Mr. and Mrs. Antolini had this very swanky apartment over on Sutton Place, withtwo steps that you go down to get in the living room, and a bar and all. I’d been therequite a few times, because after I left Elkton Hills Mr. Antoilni came up to our house fordinner quite frequently to find out how I was getting along. He wasn’t married then. Thenwhen he got married, I used to play tennis with he and Mrs. Antolini quite frequently, outat the West Side Tennis Club, in Forest Hills, Long Island. Mrs. Antolini, belonged there.She was lousy with dough. She was about sixty years older than Mr. Antolini, but theyseemed to get along quite well. For one thing, they were both very intellectual, especiallyMr. Antolini except that he was more witty than intellectual when you were with him,sort of like D.B. Mrs. Antolini was mostly serious. She had asthma pretty bad. They bothread all D.B.’s stories–Mrs. Antolini, too–and when D.B. went to Hollywood, Mr.Antolini phoned him up and told him not to go. He went anyway, though. Mr. Antolinisaid that anybody that could write like D.B. had no business going out to Hollywood.That’s exactly what I said, practically.I would have walked down to their house, because I didn’t want to spend any ofPhoebe’s Christmas dough that I didn’t have to, but I felt funny when I got outside. Sort ofdizzy. So I took a cab. I didn’t want to, but I did. I had a helluva time even finding a cab.Old Mr. Antolini answered the door when I rang the bell–after the elevator boyfinally let me up, the bastard. He had on his bathrobe and slippers, and he had a highballin one hand. He was a pretty sophisticated guy, and he was a pretty heavy drinker.Holden, m’boy! he said. My God, he’s grown another twenty inches. Fine to see you.How are you, Mr. Antolini? How’s Mrs. Antolini?We’re both just dandy. Let’s have that coat. He took my coat off me and hung itup. I expected to see a day-old infant in your arms. Nowhere to turn. Snowflakes in youreyelashes. He’s a very witty guy sometimes. He turned around and yelled out to thekitchen, Lillian! How’s the coffee coming? Lillian was Mrs. Antolini’s first name.It’s all ready, she yelled back. Is that Holden? Hello, Holden!Hello, Mrs. Antolini!You were always yelling when you were there. That’s because the both of themwere never in the same room at the same time. It was sort of funny.Sit down, Holden, Mr. Antolini said. You could tell he was a little oiled up. Theroom looked like they’d just had a party. Glasses were all over the place, and dishes withpeanuts in them. Excuse the appearance of the place, he said. We’ve been entertainingsome Buffalo friends of Mrs. Antolini’s . . . Some buffaloes, as a matter of fact.I laughed, and Mrs. Antolini yelled something in to me from the kitchen, but Icouldn’t hear her. What’d she say? I asked Mr. Antolini.She said not to look at her when she comes in. She just arose from the sack.Have a cigarette. Are you smoking now?Thanks, I said. I took a cigarette from the box he offered me. Just once in awhile. I’m a moderate smoker.I’ll bet you are, he said. He gave me a light from this big lighter off the table.So. You and Pencey are no longer one, he said. He always said things that way.Sometimes it amused me a lot and sometimes it didn’t. He sort of did it a little bit toomuch. I don’t mean he wasn’t witty or anything–he was–but sometimes it gets on yournerves when somebody’s always saying things like So you and Pencey are no longerone. D.B. does it too much sometimes, too.What was the trouble? Mr. Antolini asked me. How’d you do in English? I’llshow you the door in short order if you flunked English, you little ace compositionwriter.Oh, I passed English all right. It was mostly literature, though. I only wrote abouttwo compositions the whole term, I said. I flunked Oral Expression, though. They hadthis course you had to take, Oral Expression. That I flunked.Why?Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t feel much like going into It. I was still feeling sort ofdizzy or something, and I had a helluva headache all of a sudden. I really did. But youcould tell he was interested, so I told him a little bit about it. It’s this course where eachboy in class has to get up in class and make a speech. You know. Spontaneous and all.And if the boy digresses at all, you’re supposed to yell ‘Digression!’ at him as fast as youcan. It just about drove me crazy. I got an F in it.Why?Oh, I don’t know. That digression business got on my nerves. I don’t know. Thetrouble with me is, I like it when somebody digresses. It’s more interesting and all.You don’t care to have somebody stick to the point when he tells yousomething?Oh, sure! I like somebody to stick to the point and all. But I don’t like them tostick too much to the point. I don’t know. I guess I don’t like it when somebody sticks tothe point all the time. The boys that got the best marks in Oral Expression were the onesthat stuck to the point all the time–I admit it. But there was this one boy, RichardKinsella. He didn’t stick to the point too much, and they were always yelling ‘Digression!’at him. It was terrible, because in the first place, he was a very nervous guy–I mean hewas a very nervous guy–and his lips were always shaking whenever it was his time tomake a speech, and you could hardly hear him if you were sitting way in the back of theroom. When his lips sort of quit shaking a little bit, though, I liked his speeches betterthan anybody else’s. He practically flunked the course, though, too. He got a D plusbecause they kept yelling ‘Digression!’ at him all the time. For instance, he made thisspeech about this farm his father bought in Vermont. They kept yelling ‘Digression!’ athim the whole time he was making it, and this teacher, Mr. Vinson, gave him an F on itbecause he hadn’t told what kind of animals and vegetables and stuff grew on the farmand all. What he did was, Richard Kinsella, he’d start telling you all about that stuff–thenall of a sudden he’d start telling you about this letter his mother got from his uncle, andhow his uncle got polio and all when he was forty-two years old, and how he wouldn’t letanybody come to see him in the hospital because he didn’t want anybody to see him witha brace on. It didn’t have much to do with the farm–I admit it–but it was nice. It’s nicewhen somebody tells you about their uncle. Especially when they start out telling youabout their father’s farm and then all of a sudden get more interested in their uncle. Imean it’s dirty to keep yelling ‘Digression!’ at him when he’s all nice and excited. I don’tknow. It’s hard to explain. I didn’t feel too much like trying, either. For one thing, I hadthis terrific headache all of a sudden. I wished to God old Mrs. Antolini would come inwith the coffee. That’s something that annoys hell out of me–I mean if somebody saysthe coffee’s all ready and it isn’t.Holden. . . One short, faintly stuffy, pedagogical question. Don’t you think there’sa time and place for everything? Don’t you think if someone starts out to tell you abouthis father’s farm, he should stick to his guns, then get around to telling you about hisuncle’s brace? Or, if his uncle’s brace is such a provocative subject, shouldn’t he haveselected it in the first place as his subject–not the farm?I didn’t feel much like thinking and answering and all. I had a headache and I feltlousy. I even had sort of a stomach-ache, if you want to know the truth.Yes–I don’t know. I guess he should. I mean I guess he should’ve picked hisuncle as a subject, instead of the farm, if that interested him most. But what I mean is,lots of time you don’t know what interests you most till you start talking about somethingthat doesn’t interest you most. I mean you can’t help it sometimes. What I think is, you’resupposed to leave somebody alone if he’s at least being interesting and he’s getting allexcited about something. I like it when somebody gets excited about something. It’s nice.You just didn’t know this teacher, Mr. Vinson. He could drive you crazy sometimes, himand the goddam class. I mean he’d keep telling you to unify and simplify all the time.Some things you just can’t do that to. I mean you can’t hardly ever simplify and unifysomething just because somebody wants you to. You didn’t know this guy, Mr. Vinson. Imean he was very intelligent and all, but you could tell he didn’t have too much brains.Coffee, gentlemen, finally, Mrs. Antolini said. She came in carrying this traywith coffee and cakes and stuff on it. Holden, don’t you even peek at me. I’m a mess.Hello, Mrs. Antolini, I said. I started to get up and all, but Mr. Antolini got holdof my jacket and pulled me back down. Old Mrs. Antolini’s hair was full of those ironcurler jobs, and she didn’t have any lipstick or anything on. She didn’t look too gorgeous.She looked pretty old and all.I’ll leave this right here. Just dive in, you two, she said. She put the tray downon the cigarette table, pushing all these glasses out of the way. How’s your mother,Holden?She’s fine, thanks. I haven’t seen her too recently, but the last I–Darling, if Holden needs anything, everything’s in the linen closet. The top shelf.I’m going to bed. I’m