Silence

You can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there isn't any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you're not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write «Fuck you» right under your nose. Try it sometime. I think, even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it'll say «Holden Caulfield» on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it'll say «Fuck you». I'm positive, in fact.

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And I realized that perhaps at no time in my life had I ever known silence. Always there had been something that had made some sort of noise — the chirring of a lone insect in the quiet of a summer noon, or the rustle of a leaf. Even in the dead of night there would have been the creaking of the timbers in the house, the murmur of the furnace, the slight keening of a wind that ran along the eaves.

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