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Salinger, J. Seymour: An Introduction English The actors by their presence always convince me, to my horror, that most of what I've written about them until now is false. It is false because I write about them with steadfast love even now, while I write it down, this, too, becomes false but varying ability, and this varying ability does not hit off the real actors loudly and correctly but loses itself dully in this love that will never be satisfied with the ability and therefore thinks it is protecting the actors by preventing this ability from exercising itself.

It is to describe it figuratively as if an author were to make a slip of the pen, and as if this clerical error became conscious of being such.

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Perhaps this was no error but in a far higher sense was an essential part of the whole exposition. It is, then, as if this clerical error were to revolt against the author, out of hatred for Iron, were to forbid him to correct it, and were to say, 'No, I will not be erased, I will stand as a witness against thee, that thou art a very poor writer.

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The question is, how can anti aging fringe cast writer observe the amenities if he has no idea what his general reader is like? The reverse is common enough, most certainly, but just when is the author of a story ever asked what he thinks the reader is like?

Very luckily, to push on and make my point here - and I don't think it's the kind of point that will survive an interminable buildup - I found out a good many years back practically all I need to know about my general reader; that is to say, you, I'm afraid.

You'll deny it up and down, I fear, but I'm really in no position to take your word for it. You're a great bird-lover. Sugarman, Jr, once pressed me to read during a very poorly supervised study-hall period, you're someone who took up birds in the first place because they fired your imagination; anti aging fringe cast fascinated you because 'they seemed of all created beings the nearest to pure spirit- those little creatures with a normal temperature of °'.

Probably just like this John Buchan man, you thought many thrilling related thoughts; you reminded yourself, I don't doubt, that: 'The gold crest, with a stomach no bigger than a bean, flies across the North Sea! The curlew sandpiper, which breeds so far north that only about three people have ever seen its nest, goes to Tasmania for its holidays!

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In this entre-nous spirit, then, old confidant, before we join the others, the grounded everywhere, including, I'm sure, the middle-aged hot-rodders who insist on zooming us to the moon, the Dharma Bums, the makers of cigarette filters for thinking men, the Beat and the Sloppy and the Petulant, the chosen cultists, all the lofty experts who know so well what we should or shouldn't do with our poor little sex organs, all the bearded, proud, unlettered young men and unskilled guitarists and Zenkillers and incorporated aesthetic Teddy boys who look down their thoroughly unenlightened noses at this splendid planet where please don't shut me up Kilroy, Anti aging fringe cast, and Shakespeare all stopped - before we join these others, I privately say to you, old friend unto you, really, I'm afraidplease accept from me this unpretentious bouquet of very early-blooming parentheses:.

I suppose, most unflorally, I truly mean them to be taken, first off, as bowlegged - buckle-legged - omens of my state of mind and body at this writing.

Professionally speaking, which is the only way I've ever really enjoyed speaking up and, just to ingratiate myself still less, I speak nine languages, incessantly, four of them stone-dead - professionally speaking, I repeat I'm all ecstatically happy man. I've never been before. Oh, once, perhaps, when I was fourteen and wrote a story in which all the characters had Heidelberg dueling scars - the hero, the villain, the heroine, her old nanny, all the horses and dogs.

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I was reasonably happy then, you might say, but not anti aging fringe cast, not like this. To the point: I happen to know, possibly none better, that an ecstatically happy writing person is often a totally draining type to have around. Of course, the poets anti aging bőrápolás természetes módszerek this state are by far the most 'difficult', but even the prose writer similarly seized hasn't any real choice of behavior in decent company; divine or not, a seizure's a seizure.

And while I think an ecstatically happy prose writer can do many good things on the printed page - the best things, I'm frankly hoping - it's also true, and infinitely more self-evident, I suspect, that he can't be moderate or temperate or brief; he loses very nearly all his short paragraphs.

He can't be detached - or only very rarely and suspiciously, on down-waves. In the wake of anything as large and consuming as happiness, lie necessarily anti aging fringe cast the much smaller but, for a writer, always rather exquisite pleasure of appearing on the page serenely sitting on a fence. Worst anti aging fringe cast all, I think, lie's no longer in a position to look after the reader's most immediate want; namely, to see the author get the hell on with his story.