exhausted, Mrs. Antolini said. She looked it, too. Can you boysmake up the couch by yourselves?We’ll take care of everything. You run along to bed, Mr. Antolini said. He gaveMrs. Antolini a kiss and she said good-by to me and went in the bedroom. They werealways kissing each other a lot in public.I had part of a cup of coffee and about half of some cake that was as hard as arock. All old Mr. Antolini had was another highball, though. He makes them strong, too,you could tell. He may get to be an alcoholic if he doesn’t watch his step.I had lunch with your dad a couple of weeks ago, he said all of a sudden. Didyou know that?No, I didn’t.You’re aware, of course, that he’s terribly concerned about you.I know it. I know he is, I said.Apparently before he phoned me he’d just had a long, rather harrowing letterfrom your latest headmaster, to the effect that you were making absolutely no effort at all.Cutting classes. Coming unprepared to all your classes. In general, being an all-around–I didn’t cut any classes. You weren’t allowed to cut any. There were a couple ofthem I didn’t attend once in a while, like that Oral Expression I told you about, but Ididn’t cut any.I didn’t feel at all like discussing it. The coffee made my stomach feel a littlebetter, but I still had this awful headache.Mr. Antolini lit another cigarette. He smoked like a fiend. Then he said, Frankly,I don’t know what the hell to say to you, Holden.I know. I’m very hard to talk to. I realize that.I have a feeling that you’re riding for some kind of a terrible, terrible fall. But Idon’t honestly know what kind. . . Are you listening to me?Yes.You could tell he was trying to concentrate and all.It may be the kind where, at the age of thirty, you sit in some bar hatingeverybody who comes in looking as if he might have played football in college. Thenagain, you may pick up just enough education to hate people who say, ‘It’s a secretbetween he and I.’ Or you may end up in some business office, throwing paper clips at thenearest stenographer. I just don’t know. But do you know what I’m driving at, at all?Yes. Sure, I said. I did, too. But you’re wrong about that hating business. Imean about hating football players and all. You really are. 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 atPencey, and this other boy, Robert Ackley. I hated them once in a while–I admit it–but itdoesn’t last too long, is what I mean. After a while, if I didn’t see them, if they didn’tcome in the room, or if I didn’t see them in the dining room for a couple of meals, I sortof missed them. I mean I sort of missed them.Mr. Antolini didn’t say anything for a while. He got up and got another hunk ofice and put it in his drink, then he sat down again. You could tell he was thinking. I keptwishing, though, that he’d continue the conversation in the morning, instead of now, buthe was hot. People are mostly hot to have a discussion when you’re not.All right. Listen to me a minute now . . . I may not word this as memorably as I’dlike to, but I’ll write you a letter about it in a day or two. Then you can get it all straight.But listen now, anyway. He started concentrating again. Then he said, This fall I thinkyou’re riding for–it’s a special kind of fall, a horrible kind. The man falling isn’t permittedto feel or hear himself hit bottom. He just keeps falling and falling. The wholearrangement’s designed for men who, at some time or other in their lives, were lookingfor something their own environment couldn’t supply them with. Or they thought theirown environment couldn’t supply them with. So they gave up looking. They gave it upbefore they ever really even got started. You follow me?Yes, sir.Sure?Yes.He got up and poured some more booze in his glass. Then he sat down again. Hedidn’t say anything for a long time.I don’t want to scare you, he said, but I can very clearly see you dying nobly,one way or another, for some highly unworthy cause. He gave me a funny look. If Iwrite something down for you, will you read it carefully? And keep it?Yes. Sure, I said. I did, too. I still have the paper he gave me.He went over to this desk on the other side of the room, and without sitting downwrote something on a piece of paper. Then he came back and sat down with the paper inhis hand. Oddly enough, this wasn’t written by a practicing poet. It was written by apsychoanalyst named Wilhelm Stekel. Here’s what he–Are you still with me?Yes, sure I am.Here’s what he said: ‘The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die noblyfor a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one.’He leaned over and