"And I know it must be fucking with you emotionally...."

Franny and Zooey, p. 175:

"This was the first time in almost seven years that Zooey had, in the ready-made dramatic idiom, 'set foot' in Seymour's and Buddy's old room."

p. 180:

"There was little space left for walking, and none whatever for pacing. A stranger with a flair for cocktail-party descriptive prose might have commented that the room, at a quick glance, looked as if it had once been tenanted by two struggling twelve-year-old lawyers or researchers."

My mother used to tell me that a truly cultivated person does not only live virtuously, but is tactful and kind when confronted with those who don't. You're not supposed to humiliate a person, in other words, if they're not behaving right or they demonstrate that they don't know something they maybe should. You're not supposed to call them out; if you do, you are acting selfishly, in bad faith.

That's basically what Salinger is doing here. "If I was one of those crummy authors who used cliches and favored 'cocktail-party descriptive prose,' here's how I'd describe this."

Related, on p. 199, in which Zooey is telling Franny she can't just give up on acting because she despises everyone who comes to watch her perform:

You raved and you bitched when you came home about the stupidity of audiences. The goddam 'unskilled laughter' coming from the fifth row. And that's right, that's right--God knows it's depressing. I'm not saying it isn't. But that's none of your business, really. That's none of your business, Franny. An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else's. You have no right to think about those things, I swear to you. Not in any real sense, anyway. You know what I mean?