Franny and Zooey

by J.D. Salinger

cleverness was my permanent affliction, my wooden leg, and that it was in the worst possible taste to draw the group’s attention to it. As one limping man to another, old Zooey, let’s be courteous and kind to each other.

‘That’s the spirit! Make it chicken broth or nothing. That’s putting the ole foot down. If she’s determined to have a nervous breakdown, the least we can do is see that she doesn’t have it in peace.’

That is, although he looked into the mirror while he lathered, he didn’t watch where his brush was moving but, instead, looked directly into his own eyes, as though his eyes were neutral territory, a no man’s land in a private war against narcissism he had been fighting since he was seven or eight years old.