The Catcher in the Rye stands at the very edge of that cliff which lures compassionate sensitives, such as Holden, lulling them from plunging blindly into the void. One might question, tirelessly, the expressive captivity that comes along with it but to thrive and survive are the immediate priorities. Pleasing and appeasing find their purposes amidst the crowd of mundane adults, agglutinating social ethics into existential necessities. Phoniness is a heavy burden, a burden that humans have been carrying on their shoulders perhaps from the dawn of communication. There are moments, little moments of questionable recallings, when the idea of phoniness clouds over decards of self-discovery, eluding factors of self confrontation and acknowledgment. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge.
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