Hence, in part, that ominous offering of parentheses a few sentences back. I'm aware that a good many perfectly intelligent people can't stand parenthetical comments while a story's purportedly being told. We're advised of these things by mail - mostly, granted, by thesis preparers with very natural, oaty urges to write us under the table in their off-campus time. But we read, and usually we believe; good, bad, or indifferent, any string of English anti aging fringe cast holds our attention as if it came from Prospero himself.

I'm here to advise that not only will my asides run rampant from this point on I'm not sure, in fact, that there won't be a footnote or two but I anti aging fringe cast intend, from time to time, to jump tip personally on the reader's back when I see something off the beaten plot line that looks exciting or interesting and worth steering toward.

Speed, here, God save my American hide, means nothing whatever to me. There are, however, readers who seriously require only the most restrained, most classical, and possibly deftest method of having their attention drawn, and I suggest - as honestly as a writer can suggest this sort of thing - that they leave now, while, I can imagine, the leaving's good and easy.

Anti aging fringe cast probably continue to point out available exits as we move along, but I'm not sure I'll pretend anti aging fringe cast put iwla éves egyezmény az anti aging heart into it again.

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I'd like to start out with some rather unstinting words about those two opening quotations. The second one- 'It is to describe it figuratively as if an author were to make a tretinoin krém 0 1 anti aging of the pen. In this case, it seems to me that those two passages, especially in contiguity, are wonderfully representative of the best, in a sense, not only of Anti aging fringe cast and Kierkegaard but of all the four dead men, the four variously notorious Sick Men or underadjusted bachelors probably only van Gogh, of the four, will be excused from making a guest appearance in these pageswhom I most often run to - occasionally in real distress - when I want any perfectly credible information about modern artistic processes.

By and large, I've reproduced the two passages to try to suggest very plainly how I think I stand in regard to the overall mass of data I hope to assemble here - a anti aging fringe cast that in some quarters, I don't anti aging fringe cast bit mind saying, an author can't be too explicit about, or any too early. In part, though, it would be rewarding for me to think, to dream, that those two short quotations may quite conceivably serve as a sort of spot convenience to the comparatively new breed of literary critics - anti aging fringe cast many workers soldiers, I suppose you could say who put in long hours, often with waning hopes of distinction, in our busy neo-Freudian Arts and Letters clinics.

Especially, perhaps, those still very young students and greener clinicians, themselves implicitly bursting with good mental health, themselves undeniably, I think free of any inherent morbid attrait to beauty, who one day intend to specialize in aesthetic pathology.

Admittedly, this is a subject I've felt flinty about since I was eleven years old and watched the artist and Sick Man I've loved most in this world, then still in knee pants, being examined by a reputable group of professional Freudians for six hours and forty-five minutes.

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In my not altogether reliable opinion, they stopped just short of taking a brain smear from him, and I've had an idea for years that only the latish hour - 2 a. Flinty, then, I do indeed mean to sound here.

Churlish, no. I can perceive, though, that it's a very thin line, or plank, but I'd like to try to walk it for a minute more; ready or not, I've waited a good many years to collect these sentiments and get them off. A great variety of rumors, of course, run high and wide about the extraordinarily, the sensationally creative artist - and I'm alluding exclusively, here, to painters and poets and full Dichter.

One of these rumors - and by far, to me, the most exhilarating of the lot - is that he has never, even in the pre-psychoanalytical dark ages, deeply venerated his professional critics, and has, in fact, usually svájci anti aging them, in his generally unsound views of society, with the echt publishers and art dealers and the other, perhaps enviably prosperous camp followers of the arts, who, lie's just scarcely said to concede, would prefer different, possibly cleaner work if they could get it.

On the whole, treacherous as it may sound, coming from me, with just such a dead artist in the immediate family as I've been alluding to throughout this nearpolemic, I don't see how one can rationally deduce that this last general rumor and mouthful isn't based on a fairish amount of substantial fact.

While my distinguished relative lived, I watched hint anti aging fringe cast almost literally, I sometimes think - like a hawk. By every logical definition, he was an unhealthy specimen, he did on his worst nights and late anti aging fringe cast give out not only cries of pain but cries for help, and when nominal help arrived, he did decline to say in perfectly intelligible language where it hurt.

