By J. D. Salinger
The writer writes: Franny got here out within the New Yorker</EM< Zooey. either tales are early, severe entries in a story sequence I'm doing a couple of relations of settlers in twentieth-century manhattan, the Glasses. it's a long term venture, patently an bold one, and there's a real-enough threat, i assume, that in the end I'll abate, probably disappear fullyyt, in my very own equipment, locutions, and mannerisms. ordinarily, even though, I'm very hopeful. i admire engaged on those Glass tales, I've been looking forward to them so much of my lifestyles, and that i imagine i've got rather good, monomaniacal plans to complete them with due care and all-available ability.
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Extra resources for Franny and Zooey
I'm afraid I will compete—that's what scares me. That's why I quit the Theatre Department. Just because I'm so horribly conditioned to accept everybody else's values, and just because I like applause and people to rave about me, doesn't make it right. I'm ashamed of it. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody. " She paused, and suddenly picked up her glass of milk and brought it to her lips. "I knew it," she said, setting it down. "That's something new. My teeth go funny on me.
It's about the only thing I've ever heard you—" "I just quit, that's all," Franny said. "It started embarrassing me. " She reflected. "I don't know. It seemed like such poor taste, sort of, to want to act in the first place. I mean all the ego. And I used to hate myself so, when I was in a play, to be backstage after the play was over. All those egos running around feeling terribly charitable and warm. Kissing everybody and wearing their makeup all over the place, and then trying to be horribly natural and friendly when your friends came backstage to see you.
Franny was annoyed. "I'm not hungry, Lane —I'm sorry. My gosh. Now, please. You order what you want, why don't you, and I'll eat while you're eating. " Lane craned his neck and caught the waiter's attention. A moment later, he ordered the chicken sandwich and the glass of milk for Franny, and snails, frogs' legs, and a salad for himself. He looked at his wrist-watch when the waiter had gone, and said, "We're supposed to be up at Tenbridge at one-fifteen, one-thirty, incidentally. No later. I told Wally we'd probably stop off for a drink and then maybe we'd all go out to the stadium together in his car.