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download Franny And Zooey - Manalive (2) - Pistol To The Head Of Modern Man (File) full album

Label: Not On Label (Manalive self-released) - none Format: 6x, File Genre: Rock Style: Hardcore

View all 5 comments. I found myself often agreeing with Zooey. Interestingly enough, it would seem that Franny and Zooey is more a book about Buddy and Seymour and their legacy than the title characters themselves. Are they just poor little rich kids? She wants to partake in the world without feeling let down with its banality. Despite the extraordinary fineness of his features, and his age, and his general stature—clothed, he could easily have passed for a young, underweight danseur —the cigar was not markedly unbecoming to him.

Saturday, November 24, Treacherouskin- Smother Earth. Alright, lets go ahead and get this out of the way: When I first picked up Jane Doe at the record store across the street from my high school based on the artwork alone, I had only slightly explored hardcore and more extreme music in general for a short amount of time, and it was both unfamilar and instantly intriguing to me from the first listen, incredibly abrasive but drawing me in at the same time.

But enough about Jane Doe, this is about their new album, and one hell of an album it is indeed. Converge now stands at a staggering 22 years of being a band, an incredible amount of time for any band, let alone one so prolific and extreme.

This new record shows a band that continues to push their limits and boundaries, as well as return to the a more organic production style the bears the stripped down rawness of You Fail Me. This is some of the darkest, heaviest and most volatile material the band has released to date, period.

And as many fans of the bands are growing older and into adult lives themselves, the lyrics reflect the strain of working constantly and devoting all your time and energy at the cost of stress to yourself and those you care about.

Take the opening lines of the closing track "Predatory Glow": The biggest problem for readers may be identifying with the characters Salinger has created. They are themselves exceptionally problematic. Since Buddy is himself a character, I will discuss this section describing Salinger, not him, as the narrator. Salinger portrays the Glass children as if they are really made of glass, so the family name is fitting.

They are very breakable, due to their desire to not be so outrageously separated from the bulk of society by their intellect. It is unnecessary for Seymour to think this way, for Salinger would never allow anybody outside the family itself to do any real harm to one of its members, for the simple fact that in his mind they are too perfectly created.

John Updike points out, in a rather critical review of Franny and Zooey, that they begin to carry a certain air of ethereality about them, as "the seven Glass children melt indistinguishably together in an impossible radiance of personal beauty and intelligence" Laser, They do in fact seem as if they were made to be placed on a mantle, and Salinger does nothing to dispel this notion-the stories, especially "Zooey" take place in intensely described and detailed rooms, with very little action ever occurring-as if the characters were discussing matters from a designated spot which they could be moved from only by their caretaker-Salinger-and not of their own will.

Lane Coutell, her simply average boyfriend, nudges her slowly from the precarious ledge on which she dangles, in the story named after her. It is excusable for Lane to have precipitated this collapse, for he does it unintentionally, and he is, after all, "just one of the remote millions coarse and foolish enough to be born outside the Glass family" Laser, The breakdown he prods along seems to have been long overdue in Franny, and as Zooey describes it, it is "a tenth rate nervous breakdown," anyway.

The world adored them all when they were young, and this serves as another trick by Salinger to make them untouchable and difficult to identify with. While in The Catcher in the Rye, Holden is one of the easiest characters in modern fiction to identify with on a personal level-everyone has at least one opinion in common with him-the Glass children are polar opposites, being as hard to connect with for the average person as any inanimate household decoration.

Salinger builds up the intellects and personalities of the Glass children to such a degree that the line of communication between imagination and reality is snapped, allowing them to go drifting off into a blissful land of verbal pyrotechnics, virtually impossible reading diets and photographic memories.

We never really got off the goddam air. Not one of us. In short, they are different than almost anyone they will ever meet, which leaves them in a position of going through life at a fairly lonely clip.

In order to return from the aforementioned "Land of Glass," a journey which must be made whenever normal conversation is required of any of them, a process is required which involves the reconnecting of the line of communication which Salinger has snapped, an operation which resembles an electrical cord, continually more frayed, being dragged by boat across the expanse of water separating the Glasses from reality, where it must be plugged in.

