J.D. Salinger died in 2010. But from the perspective of the literary world that happened in 1963 after he published his last work. It really happened in 1951 after the phenomenal success of this novel, The Catcher in the Rye. He didn't like or want the publicity, the spotlight on him, brought about by the novels success. So he withdrew, becoming almost recluse in his later years. It's comparable to what happened to Harper Lee with her classic, To Kill a Mockingbird. Salinger did publish other works, very good ones.

In Holden Caulfield Salinger created, possibly, the single best character in American literature. The innocent, rambling, distorted view of New York, of life, as seen through his young eyes is as striking as Kerouac's view of his America, or of Joyce's view of his Dublin.

It's one of the iconic novels with one of the iconic characters in all of literature 4.5 stars.

Reread in November 2016.

I read the end of The Catcher in the Rye the other day and found myself wanting to take Holden Caulfield by the collar and shake him really, really hard and shout at him to grow up. I suppose I've understood for some time now that The Catcher in the Rye -- a favorite of mine when I was sixteen -- was a favorite precisely because I was sixteen. At sixteen, I found Holden Caulfield's crisis profoundly moving; I admired his searing indictment of society, his acute understanding of human nature, his extraordinary sensitivity (I mean, come on, he had a nervous breakdown for God's sake, he had to be sensitive). At sixteen, I wanted to marry Holden Caulfield. At forty, I want to spank him. After all, Holden's indictment of society boils down to the "insight" that everybody is a phony. That's the kind of insight a sixteen year old considers deep. A forty year old of the grown-up variety recognizes Holden's insight as superficial and banal, indulging in the cheapest kind of adolescent posturing. It suggests a grasp of society and of human nature that's about as complex as an episode of Dawson's Creek. Holden and his adolescent peers typically behave as though the fate they have suffered (disillusionment and the end of innocence) is unique in human history. He can't see beyond the spectacle of his own disillusionment (and neither can J. D. Salinger); for all his painful self-consciousness, Holden Caulfield is not really self-aware. He can't see that he himself is a phony.

Compare Salinger's novel of arrested development, for instance, with a real bildungsroman, Great Expectations. Holden Caulfield is an adolescent reflecting on childhood and adolescence; Pip Pirrip is an adult reflecting on childhood and adolescence. Holden Caulfield has the tunnel vision of teendom, and he depicts events with an immediacy and absorption in the experience that blocks out the broader context, the larger view. Pip Pirrip has the wonderful double vision of a sensitive adult recollecting the sensitive child he used to be; he conveys at the same time the child's compelling perspective and the adult's thoughtful revision of events. While Holden Caulfield litters his narrative with indignant exposes of phonies and frauds, Pip Pirrip skillfully concentrates on "the spurious coin of his own make" -- that is, without letting the child Pip and the adolescent Pip in on the joke, he exposes himself as a phony. Pip Pirrip grows up. Holden Caulfield has a nervous breakdown.

I suppose the only reason I begrudge him his breakdown is that so many in our culture -- many more, unfortunately, than just the legitimate adolescents among us -- seem fixated on Holden as a symbol of honesty and socially-liberating rebellion. We view nervous collapse and dysfunction as a badge of honor, a sign -- to put it in Caulfieldian terms -- that we are discerning enough to see through all the crap. Our celebration of overwrought disaffection reminds me of the last sentence of Joyce’s Araby: “Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.” Here is the adolescent pose non-pareil. Equally self-accusing and self-aggrandizing, it captures the adolescent at the precise moment when his own disillusionment becomes the object of his grandiose and self-dramatizing vision. That’s the kind of crap that Holden Caulfield (and J. D. Salinger) cannot see through. And it is often the kind of crap that we “adults” like to slosh around in.

