a Boy Scout knife that had once belonged to one of her sons, and an enamel faucet handle or two, plus an assortment of screws, nails, hinges, and ball-bearing casters-all of which tended to make Mrs.
Glass chink faintly as she moved about in her large apartment. For ten years or more, both of her daughters had often, if impotently, conspired to throw out this veteran kimono. Her married daughter, Boo Boo, had intimated that it might have to be given a coup de grace with a blunt instrument before it was laid away in a wastebasket.
However Oriental the wrapper had originally been designed to look, it didn't detract an iota from the single, impactful  impression that Mrs. Glass, chez elle, made on a certain type of observer. In this distinctly Manhattanesque locale, Mrs. Glass was from an undeniably hoyden point of view a rather refreshing eyesore.
She looked, first, as if she never, never left the building at all, but that if she did, she would be wearing a dark shawl and she would be going in the general direction of O'Gonnell Street, there to claim the body of one of her half-Irish, half-Jewish sons, who, through some clerical error, had just been shot dead by the Black and Tans.
Zooey's voice suddenly and suspiciously spoke up: What in Christ's name are you doing out there? Glass had undressed the package and now stood reading the fine print on the back of a carton of toothpaste. She went over to the medicine cabinet.
It was stationed above the washbowl, against the wall. She opened its mirror-faced door and surveyed the congested shelves with the eye-or, rather, the masterly squint-of a dedicated medicine-cabinet gardener. Before her, in overly luxuriant rows, was a host, so to speak, of golden pharmaceuticals, plus a few technically less indigenous whatnots.
Glass briskly reached up and took down an object from the bottom shelf and dropped it, with a muffled, tinny bang, into the wastebasket.
It's going to take all the lovely enamel off your teeth. You have lovely teeth. The least you can do is take proper". Glass gave her garden a final critical glance. She turned on the coldwater tap. Glass demanded. I don't think that's nice at all.
I asked you particularly to please go see if there's anything-". In the second place, I talked to her for two solid hours last night, and I don't think she frankly wants to talk to any goddam one of us today.
And in the third place, if you don't get out of this bathroom I'm going to set fire to this ugly goddam curtain. I mean it, Bessie. Somewhere in the middle of these three illustrative points, Mrs. Glass had left off listening and sat down. How can a grown man live like that-no phone, no anything? No one has any desire to invade his privacy, if that's what he wants, but I certainly don't think it's necessary to live like a hermit. Suppose he broke his leg or something like that.
Way off in the woods like that.
I worry about it all the time. Which do you worry about? His breaking a leg or his not having a phone when you want him to? Don't waste your time. You're so stupid, Bessie. Why are you so stupid? You know Buddy, for God's sake. If he were twenty miles in the woods, with both legs broken and a goddam arrow sticking out of his back, he'd crawl back to his cave just to make certain nobody sneaked in to try on his galoshes while he was out.
He cares too much about his goddam privacy to die in any woods. She gave her hairnet a minor and needless adjustment. They don't even answer. It's in fur iating not to be able to get him. How many times I've begged him to take that crazy phone out of his and Seymour's old room.
It isn't even normal. When something really comes up and he needs one-It's infuriating. I tried twice last night, and about four times this-". In the first place, why should some strangers down the road be at our beck and call? Just don't be so fresh, please. For your information, I'm very worried about that child. And I think Buddy should be told about this whole thing. Just for your information, I don't think he'd ever forgive me if I didn't get in touch with him at a time like this.
Why don't you call the college, instead of bothering his neighbors? He wouldn't be in his cave anyway at this time of day-you know that. Nobody's deaf. For your information, I have called the college. I've learned from experience that that does absolutely no good whatsoever. They just leave messages on his desk, and I don't think he ever goes anywhere near his office anyway.
Glass abruptly leaned her weight forward, without getting up, and reached out and picked up something from the top of the laundry hamper.
