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If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, an what my lousy |паршивое| childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied |чем занимались| and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap |и вся такая фигня в духе Дэвида Копперфилда (из романа Ч. Диккенса)|, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. In the first place, that stuff bores me |мне скучно от этого|, and in the second place, my parents would have about two hemorrhages apiece |по паре кровоизлияний на каждого| if I told anything pretty personal about them. They’re quite touchy about anything like that, especially my father. They’re nice and all — I’m not saying that |я ничего не имею против| — but they’re also touchy as hell |чертовски|. Besides, I’m not going to tell you my whole goddam |чертову| autobiography or anything. I’ll just tell you about this madman stuff that happened to me around last Christmas just before I got pretty run-down |я чуть концы не отдал| and had to come out here and take it easy |отдохнуть|. I mean that’s all I told D.B. |имя брата главного героя. Обычная история, когда в англоязычных странах человека называют по первым буквам его первого и второго имени.| about, and he’s my brother and all. He’s in Hollywood. That isn’t too far from this crumby |хренового| place, and he comes over and visits me practically every week end. He’s going to drive me home when I go home next month maybe. He just got a Jaguar. One of those little English jobs |здесь — штук| that can do around two hundred miles an hour. It cost him damn near four thousand bucks. He’s got a lot of dough |буквально — тесто, но на сленге dough значит «деньги»|, now. He didn’t use to |Раньше у него все было не так|. He used to be just a regular writer, when he was home. He wrote this terrific book of short stories, The Secret Goldfish, in case you never heard of him. The best one in it was “The Secret Goldfish.” It was about this little kid that wouldn’t let anybody look at his goldfish because he’d bought it with his own money. It killed me. Now he’s out in Hollywood, D.B., being a prostitute. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s the movies. Don’t even mention |Даже не упоминайте| them to me.

Where I want to start telling is the day I left Pencey Prep. Pencey Prep is this school that’s in Agerstown, Pennsylvania. You probably heard of it. You’ve probably seen the ads |рекламу|, anyway. They advertise in about a thousand magazines, always showing some hotshot guy |крутого чувака| on a horse jumping over a fence |забор|. Like as if all you ever did at Pencey was play polo all the time. I never even once saw a horse anywhere near the place. And underneath the guy on the horse’s picture, it always says: “Since 1888 we have been molding |выковывают| boys into splendid, clear-thinking young men.” Strictly for the birds |Идиома сродни русской: «чушь собачья»|. They don’t do any damn more molding at Pencey than they do at any other school. And I didn’t know anybody there that was splendid and clear-thinking and all. Maybe two guys. If that many. And they probably came to Pencey that way |уже такими|.

Anyway, it was the Saturday of the football game with Saxon Hall. The game with Saxon Hall was supposed to be a very big deal |очень важное событие| around Pencey. It was the last game of the year, and you were supposed to commit suicide |покончить с собой| or something if old Pencey didn’t win. I remember around three o’clock that afternoon I was standing way the hell up on top |на самом, черт возьми, верху| of Thomsen Hill, right next to this crazy cannon that was in the Revolutionary War and all. You could see the whole field from there, and you could see the two teams bashing |лупящих| each other all over the place. You couldn’t see the grandstand too hot |трибуну очень хорошо|, but you could hear them all yelling, deep and terrific on the Pencey side, because practically the whole school except me was there, and scrawny and faggy |вяло и невнятно| on the Saxon Hall side, because the visiting team hardly |едва ли| ever brought many people with them.

There were never many girls at all at the football games. Only seniors |старшеклассникам| were allowed to bring girls with them. It was a terrible school, no matter how you looked at it. I like to be somewhere at least where you can see a few girls around once in a while |время от времени|, even if they’re only scratching their arms or blowing their noses |сморкаются| or even just giggling or something |хихикают или что-то типа того|. Old Selma Thurmer — she was the headmaster’s |директора| daughter — showed up at the games quite often, but she wasn’t exactly the type that drove you mad with desire |сводит тебя с ума от желания|. She was a pretty nice girl, though. I sat next to her once in the bus from Agerstown and we sort of struck up a conversation |вроде как разговорились|. I liked her. She had a big nose and her nails were all bitten down and bleedy-looking and she had on those damn falsies that point all over the place |в лифчик что-то подложено так, что торчит во все стороны|, but you felt sort of sorry for her. What I liked about her, she didn’t give you a lot of horse manure |она не впаривала тебе| about what a great guy her father was. She probably knew what a phony slob |липовый засранец| he was.