The Barney beating of several years ago is another symptom of our arrested adolescence, our inability to ride the wave of disillusion into the relatively calm harbor of adulthood -- as though flailing around in the storm and raging at the wind were in themselves marks of distinction and a superior sensibility. I remember a news story about a woman in a Barney costume being seriously injured when a rabid (and probably drunken) anti-Barney fanatic attacked the big purple dinosaur at some public event. Now, I don’t know the age of the Barney-beater, but the act itself is a supremely adolescent one, in which the impulsive response to disillusionment is to lash out at those symbols of childhood which made the biggest dupes of us. At the dawn of adolescence, when Barney begins to appear cloying and false, it seems natural to want to beat up on him, as though it was Barney himself who pulled one over on us instead of our own poignant and necessary misapprehension of the nature of things. I could see Holden Caulfield beating up on Barney (at least rhetorically), and I could see Holden Caulfield missing Barney (as he misses all the “phonies” at the end of the book), but I cannot see Holden Caulfield accepting the postlapsarian Barney on new terms, as a figure who is meant for children and not for him. For all his touching poses about wanting to be the “catcher in the rye,” what Holden really wants is not to save children but to be a child again.

من 7 سالمه، متنفرم از اینکه قراره با یک عالمه لباس هر روز 6 ساعت سر کنم! اون مقنعه ای که مجبوریم بپوشیم از همه بیشتر عذابم میده. احساس خفگی میکنم
من 8 سالمه، متنفرم از اینکه هرجا میرم تو گوشم می خونن که دیگه نمی تونم با دوستای صمیمیم بازی کنم. ما یه اکیپ 4نفره ایم. مادرای اون 3 تا همون حرف مامان منو میزنن. همون حرف خانوم ناظم وقتی داره سرصف از این میگه که ما کم کم داریم به سن تکلیف می رسیم و دیگه نباید با پسرا کاری داشته باشیم. متنفرم از اینکه اون 3 تا، تا هروقت دوست دارن با هم دوست می مونن.
من 9 سالمه، متنفرم از اینکه به غیر از مدرسه حتی بقالی سر کوچه هم مدام نگران اینه که چرا من یه چیزی دور کله م نپیچیدم!! تهدیدم کرده که دیگه بهم شیر و پنیر نمیفروشه!
من 10 سالمه، متنفرم از اینکه معلممون سر ژاله رو محکم کوبید به دیوار! بعدم بهش گفت خنگ کودن!
من 11 سالمه، متنفرم از اینکه دوست صمیمیم به فکر اینه که باید دوست پسر داشته باشه.
من 12 سالمه، متنفرم از اینکه قراره پریود بشم! چون چندتا از دوستام میگن باید از همه مخفی نگه دارم! چون زشته و آبروم میره!
من 13 سالمه، متنفرم از اینکه هر روز باید وسط حیاط نماز جماعت برگزار بشه، اما این علت تنفرم نیست! از این متنفرم که موقع نماز کسایی که به قول خانوم ناظم عذر شرعی دارن و نجس هستن باید گوشه حیاط جمع بشن و اسمشون توی دفتر یه مامور ثبت بشه!
من 14 سالمه، متنفرم از اینکه معنی خیلی از جوک های بچه های کلاس و نمی فهمم. توی همشون چیز هست!
من 15 سالمه، متنفرم از اینکه بچه های کلاس دور هم جمع میشن و از دوست پسراشون تعریف میکنن. متنفرم از اینکه دیه مرد دو برابر زنه. متنفرم از اینکه دخترای دوروبرم عاشق اینن که طلاهاشونو به رخ هم بکشن. متنفرم از اینکه توی مهمونیا همیشه زنها خدمتکارن و مردها آقاوار بالای مجلس می شینن و از سیاست و آب و هوا و پول صحبت می کنن. متنفرم از اینکه توی عروسیا و مهمونیا بچه ها آویزون مادراشونن و باباهاشون دارن توی حیاط یا پارکینگ گل می گن و گل می شنون. متنفرم از اینکه اول شام مردا رو میدن بعد شام زنها رو. متنفرم از اینکه هیچ مامانی بلد نیست اون توپهای قرمزی که توی هوا به سیمهای برق وصلن واسه چیه...
من 16 سالمه، متنفرم از اینکه همه میگن باید موهای دستمو بزنم. متنفرم از اینکه بخاطر بلوز شلوار پوشیدن بهم میگن پسر! متنفرم از اینکه بخاطر موهای کوتاهم بهم میگن پسر!
من 17 سالمه، متنفرم از اینکه همه فکر می کنن اگه با یه پسر باشی حتما باید رابطه تون به اونجاها بکشه!
من 18 سالمه، متنفرم از اینکه از همه چی متنفرم! که انگار همه رو مخمن! که خیلی ها رو نمی تونم تحمل کنم!
....
من از وقتی یه چیزایی حالیم شده، متنفرم از اینکه یه استثنا باشم و در موردم کتاب نوشته بشه! کتابایی که منو جنس ضعیف و شهروند درجه دو �� نیازمند توجه و دستورالعمل و راهکار نشون میده!

