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- Джером Дэвид Сэлинджер
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"
May
I
inquire
how
you
were
employed
before
entering
the
Army
?
"
Esme
asked
me
.
I
said
I
hadn
’
t
been
employed
at
all
,
that
I
’
d
only
been
out
of
college
a
year
but
that
I
like
to
think
of
myself
as
a
professional
short
-
story
writer
.
She
nodded
politely
.
"
Published
?
"
she
asked
.
It
was
a
familiar
but
always
touchy
question
,
and
one
that
I
didn
’
t
answer
just
one
,
two
,
three
.
I
started
to
explain
how
most
editors
in
America
were
a
bunch
—
"
My
father
wrote
beautifully
,
"
Esme
interrupted
.
"
I
’
m
saving
a
number
of
his
letters
for
posterity
.
"
I
said
that
sounded
like
a
very
good
idea
.
I
happened
to
be
looking
at
her
enormous
-
faced
,
chronographic
-
looking
wristwatch
again
.
I
asked
if
it
had
belonged
to
her
father
.
She
looked
down
at
her
wrist
solemnly
.
"
Yes
,
it
did
,
"
she
said
.
"
He
gave
it
to
me
just
before
Charles
and
I
were
evacuated
.
"
Self
-
consciously
,
she
took
her
hands
off
the
table
,
saying
,
"
Purely
as
a
momento
,
of
course
.
"
She
guided
the
conversation
in
a
different
direction
.
"
I
’
d
be
extremely
flattered
if
you
’
d
write
a
story
exclusively
for
me
sometime
.
I
’
m
an
avid
reader
.
"
I
told
her
I
certainly
would
,
if
I
could
.
I
said
that
I
wasn
’
t
terribly
prolific
.
"
It
doesn
’
t
have
to
be
terribly
prolific
!
Just
so
that
it
isn
’
t
childish
and
silly
.
"
She
reflected
.
"
I
prefer
stories
about
squalor
.
"
"
About
what
?
"
I
said
,
leaning
forward
.
"
Squalor
.
I
’
m
extremely
interested
in
squalor
.
"