That's my one simple desire. If I'd wanted this place to fill up with every fat Irish rose that passes by, I'd've said so. Now, c'mon. Get out. Glass said patiently. Do you or don't you want it? Just yes or no, please. Always throw everything, in this family. Glass got up, took three steps over to the shower curtain, and waited for a disembodied hand to claim the washcloth.
You sit there in that tub till you're practically blue in the face, and then you-What's this? Glass bent down and picked up the manuscript Zooey had been reading before she made her entrance into the room.
LeSage sent over? It was as if Eve had asked Cain whether that wasn't his lovely new hoe lying out there in the rain. She looked down at it, appearing to inspect it for wetness. The window  blind had been lowered-Zooey had done all his bathtub reading by the light from the three-bulb overhead fixture-but a fraction of morning light inched under the blind and onto the title page of the manuscript. Glass tilted her head to one side, the better to read the title, at the same time taking a pack of king-size cigarettes from her kimono pocket.
The response from behind the shower curtain was a trifle delayed but delighted. It's a what kind of title? Glass's guard was already up. She backed up and reseated herself, a lighted cigarette in her hand.
I didn't say it was beautiful or anything, so just-". You have to get up pretty early in the morning to get anything really classy past you, Bessie girl. You know what your heart is, Bessie? Would you like to know what your heart is? Your heart, Bessie, is an autumn garage.
How's that for a catchy title, eh? By God, many people-many uninformed people-think Seymour and Buddy are the only goddam men of letters in this family. When I think, when I sit down for a minute and think of the sensitive prose, and garages, I throw away every day of my-".
Whatever her taste in television-play titles, or her aesthetics in general, a flicker came into her eyes-no more than a flicker, but a flicker- of connoisseurlike, if perverse, relish for her youngest, and only handsome, son's style of bullying. For a split second, it displaced the look of all-round wear and, plainly, specific worry that had been on her face since she entered the bathroom. However, she was almost immediately back on the defensive: It is very unusual. You don't think anything's unusual or beautiful!
I've never once heard you-". Who doesn't? Exactly what don't I think isn't beautiful? That's my Achilles' heel, and don't you forget it. To me, everything is beautiful. Show me a pink sunset and I'm limp, by  God. And you have the gall to try to tell me I'm-". Glass said, absently.
She gave a great sigh. Then, with a tense expression, she dragged deeply on her cigarette and exhaling the smoke through her nostrils, said-or, rather, erupted-"Oh, I wish I knew what I'm supposed to do with that child!
But none! Your father doesn't even like to talk about anything like this. You know that! He's worried, too, naturally-I know that look on his face-but he simply will no face any thing. Glass's mouth tightened. He thinks anything peculiar or unpleasant will just go away if he turns on the radio and some little schnook starts.
A great single roar of laughter came from the closed-off Zooey. It was scarcely distinguishable from his guffaw, but there was a difference. Glass insisted, humorlessly. She sat forward. I'm serious, now. Glass took another deep breath. But entirely. He hardly ever even watches television, unless you're on. And don't laugh, Zooey. It isn't funny. He has absolutely no conception of anything  being really wrong with Franny.
Right after the eleven-o'clock news last night, what do you think he asks me? If I think Franny might like a tange rine! The child's laying there by the hour crying her eyes out if you say boo to her, and mumbling heaven knows what to herself, and your father wonders if maybe she'd like a tangerine. I could've killed him. The next time he-" Mrs. Glass broke off.
She glared at the shower curtain. Nothing, nothing, nothing. I like the tangerine. All right, who else is being no help to you? Who else? Pour your heart out to me, Bessie. Don't be reticent. That's the whole trouble with this family-we keep things bottled up too much. She took time to push a stray wisp of hair under the elastic of her hairnet.
The one person that's supposed to know about all this funny business. Waker I'd be afraid to tell about it, even if I knew how to get hold of him.