Even so, I do openly cavil with the declared experts in these matters - the scholars, the biographers, and especially the current ruling intellectual aristocracy educated in one or another of the big public psychoanalytical schools - and I cavil with them most acrimoniously over this: they don't listen properly to cries of pain when they come.

They can't, of course. They're a peerage of tin cars. With such faulty equipment, with those cars, how can anyone possibly trace the pain, by sound and quality alone, back to its source? With such wretched hearing equipment, the best, I think, that can be detected, and perhaps verified, is a few stray, thin overtones - hardly even counterpoint-coming from a troubled childhood or a disordered libido.

But where does by far the bulk, the whole ambulance load, of pain really come from? Where must it come from? Isn't the true poet or painter a seer? Isn't he, actually, the only seer we have on earth? Most apparently not the scientist, most emphatically not the psychiatrist. Surely the one and only great poet the psychoanalysts have had was Freud himself; he had a little car trouble of his own, no doubt, but who in his right mind could deny that an epic poet was at work?

Forgive me; I'm nearly finished with this. In a seer, what part of the human anatomy would necessarily be required to take the most abuse?

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The eyes, certainly. Please, dear general reader, as a last indulgence if you're still herere-read those two short passages from Kafka and Kierkegaard I started out with. Isn't it clear? Don't those cries come straight from the eyes? However contradictory the anti aging fringe cast report - whether he pronounces Consumption or Loneliness or Suicide to be the cause of death - isn't it plain how the true artist-seer actually dies?

I say and everything that follows in these pages all too possibly stands or falls on my being at least nearly right - I say that the true artist-seer, the heavenly fool who can and does produce beauty, is mainly dazzled to death by his own scruples, the blinding shapes and colors of his own scared human conscience. My credo is stated. I sit back. I sigh - happily, I'm afraid. I light a Murad, and go on, I hope to God, to other things.

Something, now - and briskly, if I can - about that subtitle, 'An Introduction', up near the top of the marquee. My central character here, at least in those lucid intervals when I can prevail upon myself to sit down and be reasonably quiet, will be my late, eldest brother, Seymour Glass, who and I think I'd prefer to say this in one obituary-like sentenceinat the age of thirty-one, while vacationing down in Florida with his wife, committed suicide.

He was a great many things to a great many people while he lived, and virtually all things to his brothers and sisters in our somewhat outsized family. Surely lie was all real things to us: our blue-striped unicorn, our doublelensed burning glass, our consultant genius, our portable conscience, our supercargo, and our one full poet, and, inevitably, I think, since not only was reticence never his strongest suit anti aging fringe cast he spent nearly seven years of his childhood as star turn on a children's coast-to-coast radio quiz program, so there wasn't much that didn't eventually get aired, one way or another - inevitably, I think, he was also our rather notorious 'mystic' and 'unbalanced type'.

And since I'm obviously going whole hog right here at the outset, I'll further enunciate - if one can enunciate and shout at the same time - that, with or without a suicide plot in his head, he was the only person I've ever habitually consorted with, banged around with, who more frequently than not tallied with the classical conception, as I saw it, of a mukta, a ringding enlightened man, a God-knower.

At any rate, his character lends itself to no legitimate sort of narrative compactness that I know of, and I can't conceive of anyone, least of all myself, trying to write him off in one shot or in one fairly simple series of sittings, whether arranged by the month or the year. Those plans no longer exist.

Or, if they do - and I suspect that this is much more likely how things stand - they've gone underground, with an understanding, perhaps, that I'll rap three times when I'm ready.

But on this occasion I'm anything but a short-story writer where my brother is concerned.

What I am, I think, is a thesaurus of undetached prefatory remarks about him. I believe I essentially remain what I've almost always been - a narrator, but one with extremely pressing personal needs. I want to introduce, I want to describe, I want to distribute mementos, amulets, I want to break out my wallet and pass around snapshots, I want to follow my nose.

In this mood, I don't dare go anywhere near the short-story form it eats up fat little undetached writers like me whole. But I have many, many unfelicitous-sounding things to tell you. For instance, I'm saying, cataloguing, so much so early about my brother.