handed it to me. I read it right when he gave it to me, and thenI thanked him and all and put it in my pocket. It was nice of him to go to all that trouble.It really was. The thing was, though, I didn’t feel much like concentrating. Boy, I felt sodamn tired all of a sudden.You could tell he wasn’t tired at all, though. He was pretty oiled up, for one thing.I think that one of these days, he said, you’re going to have to find out where you wantto go. And then you’ve got to start going there. But immediately. You can’t afford to losea minute. Not you.I nodded, because he was looking right at me and all, but I wasn’t too sure what hewas talking about. I was pretty sure I knew, but I wasn’t too positive at the time. I was toodamn tired.And I hate to tell you, he said, but I think that once you have a fair idea whereyou want to go, your first move will be to apply yourself in school. You’ll have to. You’rea student–whether the idea appeals to you or not. You’re in love with knowledge. And Ithink you’ll find, once you get past all the Mr. Vineses and their Oral Comp–Mr. Vinsons, I said. He meant all the Mr. Vinsons, not all the Mr. Vineses. Ishouldn’t have interrupted him, though.All right–the Mr. Vinsons. Once you get past all the Mr. Vinsons, you’re goingto start getting closer and closer–that is, if you want to, and if you look for it and wait forit–to the kind of information that will be very, very dear to your heart. Among otherthings, you’ll find that you’re not the first person who was ever confused and frightenedand even sickened by human behavior. You’re by no means alone on that score, you’ll beexcited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally andspiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles.You’ll learn from them–if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer,someone will learn something from you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And itisn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry. He stopped and took a big drink out of hishighball. Then he started again. Boy, he was really hot. I was glad I didn’t try to stop himor anything. I’m not trying to tell you, he said, that only educated and scholarly menare able to contribute something valuable to the world. It’s not so. But I do say thateducated and scholarly men, if they’re brilliant and creative to begin with–which,unfortunately, is rarely the case–tend to leave infinitely more valuable records behindthem than men do who are merely brilliant and creative. They tend to express themselvesmore clearly, and they usually have a passion for following their thoughts through to theend. And–most important–nine times out of ten they have more humility than theunscholarly thinker. Do you follow me at all?Yes, sir.He didn’t say anything again for quite a while. I don’t know if you’ve ever done it,but it’s sort of hard to sit around waiting for somebody to say something when they’rethinking and all. It really is. I kept trying not to yawn. It wasn’t that I was bored oranything–I wasn’t–but I was so damn sleepy all of a sudden.Something else an academic education will do for you. If you go along with itany considerable distance, it’ll begin to give you an idea what size mind you have. Whatit’ll fit and, maybe, what it won’t. After a while, you’ll have an idea what kind of thoughtsyour particular size mind should be wearing. For one thing, it may save you anextraordinary amount of time trying on ideas that don’t suit you, aren’t becoming to you.You’ll begin to know your true measurements and dress your mind accordingly.Then, all of a sudden, I yawned. What a rude bastard, but I couldn’t help it!Mr. Antolini just laughed, though. C’mon, he said, and got up. We’ll fix up thecouch for you.I followed him and he went over to this closet and tried to take down some sheetsand blankets and stuff that was on the top shelf, but he couldn’t do it with this highballglass in his hand. So he drank it and then put the glass down on the floor and then he tookthe stuff down. I helped him bring it over to the couch. We both made the bed together.He wasn’t too hot at it. He didn’t tuck anything in very tight. I didn’t care, though. Icould’ve slept standing up I was so tired.How’re all your women?They’re okay. I was being a lousy conversationalist, but I didn’t feel like it.How’s Sally? He knew old Sally Hayes. I introduced him once.She’s all right. I had a date with her this afternoon. Boy, it seemed like twentyyears ago! We don’t have too much in common any more.Helluva pretty girl. What about that other girl? The one you told me