Inevitably, the cord will be dropped and someone will pay the price. It would be wise to insert here a note about the chronology of the series, since it is relatively important. It is with chronology that Salinger, through Buddy, makes one of his most significant challenges against the system of traditional narrative.

It also creates a problem for the new reader of the Glass stories. Buddy starts out with an account of the most important event in the family, the suicide of Seymour, which occurred in An Introduction," which is not even a story, but rather an extended introduction to the life of Seymour as a whole, and his poetry in specific.

No new paragraph. I was standing at the meat counter, waiting for some rib lamb chops to be cut. A young mother and her little girl were waiting around, too. The little girl was about four, and, to pass the time, she leaned her back against the glass showcase and stared up at my unshaven face. Which made sense to her; she nodded.

I got the same nod again. I asked her how many boy friends she had. She held up two fingers. What are their names, sweetheart? That, and a haiku-style poem I found in the hotel room where Seymour shot himself.

It was written in pencil on the desk blotter: And the old horror of being a professional writer, and the usual stench of words that goes with it, is beginning to drive me out of my seat. It seems terribly important to try, though. The age differences in the family always seemed to add unnecessarily and perversely to our problems.

Not really between S. Seymour and I were both adults—he was even long out of college—by the time you and Franny were both able to read. At that stage, we had no real urge even to push our favorite classics at the two of you—not, anyway, with the same gusto that we had at the twins or Boo Boo. Suzuki says somewhere that to be in a state of pure consciousness—satori—is to be with God before he said, Let there be light. Seymour and I thought it might be a good thing to hold back this light from you and Franny at least as far as we were able , and all the many lower, more fashionable lighting effects—the arts, sciences, classics, languages—till you were both able at least to conceive of a state of being where the mind knows the source of all light.

We thought it would be wonderfully constructive to at least that is, if our own "limitations" got in the way tell you as much as we knew about the men—the saints, the arhats, the bodhisattvas, the jivanmuktas—who knew something or everything about this state of being. That is, we wanted you both to know who and what Jesus and Gautama and Lao-tse and Shan- karacharya and Hui-neng and Sri Ramakrishna, etc. That, anyway, was the big idea. Meantime, I can only say that neither Seymour nor I ever had a notion, that far back, that you were going to grow up into an actor.

If we had, I feel certain S. Surely somewhere there must be a special prep course for Nirvana and points East designed strictly for actors, and I think S. I think you know that I had the best intentions of checking in now and then after S. Although I did hear from a gossipy little snip in one of my classes that you had a reputation in your college dorm for going off and sitting in meditation for ten hours at a time, and that made me think. But Franny was thirteen at the time.

I was afraid to come home. Which would have been masochistic ecstasy for me, probably. But I was afraid of the questions much more than the accusations you might both put to me.

As I remember very well, I let a whole year go by after the funeral before I came back to New York at all. After that, it was easy enough to come in for birthdays and holidays and be reasonably sure that questions would run to when my next book would be finished and had I done any skiing lately, etc.

The deeper I get into this goddam letter, the more I lose the courage of my convictions. Seymour once said to me—in a crosstown bus, of all places— that all legitimate religious study must lead to unlearning the differences, the illusory differences, between boys and girls, animals and stones, day and night, heat and cold. That suddenly hit me at the meat counter, and it seemed a matter of life and death to drive home at seventy miles an hour to get a letter off to you.

He said you were the only one who was bitter about S. The rest of us, he said, were outwardly unbitter and inwardly unforgiving. That may be truer than true.

How can I know? All I do know for certain is that I had something happy and exciting to tell you—and on just one side of the paper, doublespaced—and I knew when I got home that it was mostly gone, or all gone, and there was nothing left to do but go through the motions. Lecture you on Ph. How messy, how funny, and how Seymour himself would have smiled and smiled—and probably assured me, and all of us, not to worry about it.