میتونم تا همین الان این لیستو ادامه بدم
فکر می کنم همه ما یه دونه هولدن تو وجودمون داریم

یه چیزایی در حدود 1 قرن از عمر این کتاب میگذره. برای اون زمان واقعا شاهکار بوده. سبک ادبی خاص. یکی از اولین های خودش. اما الان هنوز جوابه.
چند سال پیش که خوندمش بهش نمره کامل دادم. الان ک دوباره خوندمش هنوز از نظرم خوبه.
رو مخ و واقعی. خیلی ساده و روون آدمو می کشوووونه با خودش می بره. هولدن خیلی نق نقو و رو مخ و حراف و داغونه. ازش خوشم نمیاد. حتی میشه گفت یه جاهایی ازش بدم میاد. اما خیلی هامون همین بودیم. یا نوجوونایی رو می شناسیم که الان همینن. که به سختی روزگار می گذرونن. که شاید افسردگی دست و پاشونو بسته. نمیدونم. من همین الانم از خیلی چیزا هنوز متنفرم
اما اون حرفایی که معلم هولدن، آقای آنتولینی، آخرای کار بهش زد، تقریبا علاجی هست که هرکدوم از هولدن هایی که جون سالم به در بردن، بهش رسیدن و همونو چسبیدن

خلاصه اونا میشه این که: باید ادامه بدی و خودتو توسعه بدی، باید بخونی و خودتو عمیق کنی، تو این مسیر کم‌کم متوجه میشی که چیو میتونی درک کنی چیو نمی تونی. می فهمی که باید ذهنتو بیشتر با چه فکرایی درگیر کنی. اینطوری وقتتو سر فکرایی که مال تو نیس الکی تلف نمی کنی. اینطوری به اون تفکری می چسبی که مال توئه
اینطوری دنیای خودتو شخصی سازی می کنی

کتاب آنچنان جذابی نیست ولی من لذت بردم
✨

(Book 529 from 1001 Books) - The Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger

The Catcher in the Rye is a story by J. D. Salinger, first published in serial form in 1945-6 and as a novel in 1951. Story of Holden Caulfield with his idiosyncrasies, penetrating insight, confusion, sensitivity and negativism.

The hero-narrator of "The Catcher in the Rye" is an ancient child of sixteen, a native New Yorker named Holden Caulfield. Through circumstances that tend to preclude adult, secondhand description, he leaves his prep school in Pennsylvania and goes underground in New York City for three days.

The boy himself is at once too simple and too complex for us to make any final comment about him or his story. Perhaps the safest thing we can say about Holden is that he was born in the world not just strongly attracted to beauty but, almost, hopelessly impaled on it.

There are many voices in this novel: children's voices, adult voices, underground voices -- but Holden's voice is the most eloquent of all. Transcending his own vernacular, yet remaining marvelously faithful to it, he issues a perfectly articulated cry of mixed pain and pleasure.