I never saw a family like this in my entire life. I mean it. You're all supposed to be so in tel ligent and everything, all you children, and not one of you is any help when the chips are down. Not one of you. I'm just a little bit sick of-". When what chips are down? What would you like us to do, Bessie? Go in there and live Franny's life for her? Nobody's talking about anybody living her life for her. I'd simply like some body to go in that living room and find out what's what, that's what I'd like.
I'd like to know just when that child intends to go back to college and finish her year. I'd like to know just when she intends to put something halfway Tiowrishing into her stomach. She's eaten practically nothing since she got home Saturday night-but nothing! I tried-not a half hour ago-to get her to take a nice cup of chicken broth. She took exactly two mouthfuls, and that's all. She threw up everything I got her to eat yesterday, practically.
Glass's voice stopped only long enough to reload, as it were. Just what is this cheeseburger business? From what I gather, she's practically been living on cheeseburgers and Cokes all semester so far. Is that what they feed a young girl at college these days?
I know one thing. I'm certainly not going to feed a young girl that's as run-down as that child is on food that isn't even-". Make it chicken broth or nothing. That's putting the ole foot down. If she's determined to have a nervous breakdown, the least we can do is see that she doesn't have it in peace.
What Are the Chances of Trump Being Reëlected?
For your information, I don't think it's at all impossible that the kind of food that child takes into her system hasn't a lot to do with this whole entire funny business.
Even as a child you practically had to force that child to even touch her vegetables or any of the things that were good for her. You can't go on abusing the body indefinitely, year in, year out-regardless of what you think. You're absolutely right.
It's staggering how you jump straight the hell into the heart of a matter. I'm goosebumps all over By God, you inspire me. You inflame me, Bessie. You know what you've done? Do you realize what you've done? You've given this whole goddam issue a fresh, new. Biblical slant.
I wrote four papers in college on the Crucifixion-five, really-and every one of them worried me half crazy because I thought something was missing. Now I know what it was. Now it's clear to me. I see Christ in an entirely different light. His unhealthy fanaticism. His rudeness to those nice, sane, conservative, tax-paying Pharisees.
Oh, this is exciting! In your simple, straightforward, bigoted way, Bessie, you've sounded the missing keynote of the whole New Testament. Improper diet. Christ lived on cheeseburgers and Cokes. For all we know, he probably fed the mult-". Glass broke in, her voice quiet but dangerous. Oh, you're so funny! It just so happens, young man, that I don't consider your little sister in exactly the exact same light that I do the Lord. I may be peculiar, but I don't happen to. I don't happen to see any comparison whatsoever between the Lord and a rundown, overwrought little college girl that's been reading too many religious books and all like that!
You certainly know your sister as well as I do-or should.
She's terribly impressionable and always has been, and you know it very well! Are you sitting down out there? I have a terrible feeling you're sitting down out there with about five cigarettes going.
Are you? Glass, however, didn't choose to reply. I'd like to get out of this God-damned tub You hear me? A fresh wave of worry had passed over her face. She straightened her back restively. For several minutes she had been holding her cigarette ashes in her cupped left hand. She now reached over, without quite having to get up, and emptied them into the wastebasket. The house is absolutely upside down. The painters are almost finished in her room, and they're going to want to get in the living room immediately after lunch.
I don't know whether to wake her up, or what. She's had almost no sleep. I'm simply losing my mind. Do you know how long it's been since I've been free to have the painters in this apartment? Nearly twen -". The dawn comes up. I forget all about the painters. Listen, why haven't you asked them in here? There's plenty of room.
What the hell kind of host will they think I am, not asking them into the bathroom when I'm-". As if in obedience, Zooey abruptly put his washcloth to use. For quite a little interval, the faint swush of it was the only sound in the bathroom. Glass, seated eight or ten feet away from the shower curtain, stared across the tiled floor at the blue  bathmat alongside the tub.
Her cigarette had burned down to the last half inch. She held it between the ends of two fingers of her right hand. Distinctly, her way of holding it tended to blow to some sort of literary hell one's first, strong and still perfectly tenable impression that an invisible Dubliner's shawl covered her shoulders.