Act, Zachary Martin Glass, when and where you want to, since you feel you must, but do it with all your might. Years ago, in my earliest and pastiest days as a would-be writer, I once read a new story aloud to S. When I was finished, Boo Boo said flatly but looking over at Seymour that the story was "too clever. Much love, B. THE last, the under, page of the four-year-old letter was stained a sort of off-cordovan color, and it was torn in two places along the folds. Zooey, finished reading, treated it with some little care as he put the letter back into page-one order.

He tapped the pages, to even them out, against his dry knees. He frowned. He placed the thick envelope on the side of the tub and began to play a little game with it.

With one finger he tapped the loaded envelope back and forth along the tub edge, seeing, apparently, if he could keep it in motion without letting it fall into the tub water. After a good five minutes of this, he gave the envelope a faulty tap and had to reach out quickly and grab it.

Which ended the game. Keeping the retrieved envelope in his hand, he sat lower, deeper, in the water, letting his knees submerge.

He stared abstractedly for a minute or two at the tiled wall beyond the foot of the tub, then glanced at his cigarette on the soapcatch, picked it off, and took a couple of test drags on it, but it had gone out. He sat up again, very abruptly, with a great slosh of tub water, and dropped his dry left hand over the side of the tub.

A typewritten manuscript was lying, face up, on the bathmat. He picked it up and brought it aboard, as it were. He stared at it briefly, then inserted his four-year-old letter in the middle pages, where the stapling in a manuscript is tightest. He then propped the manuscript against his now wet knees, an inch or so above the waterline, and began to turn the pages.

When he came to page 9, he folded the manuscript, magazine-style, and began to read or to study. The role of "Rick" had been heavily underlined with a soft-lead pencil. TINA morosely: Oh, darling, darling, darling. I spoiled all that. I feel like someone in a terribly sophisticated play. Looks out window I hate this rain. Sometimes I see me dead in it. RICK quietly: 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. Are you still in the tub? I have something for you. Pull the shower curtain. Sitting forward, Zooey reached for it and shot it the length of the tub, closing himself off from view. 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. Glass said. She was already very busy. 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. 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 impo-tently, 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. 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. 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.

You have lovely teeth. The least you can do is take proper—" "Who said so? Glass gave her garden a final critical glance. She turned on the cold-water tap.

Glass demanded. I mean it, Bessie. Glass had left off listening and sat down. How can a grown man live like that—no phone, no anything? 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? Why are you so stupid? He cares too much about his goddam privacy to die in any woods. She gave her hairnet a minor and needless adjustment. In the first place, why should some strangers down the road be at our beck and call? And I think Buddy should be told about this whole thing. For your information, I have called the college.

Glass abruptly leaned her weight forward, without getting up, and reached out and picked up something from the top of the laundry hamper.

Get out. Glass said patiently. Just yes or no, please. More than anything in the world. Throw it over. Al ways 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. Clear out of here now, please. Glass bent down and picked up the manuscript Zooey had been reading before she made her entrance into the room.

LeSage sent over? She looked down at it, appearing to inspect it for wetness. 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. She backed up and re-seated herself, a lighted cigarette in her hand. 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. 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—" "All right, all right, young man," Mrs. 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. To me, everything is beautiful.

Glass said, absently. She gave a great sigh. But none! You know that! He thinks anything peculiar or unpleasant will just go away if he turns on the radio and some little schnook starts singing. It was scarcely distinguishable from his guffaw, but there was a difference. Glass insisted, humorlessly.

She sat forward. Glass took another deep breath. But entirely. He has absolutely no conception of anything being really wrong with Franny. If I think Franny might like a tangerine! 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. She took time to push a stray wisp of hair under the elastic of her hairnet.

I never saw a family like this in my entire life. I mean it. Not one of you. When what chips are down? What would you like us to do, Bessie?