However, like most lovers and clowns and poets of the higher orders, he keeps most of the pain to, and for, himself. The pleasure he gives away, or sets aside, with all his heart. It is there for the reader who can handle it to keep.

عنوانهای چاپ شده در ایران : «ناطور دشت»؛ «ناتور دشت»؛ نویسنده: جروم دیوید (جی.د.) سالینجر؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش: ماه آگوست سال 1982میلادی، بار دوم سال 2001میلادی و بار سوم ماه ژوئن سال 2005میلادی

عنوان: ناطور دشت؛ نویسنده: جروم دیوید (جی.د.) سالینجر؛ مترجم: احمد کریمی؛ تهران، فرانکلین، 1345؛ در 354ص؛ چاپ دیگر تهران، اشرفی، 1371؛ چاپ دیگر تهران، ققنوس، 1381؛ در 326ص؛ شابک 9643112543؛ چاپ چهارم 1385؛ چاپ پنجم تهران، علمی، فرهنگی، 1386؛ در 326ص؛ شابک 9789643112547؛ چاپ ششم 1387؛ چاپ هفتم 1388، هشتم 1389؛ سال 1393 ؛ چاپ دیگر: 1393؛ در 256ص؛ شابک 9786001215930؛ موضوع نوجوانان فراری - داستانهای نویسندگان امریکایی - سده 20م

عنوان: ناتور دشت؛ مترجم: محمد نجفی؛ تهران، نیلا، 1378، در 296ص؛ چاپ چهارم 1381؛ چاپ پنجم 1384 در 207ص؛ هفتم 1388؛ هشتم 1389؛ چاپ نهم 1393؛

داستان جوانی جسور و جستجوگر، در پی مفهوم زندگی، «هولدن کالفیلد» نوجوانی هفده ساله، که در آغاز رمان، در یک مرکز درمانی بستری است، و ظاهراً قصد دارد آن‌چه که پیش از رسیدن به مرکز درمانی را از سر گذرانده، برای کسی بازگو کند، همین ‌کار را هم می‌کند؛ رمان بر همین پایه شکل می‌گیرد؛ در زمان رخداد ماجراهای داستان، «هولدن» یک پسر بچه ی شانزده‌ ساله‌ است، که در مدرسه ی شبانه‌ روزی «پنسی» درس می‌خواند، و در آستانه ی کریسمس، به علت ضعف تحصیلی از دبیرستان اخراج میشود، و باید به خانه‌ شان در «نیویورک» برگردد.؛ ماجراهای داستان طی سه روز که «هولدن» از مدرسه برای رفتن به خانه خارج می‌شود، رخ می‌دهند؛ او می‌خواهد: تا نامه ی مدیر، مبنی بر اخراجش، به دست پدر و مادرش برسد، و آب‌ها از آسیاب بیفتد، به خانه ی خویش پا نگذارد، به همین ‌خاطر از زمانی که از مدرسه خارج ‌میشود، دو روز را به سرگردانی سپری می‌کند؛ این دو روز نمادی است از سفر «هولدن»، از کودکی به دنیای نوجوانی؛ رمان در سال 1951میلادی منتشر شده، برگردان ف��رسی رمان یعنی همین کتاب، با عنوان: «ناطور دشت» با ترجمه ی جناب «احمد کریمی» در دهه ی پنجاه هجری خورشیدی منتشر گردیده است؛ سپس برگردان دیگری با عنوان «ناتور دشت» با ترجمه جناب «محمد نجفی» در دهه هفتاد هجری خورشیدی نیز منتشر شده است؛

تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 03/06/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ 09/05/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی

