Gloriosamente normal

Listen to me, now. If you can’t, or won’t, think of Seymour, then you go right ahead and call in some ignorant psychoanalyst. You just do that. You just call some analyst who’s experienced in adjusting people to the joys of television, and Life magazine every Wednesday, and European travel, and the H-Bomb, and Presidential elections, and the front page of the Times, and the responsibilities of the Westport and Oyster Bay Parent-Teacher Association, and God knows what else that’s gloriously normal—you just do that, and I swear to you, in not more than a year Franny’ll either be in a nut ward or she’ll be wandering off into some goddam desert with a burning cross in her hands.

Franny and Zooey, J. D. Salinger

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