I tried—not a half hour ago—to get her to take a nice cup of chicken broth. She threw up everything I got her to eat yesterday, practically. Is that what they feed a young girl at college these days? I know one thing. Make it chicken broth or nothing. 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. By God, you inspire me. You inflame me, Bessie. 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. 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! Improper diet. Christ lived on cheeseburgers and Cokes. For all we know, he probably fed the mult—" "Just stop that, now" Mrs. Glass broke in, her voice quiet but dangerous. You certainly know your sister as well as I do—or should. Are you sitting down out there?

Are you? You hear me? A fresh wave of worry had passed over her face. She straightened her back restively. It was a long time ago but I need to remember it now. I have this idea that if I could figure out how to have the thing and the loss of it that things would be okay. Understanding in my head is not hard for me. I have been that person too. My cousin may die. It is her fourth attempt in two years. It was her hope. She looked forward to it and lived with me so she could get it here.

I could not want her to live like that. I am so scared. She slept all of the time and I hardly slept at all.

I know about the no words can help thing. There was no chance I was ever going to treat her like she was crazy. And I turned to J. I could feel like Zooey with his reading material too. I felt inside so much that I wanted to be Zooey and not me. He knows what to do. Something about them that I have loved for so much of my life is how their past and present lives seem to go on at the same time. Seymour killed himself and he knew about the fat lady. When it happens and every other time are not the same time.

I know it from myself and I know it from others. So the way that their family lives on at the same time. This is something I had with my cousin and her little brother. She is eight years younger than me and he ten my junior. When they were kids I babysat them. Most of the time these afternoons turned all night because certain people never came back when they said they were going to totally illegal, by the way.

I made up all kinds of stories for them. My twin did too. It was the best feeling, really, to do that. But it meant a lot to me that they thought they did. You can find out that she was in an abusive relationship and not doing well and last you heard she was with some great guy and all was good.

I know in my gut that one time those kids had the right words for me. It can happen. If you say whomever your lords name is over and over something is bound to happen.

You are bound to be heard sooner or later if you just keep saying it. Something will happen. A miracle? What if you just remember them and then the name is the miracle. I really love Salinger. And if everyone is Jesus that is something. But when Zooey does it It happened. So, have them at the same time. Just an amazing book. Right words, right? View all 19 comments. Ah buddy. Christ Himself, buddy. View all 30 comments.

Salinger offers us here a pretty quest for spirituality in a world a little too materialistic with his particular style oscillating between a sensibility on the skin and a certain brutality peculiar to his heroes. A jewel. View all 14 comments. Lane was speaking now as someone does who has been monopolizing conversation for a good quarter of an hour or so and who believes he has just hit a stride where his voice can do absolutely no wrong.

Salinger is a brilliant writer. And the first part of this two-part book is absolute perfection. The section called "Franny" is amazing. This is brilliantly and briefly illustrated as the story centers around her date and reunion with the boyfriend she once loved - but now finds insufferable with good reason, IMO.

This is amazing. As Franny is getting increasingly and increasingly exasperated with her pompous windbag of a boyfriend, so are we. As she gets more and more ill to her stomach listening to his garbage, so do we.

When she goes to the bathroom and sighs in relief at the blessed silence, we do as well. No one is better than Salinger at painting self-important snobs - and painting the self-important snobs who take it upon themselves to sneer at the first group.

The whole story is wonderful. However, then we get to Part Two: Zooey, in which Franny and her brother Zooey interact at home. And this is where I feel like Salinger loses the thread. Loses the thread?!? How dare you! His craft - Yeah, yeah, yeah. OMGosh, I thought I was going to fall over and die from all this religious, philosophical, and intelligentsia nonsense. What worked, and what was good in this second story was the family dynamics and the familial love shown here. However, as I said earlier, Salinger really loses the thread and also bogs down this story in a lot of muck.

Two authors that I know of, so far in my life really write novels that are by and for what my friend would call "the intellectual class. These people take jobs like professor, poet, philosopher, and author. My friend who is a professor talks about this class of people often. Salinger and David Lodge. However, I find Salinger much harder to take than Lodge. Both are very smart, both are funny - but while David Lodge is approachable and good-natured, Salinger is prickly and bitter.