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I feel. You may also have noticed - I know it hasn't entirely escaped my anti aging fringe cast - that everything I've so far said about Seymour and about his blood type in general, as anti aging fringe cast were has been graphically panegyric. It gives me pause, all right. Granted that I haven't cone to bury but to exhume and, most likely, to praise, I nonetheless suspect that the honor of cool, dispassionate narrators everywhere is remotely at stake here.

Had Seymour no grievous faults, no vices, no meannesses, that can be listed, at least in a hurry? What was he, anyway? A saint? Thankfully, it isn't my responsibility to answer that one. Oh, lucky day!

Let me change the subject and say, without hesitation, he had a Heinzlike variety of personal characteristics that threatened, at different chronological intervals of sensitivity or thin-skinnedness, to drive every minor in the family to the bottle. In the first place, there is very evidently one rather terrible hallmark common to all persons who look for God, and apparently with enormous success, in the queerest imaginable places - e.

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My brother, for the record, had a distracting habit, most of his adult life, of investigating loaded ashtrays with his index finger, clearing all the cigarette ends to the sides - smiling from ear to ear as he did it - as if he expected to see Christ himself curled up cherubically in the middle, and he never looked disappointed.

The hallmark, then, of the advanced religious, nonsectarian or any other and I graciously include in the definition of an 'advanced religious', odious though the phrase is, all Christians on the great Vivekananda's terms; i.

It's a trial to a family that has a real grandee in it if he can't always be relied on to behave like one. I'm now about to quit cataloguing, but I can't do so quite at this point without citing what I think was his most trying personal characteristic. It had to do with his speech habits - or, rather, the anomalous range of his speech habits.

Vocally, he was either as brief as a gatekeeper at a Trappist monastery - sometimes for days, weeks at a stretch - or he was a non-stop talker. When he was wound up and, to state the matter anti aging fringe cast, almost everybody was forever winding him up, and then, of course, quickly sitting in close, the better to pick his brains - when he was wound up, it was nothing for him to anti aging fringe cast for hours at a time, occasionally with no redeeming awareness whatever that one or two or ten other people were in the room.

He was eredetű anti aging szérum felülvizsgálat inspired non-stop talker, I'm firmly suggesting, but, to put it very mildly, even the most sublimely accomplished non-stop talker can't consistently please. Fejlett anti aging bőrápolási tippek I say that, I should add, less from any repellent splendid impulse to play 'fair' with my invisible reader than - much worse, I suppose - because I believe that this particular non-stop talker can take almost any amount of knocking.

Certainly from me, anti aging fringe cast any rate. I'm in the unique position of being able to call my brother, straight out, a non-stop talker - which is a pretty vile thing to call somebody, I think - and yet at the same time to sit back, rather, I'm afraid, like a type with both sleeves full of aces, and effortlessly remember a whole legion of mitigating factors and 'mitigating' is hardly the word for it.

I can condense them all into one: By the time Seymour was in mid-adolescence - sixteen, seventeen - he not only had learned to control his anti aging fringe cast vernacular, his many, many less than elite New York speech mannerisms, but had by then already cone into his own true, bull's-eye, poet's vocabulary. His non-stop talks, his monologues, his nearharangues then came as close to pleasing from start to finish - for a good many of as, anyway -as, say, the bulk of Beethoven's output after lie ceased being encumbered with a sense of hearing, and maybe I'm thinking especially, though it seems a trifle picky, of the B-flat-major and C-sharp-minor szem alatti karikákra tapasz. Still, we were a family of seven children, originally.

And, as it happened, none of us was in the least tongue-tied. It's an exceedingly weighty matter when six naturally profuse verbalizers and expounders have an undefeatable champion talker hi the house.

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True, he never sought the title. And he passionately yearned to see one or another of us outpoint or simply outlast him in a conversation or an argument. A small matter which, of course, though he himself never anti aging fringe cast it - he had his blank spots, like everybody else - bothered some of us all the more. The fact remains that the title was always his, and though I think lie would have given almost anything on earth to retire it - this is the weightiest matter of all, surely, and I'm not going to be able to explore it deeply for another few years - he never did find a completely graceful way of doing it.