Not only were her fingers of an extraordinary length and shapeliness-such as, very generally speaking one wouldn't have expected of a medium-stout woman's ringers-but they featured, as it were, a somewhat imperial-looking tremor; a deposed Balkan queen or a retired favorite courtesan might have had such an elegant tremor. And this was not the only contradiction to the Dublin-black-shawl motif. There was the rather eyebrow-raising fact of Bessie Glass's legs, which were comely by any criterion.
They were the legs of a once quite widely acknowledged public beauty, a vaudevillian, a dancer, a very light dancer. They were crossed now, as she sat staring at the bathmat, left over right, a worn white terrycloth slipper looking as if it might fall off the extended foot at any second.
The feet were extraordinarily small, the ankles were still slender, and, perhaps most remarkable, the calves were still firm and evidently never had been knotty. A much deeper sigh than customary-almost, it seemed, a part of the life force itself-suddenly came from Mrs. She got up and carried her cigarette over to the washbowl, let cold water run on it, then dropped the extinguished stub into the waste-basket and sat down again.
The spell of introspection she had cast on herself was unbroken, as if she hadn't moved from her seat at all. I'm giving you fair warning. Let's not wear out our welcome, buddy. Glass, who had resumed staring at the blue bathmat, gave an absent-minded nod at this "fair warning. On the other hand, he might not have.
It was a very touch-and-go business, in , to get a wholly plausible reading from Mrs. Glass's face, and especially  from her enormous blue eyes.
Franny and Zooey
Where once, a few years earlier, her eyes alone could break the news either to people or to bathmats that two of her sons were dead, one by suicide her favorite, her most intricately calibrated, her kindest son , and one killed in World War II her only truly lighthearted son -where once Bessie Glass's eyes alone could report these facts, with an eloquence and a seeming passion for detail that neither her husband nor any of her adult surviving children could bear to look at, let alone take in, now, in , she was apt to use this same terrible Celtic equipment to break the news, usually at the front door, that the new delivery boy hadn't brought the leg of lamb in time for dinner or that some remote Hollywood starlet's marriage was on the rocks.
She lit a fresh king-size cigarette abruptly, dragged on it, then stood up, exhaling smoke. The statement sounded, innocently, like a promise. It was rather as though, after being in makeshift wet dock for days, the Queen Mary had just sailed out of, say, Walden Pond, as suddenly and perversely as she had sailed in.
Behind the shower curtain, Zooey closed his eyes for a few seconds, as though his own small craft were listing precariously in the wake. Then he pulled back the shower curtain and stared over at the closed door.
It was a weighty stare, and relief was not really a great part of it. As much as anything else, it was the stare, not so paradoxically, of a privacy-lover who, once his privacy has been invaded, doesn't quite approve when the invader just gets up and leaves, one-two-three, like that.
Not five minutes later, Zooey, with his hair combed wet, stood wet, stood barefoot at the washbowl, wearing a pair of beltless dark-gray sharkskin slacks, a face towel across his bare shoulders. A pre-shaving ritual had already been put into effect. The window blind had been raised half-way; the bathroom door had been set ajar to let the steam escape and clear the mirrors; a cigarette had been lit, dragged on, and placed within easy reach  on the frosted-glass ledge under the medicine-cabinet mirror.
At the moment, Zooey had just finished squeezing lather cream onto the end of a shaving brush. He put the tube of lather, without re-capping it, somewhere into the enamel background, out of his way. He passed the flat of his hand squeakily back and forth over the face of the medicine-cabinet mirror, wiping away most of the mist.
Then he began to lather his face. His lathering technique was very much out of the ordinary, although identical in spirit with his actual shaving technique. That is, although he looked into the mirror while he lathered, he didn't watch where his brush was moving but, instead, looked directly into his own eyes, as though his eyes were neutral territory, a no man's land in a private war against narcissism he had been fighting since he was seven or eight years old.
