Archive for the '17 Years Old' Category

Seventeen Year Old – Holden Caulfield


catcherinrye

 

‘Has Dr Thurmer written to your parents yet?’ old Spencer asked me.

‘He said he was going to write them Monday.’

‘Have you yourself communicated with them?’

‘No, sir, I haven’t communicated with them because I’ll probably see them Wednesday night when I get home.’

‘And how do you think they’ll take the news?’

‘Well… they’ll be pretty irritated about it,’ I said. ‘They really will. This is about the fourth school I’ve gone to.’ I shook my head. I shake my head quite a lot. ‘Boy!’ I said. I also say ‘boy!’ quite a lot. Partly because I have a lousy vocabulary and partly because I act quite young for my age sometimes. I was sixteen then, and I’m seventeen now, and sometimes I act like I’m about thirteen. It’s really ironical because I’m six-foot-two-and-a-half and I have grey hair. I really do. The one side of my head – the right side – is full of millions of grey hairs. I’ve had them ever since I was a kid. And yet I still act sometimes like I was only about twelve. Everybody says that, especially my father. It’s partly true, too, but it isn’t all true. People always think something’s all true. I don’t give a damn, except that I get bored sometimes when people tell me to act my age. Sometimes I act a lot older than I am – I really do – but people never notice it. People never notice anything.

J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

Published in: 17 Years Old | on December 26th, 2009 | No Comments »

Seventeen Year Olds – Dora & Nora Chance

 

wisechildrenb 

I sat on the stairs outside and listened to them and my mind began to change, until I came to a decision: by hook or by crook, I said to myself, come what may, the day that I’m seventeen, I’ll do it on that horsehair sofa.

Do what on the horsehair sofa?

What do you think?

It was late April but still chilly. Little cold winds whipped round the wings and the bare backstage corners. We turned up our gas fire and plucked our eyebrows. There was a bunch of flowers for our birthday and a cake with candles ready for the party after the show.

‘Nora…’

‘Yes?’

‘Give me your fella for a birthday present.’

She put down her tweezers and gave me a look.

‘Get your own fella,’ she said.

They’d sent us early lilac. The scent of lilac always brings it back. Seventeen hurts.

Angela Carter, Wise Children

Published in: 17 Years Old | on December 26th, 2009 | No Comments »