Both are funny, but Lodge is funny like that older, chubby cousin you have who is so smart but so kind and Salinger is like that bitter, whip-smart, bone-thin uncle who smokes incessantly and quotes The Bridge Over the River Kwai all the time.

Wait, what? Okay, thanks. Both are funny and effective. Can we stop comparing the authors to weirdo things? I would only give this Zooey story 3 stars. I have a hard time dealing with it, even though Salinger uses some magnificent writing in it. However, you can take or leave "Zooey. His skill is glaring off every page. He also manages to capture a certain time period in a way that I think is rare and special this book was published in with the stories published in and , respectively, courtesy of The New Yorker.

You can read "Zooey" if you are a big Salinger fan, or just curious, or you can stop after "Franny" and be perfectly happy IMO. This book has special significance to me, I own the first edition hardback that belonged to my mother. I own her copy of The Catcher in the Rye , too, which was read much more frequently than this book.

I should pick up Nine Stories. A certain friend of mine is a huge Salinger fan and is chomping at the bit for his unpublished stories to finally get released.

Thanks to Kelly for bringing this up: I swore to myself that I would write a review of this book before the end of , so here goes. But then, it was unlikely that I would ever be able to review this - one of my top 3 books of all I swore to myself that I would write a review of this book before the end of , so here goes. But then, it was unlikely that I would ever be able to review this - one of my top 3 books of all time - stone cold sober. And for those who wonder what kind of difference there might be between reviews on goodreads and those posted on other sites, rest assured - this is the kind of review I am self-aware enough never to post anywhere else.

But self-indulgent enough, and trusting enough, to risk here on goodreads. I think the main reason I love this book so much is that, no matter how many times I read it, every time I do it feels as if Salinger is speaking directly to me. When I first came across it from reading "Catcher in the Rye", of course it felt as if I had been stumbling through this enormous library all my life when suddenly I came across this secret text that had been written just for me, and only for me.

But though, on the surface I am this consummate rationalist I have a Ph. And often, before reading this book, this felt like more of a curse than a blessing. And any hint of elitism, or intellectual snobbery, or some of the other charges that are sometimes thrown against Salinger are rendered so obviously meaningless and beyond the point in the last few pages of this extraordinary love story: He said to shine them anyway.

He said to shine them for the Fat Lady. He never did tell me who the Fat Lady was, but I shined my shoes for the Fat Lady every time I ever went on the air again View all 18 comments. Jul 30, Seth T. I am the luckiest person in the world. The last few months have led me through an unbroken string of good books. I have to admit I approached the work with some skepticism, having been wholly uninterested in Catcher in the Rye when it was forced up I am the luckiest person in the world.

I have to admit I approached the work with some skepticism, having been wholly uninterested in Catcher in the Rye when it was forced upon me in high school and now, I am looking forward to going back and reading Catcher. I found their discussions completely absorbing and their subject-matter intriguing. Even the correspondences represented in the work are fun and filled with the kind of silly banter that reminds me of my own letters to my wife before she was my wife.

As far as story goes, it really is pretty slight and primarily relies on four distinct conversations over the course of a few days in which Franny has a sort of spiritual nervous breakdown. I found the whole thing—the breakdown, the conversations, the conclusions—all to be uncomfortably believable in that I could easily imagine such a set of things occurring somewhere in real life. To conclude, Franny and Zooey is a short book that can be swallowed at breakneck speeds.

It would be worth seven times the amount of time I spent on it. The young girl laments at the fact that while others have offered her gifts for her birthday the real present she wants is Raymond Ford.

On the night of her birthday, she waits in vain for him to show. When they arrive at the address all they see is a closed restaurant but realize that in fact Ford lives upstairs, with his mother. Corinne talks with Ford briefly as he suddenly exits the apartment with his mother who chides him for being slow.

At seventeen Corinne was a beautiful but naive student attending Wellesley College. After graduating she goes to Europe and meets many men.

One boyfriend dies in a car accident and Corinne moves to New York City to a "darling, overpriced apartment in the East Sixties. Waner sets her up as an editor at a magazine. He proposes to her and she rejects him.


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