By now, when he was twenty-five, the little stratagem may well have been mostly reflexive, just as a veteran baseball player, at the plate, will tap his spikes with his bat whether he needs to or not.
Nonetheless, a few minutes earlier, when he had combed his hair, he had done so with the very minimum amount of help from the mirror. And before that he had managed to dry himself in front of a full-length mirror without so much as glancing into it.
He had just finished lathering his face when his mother suddenly appeared in his shaving mirror. She stood in the doorway, a few feet behind him, one hand on the doorknob-a portrait of spurious hesitancy about making another full entrance into the room. What a pleasant and gracious surprise! Glass advanced, meditatively.
She started to lower herself into place. Let me drink you in first," Zooey said. Getting out of the tub, putting on his trousers, and combing his hair had apparently raised his spirits. Glass said firmly, sitting. She crossed her legs. Do you think it would do  any good to try to get hold of Waker? I don't, personally, but what do you think? I mean in my opinion what that child needs is a good psy chi atrist, not a priest or anything, but I may be wrong.
No, no. Not wrong. I've never known you to be wrong, Bessie. Your facts are always either untrue or exaggerated, but you're never wrong -no, no.
Do you or don't you think I should get in touch with Waker? I could call that Bishop Pinchot or whatever his name is, and he could probably tell me where I could at least wire him, if he's still on some crazy boat. Glass reached out and drew the metal wastebasket in close to her and used it as an ashtray for the lighted cigarette she had brought in with her. Glass adjusted her sitting position with a little evasive shift to the right.
The Yamas & Niyamas: Exploring Yoga's Ethical Practice
We know better than that, don't we? We're not going to take a straight answer like that lying down, are we? Glass said, rallying.
She addressed Zooey's lathered profile. Do you or don't you think I should try to get in touch with Waker? I'm afraid to, frankly. He's so emotional-priest or no priest. If you tell Waker it looks like rain, his eyes all fill up. Zooey shared his amusement at this remark with the reflection of his own eyes in the mirror. Looking  vastly troubled, she sat smoking for a long moment. I haven't forgotten everything. But none of you children were brought up as Catholics, and I really don't see-".
Zooey cut her short. You're way off. I told you "that last night. This thing with Franny is strictly non-sectarian. Glass stared full and pressingly at his profile, as if he might say something further, but he didn't. At length, she sighed, and said, "I'd almost be satisfied for a while if I could get that awful Bloomberg off that couch with her.
It isn't even sanitary. The dead sage Seymour has initiated them into Zen and other mystical cults. During the course of the story, Franny has a little nervous breakdown, brought on by reading a small green religious book titled The Way of a Pilgrim, relating the quest for prayer of a simple Russian peasant.
Zooey feels the same way. He likes people, as he says, who wear horrible neckties and funny, padded suits, but he does not mind a man who dresses well and owns a two-cabin cruiser so long as he belongs to the real, native, video-viewing America. Here exception is made, obviously, for the Glass family: Seymour, the poet and thinker, Buddy, the writer, and so on. Francis de Sales, Mu Mon Kwan, etc. This honor roll is extremely institutional. No doubt the author and his mouthpiece who is smoking a panatela would like to spread a message of charity.
The club, for all its pep talks, remains a closed corporation, since the function of the Fat Lady, when you come down to it, is to be what? The bathroom is the holy-of-holies of family life, the seat of privacy, the center of the cult of self-worship. The child Sybil offers another answer.
The banana hole is not something to be avoided or feared. She treats it as a given reality, as desirable. It is significant that she sees a banana fish with "six" NS, p. How can one experience something without partaking of it? At the close of the story, Seymour sits on the twin bed opposite the one on which his wife Muriel is sleeping, puts a gun to his head and fires a bullet through his temple. Seymour's further disillusionment with the next generation could be an important reason why this "a perfect day for banana fish" NS, p.
