Birthday of author J. D.. Salinger, born January 1, 1935. He died on January 27 of last year. This is from The Catcher in the Rye.
"What I'd do, I figured, I'd go out west where it was very pretty and sunny and where nobody knew me and I'd get a job...I'd pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes. That way I wouldn't have to have any goddamn stupid useless conversations with anybody."
Italy is wearing thin on everyone. The women are sheltered or coy, the beaches monotonous, the people overbearing but bovine, the cuisine infuriatingly unvaried. Yesterday at dinner Rhinelander hurled a platter of spaghetti against the wall, where it stuck. Coach Pinto was not present—he seldom eats with us but normally dines at the home of an official or dignitary, such as they are. He regales us with stories of these occasions, lavishly describing the fine wines and extravagant dishes and scintillating conversations. Rhinelander has tried to order wine to enliven our meals but Pinto has forewarned the establishments and forbidden it. What difference does it make, is what we want to know, as we are all drunk as dogs after our games anyway, all except Sharber, who doesn’t drink and anyway is pinching his pennies, as I mentioned before, toward his retirement to Hawaii. -- Chapter 23, The Misforgotten.
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