about, inMaine?Oh–Jane Gallagher. She’s all right. I’m probably gonna give her a buzztomorrow.We were all done making up the couch then. It’s all yours, Mr. Antolini said. Idon’t know what the hell you’re going to do with those legs of yours.That’s all right. I’m used to short beds, I said. Thanks a lot, sir. You and Mrs.Antolini really saved my life tonight.You know where the bathroom is. If there’s anything you want, just holler. I’ll bein the kitchen for a while–will the light bother you?No–heck, no. Thanks a lot.All right. Good night, handsome.G’night, sir. Thanks a lot.He went out in the kitchen and I went in the bathroom and got undressed and all. Icouldn’t brush my teeth because I didn’t have any toothbrush with me. I didn’t have anypajamas either and Mr. Antolini forgot to lend me some. So I just went back in the livingroom and turned off this little lamp next to the couch, and then I got in bed with just myshorts on. It was way too short for me, the couch, but I really could’ve slept standing upwithout batting an eyelash. I laid awake for just a couple of seconds thinking about allthat stuff Mr. Antolini’d told me. About finding out the size of your mind and all. He wasreally a pretty smart guy. But I couldn’t keep my goddam eyes open, and I fell asleep.Then something happened. I don’t even like to talk about it.I woke up all of a sudden. I don’t know what time it was or anything, but I wokeup. I felt something on my head, some guy’s hand. Boy, it really scared hell out of me.What it was, it was Mr. Antolini’s hand. What he was doing was, he was sitting on thefloor right next to the couch, in the dark and all, and he was sort of petting me or pattingme on the goddam head. Boy, I’ll bet I jumped about a thousand feet.What the hellya doing? I said.Nothing! I’m simply sitting here, admiring–What’re ya doing, anyway? I said over again. I didn’t know what the hell to say–I mean I was embarrassed as hell.How ’bout keeping your voice down? I’m simply sitting here–I have to go, anyway, I said–boy, was I nervous! I started putting on my damnpants in the dark. I could hardly get them on I was so damn nervous. I know more damnperverts, at schools and all, than anybody you ever met, and they’re always being pervertywhen I’m around.You have to go where? Mr. Antolini said. He was trying to act very goddamcasual and cool and all, but he wasn’t any too goddam cool. Take my word.I left my bags and all at the station. I think maybe I’d better go down and getthem. I have all my stuff in them.They’ll be there in the morning. Now, go back to bed. I’m going to bed myself.What’s the matter with you?Nothing’s the matter, it’s just that all my money and stuff’s in one of my bags. I’llbe right back. I’ll get a cab and be right back, I said. Boy, I was falling all over myself inthe dark. The thing is, it isn’t mine, the money. It’s my mother’s, and I–Don’t be ridiculous, Holden. Get back in that bed. I’m going to bed myself. Themoney will be there safe and sound in the morn–No, no kidding. I gotta get going. I really do. I was damn near all dressedalready, except that I couldn’t find my tie. I couldn’t remember where I’d put my tie. I puton my jacket and all without it. Old Mr. Antolini was sitting now in the big chair a littleways away from me, watching me. It was dark and all and I couldn’t see him so hot, but Iknew he was watching me, all right. He was still boozing, too. I could see his trustyhighball glass in his hand.You’re a very, very strange boy.I know it, I said. I didn’t even look around much for my tie. So I went without it.Good-by, sir, I said, Thanks a lot. No kidding.He kept walking right behind me when I went to the front door, and when I rangthe elevator bell he stayed in the damn doorway. All he said was that business about mybeing a very, very strange boy again. Strange, my ass. Then he waited in the doorwayand all till the goddam elevator came. I never waited so long for an elevator in my wholegoddam life. I swear.I didn’t know what the hell to talk about while I was waiting for the elevator, andhe kept standing there, so I said, I’m gonna start reading some good books. I really am.I mean you had to say something. It was very embarrassing.You grab your bags and scoot right on back here again. I’ll leave the doorunlatched.Thanks a lot, I said. G’by! The elevator was finally there. I got in and wentdown. Boy, I was shaking like a madman. I was sweating, too. When something pervertylike that happens, I start sweating like a bastard. That kind of stuff’s happened to meabout twenty times since I was a kid. I can’t stand it.