Seymour has found he is unable to cope with the phony world and opts out, but suicide is not an acceptable alternative to dealing with disillusionment. Although Seymour shares with Holden Caulfield an acute sensitivity to the physicality of the world, his Sybil does not serve as Phoebe serves to deflect him from selfdestruction. The question that remains is not so much why he kills himself, but why Sybil's influence was not enough to keep him from doing so.
The Glass family saga begins with Seymour's suicide, and Salinger spends much of his later career writing his way around and back 58 - freezing himself - to that day in to show how Seymour failed, but how the rest of us can be influenced by the Sybil's of the world. In Franny and Zooey , Salinger presents the youngest member of the Glass family, Franny's situation on a weekend, in painful conflict with her sense of self and the world. She is uneasy with the superficiality of her surroundings, and her profound wish for a spiritual dimension that would give her life substance beyond all of the grasping and self-assertion that threaten to engulf her.
Salinger reflects on acceptance and endurance as a second choice, by embracing others or practicing a personal spirituality. The pattern that Franny follows, from nausea to joy, from withdrawal to return, is the same as we witness in Holden Caulfield.
This is the frrst time; however, that Salinger has created a female for tracing out the pattern: ''I'm sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody" FZ, p.
Follow the Author
With this prophetic exclamation this modem adolescent heroine, announces herself. Here is the state of mind of many a young individual apprehensive of the loss of individuality and selfhood, disgusted with the apparently inescapable conformity, and at the same time afraid of the alternative of being left alone. Salinger is more concerned with those who struggle against such conformity.
Franny and Zooey deals with a frustrated person who is sick of ego: ''I'm just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and evecybody else's. When Franny thinks of giving up the stage, she makes this point when she claims that she is sickened and disgusted by ego, and repelled by the universal drive to get somewhere.
Franny's struggle throughout the novel is unquestionably the condition of her burdensome ego, and the burden of the living Glass children is the same. Once more, Salinger provides his characters a way out of their spiritual abyss. It comes in the form of a parable, a device he frequently uses to impart mythic truths and visions. We learn that Seymour talked about the parable of the Fat Lady during the years that the Glasses performed as child prodigies on a radio talk show called "It's a Wise Child" FZ, p.
He insisted that before the show the children shine their shoes - synonymous, perhaps, with preparing to do their best- for the Fat Lady, a reference to the lonely, bereft members of their listening audience.
Zooey invokes the image with a stirring explanation of the Fat Lady's identity: "We're the Tattooed Lady, and we're never going to have a minute's peace, the rest of our lives, till everybody else is tattooed, too" FZ, p. Zooey comments: "There isn't anyone out there who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady Christ Himself FZ, pp.
It is her task to act for God, to act so fully that no point of separation exists between what Franny is doing and any other conception of herself. Salinger wishes to 60 tell us there is no difference between Franny and the Fat Lady, impossible, as that is to imagine.
Franny and this cancerous Fat Lady with "thick legs, very veiny legs" FZ, p. They are exactly part of the same thing. Her description of the meditative way stresses the loss of all personal devices and social impingements.
Through Zooey, however, she learns that her use of the prayer has handicapped rather than helped her spiritually, because of her distorted notions of Jesus.
In saying the prayer, she has been trying to lay up spiritual treasures for herself much like the people she criticizes are trying to lay up material or intellectual treasures for themselves.The Iranian film Pari is an unofficial adaptation of the book. Are you? Les Glass, the children's father, a former international vaudevillian and, no doubt, an inveterate and wistful admirer of the wall decor at Sardi's theatrical restaurant.
Biblical slant. The center piece of the book, the ever-logical and too-witty-for-his-own-good Zooey engaged in a shouting match with his mother, a woman with such wholesome and good-natured worldly wisdom that appears as simplicity to an untrained eye, is wholly unforgettable and made of the stuff that reminds you why you so love reading books.
He bent over and fished his razor out of the wastebasket.