کافیه تنها چند صفحه از این کتاب رو بخونید تا شیفته ی نحوه روایت و فلسفه بافی این نوجوان سرتق بشید و اون وقته که رها کردن کتاب براتون کار سختی خواهد بود.راوی داستان "هولدن کالفیلد" نوجوانی 17 ساله است که در آستانه ی ورود به دنیای بزرگسالان قرار داره و در این کتاب داستان چند روزی رو برای ما روایت می کنه که به دلیل مردود شدن در درسهایش از مدرسه برای چندمین بار اخراج شده و تصمیم گرفته چند روزی را تا رسیدن نامه اخراجش به دست خانواده در نیویورک به تنهایی سر کنه.او با تمام دنیا سر ناسازگاری داره و تقریبا همه چیز تنفرش رو بر می انگیزه و افسرده اش می کنه،اما اگر از دریچه نگاه "هولدن" و با تیزبینی اون به دنیای اطراف و آدمهاش نگاهی بندازی باهاش همذات پنداری خواهی کرد

اسم این کتاب همیشه برام جای سوال بود تا اینکه در قسمتی از داستان "هولدن" به خواهر 10 ساله اش "فیبی" که خیلی دوستش داره و مانند پلی او رو به دنیای کودکی متصل می کنه از آرزوهاش میگه که دوست داره "ناتور دشت" باشه و در دشتی بزرگ که هزاران هزار بچه ی کوچیک در اون در حال بازی هستن بر لبه ی یک پرتگاه بایسته تا از افتادن بچه ها در پرتگاه جلوگیری کنه. این آرزو که به صورت نمادین بیان شده برگرفته از بیزاری "هولدن" از دنیای سیاه و پر از ریا و تزویر بزرگسالان است و صادقانه دلش می خواهد کودکان معصوم را از افتادن در این دره مخوف حفاظت کند

هولدن که عاشق ادبیات هست و این درس تنها مبحث مورد علاقه اش در مدرسه است در قسمتی از داستان تعبیر زیبایی به کار می بره و میگه: "چیزی که راجع به کتاب خیلی حال می ده اینه که وقتی آدم کتابه رو می خونه و تموم می کنه دوس داشته باشه نویسنده ش دوست صمیمی اش باشه و بتونه هر وقت دوس داره یه زنگی بهش بزنه" هر چند "سلینجر" رو با این کتاب شناختم و به نظرم نویسنده فوق العاده ایه اما بیشتر دوست دارم گاهی یه زنگی به شخصیت تخس اما دوست داشتنی که خلق کرده یعنی "هولدن" میزدم

This book is perfection. The unreliable narrator is one of my favorite aspects of literature and Holden Caulfield takes the gold medal in this category. It's also an excellent representation of what depression can do to a person--you feel loneliest when you're around people, you don't feel excited about anything, you self-sabotage, you ramble about feelings you can't articulate.

I always love revisiting Holden every so often. It reminds me of why we need to put an end to the stigma that surrounds mental health.

I need to warn you that this is not a book you read casually. It’s completely character-driven. If you’re looking for plot, then I’m sorry to say you’re about to read a book where a teenage boy walks around NYC for a few days and does nothing. The end. It’s really, truly not about the plot (which is why I think many find this book frustrating or boring). Take your time with Holden. He needs you to listen. Really listen. That’s the point of the entire thing. He wants someone to be there with him intentionally. The passive vague interest of those around him is part of what’s making him nosedive.

Just…take your time. Read it with a friend. A book club. Your Grandma. Idgaf. There’s a lot to unpack in it if you give Holden a chance. Don’t be fooled by his apathetic exposition. It’s a mask. A very good one, in fact. He’s a master at hiding behind it, which is partially why none of the characters recognize his cool guy remarks as cries for help. I’d also imagine this is why so many readers refer to him as spoiled, whiny, angsty, etc.

A lot of those who struggle with mental health wear a similar mask. Take your time with them, too. Be present. They need it.

And so does Holden. <3




(Eventually I’m going to list a bunch of spoiler reasons below that detail exactly why he’s not just some typical angsty emo kid who needs to get over himself. SOMEDAY.

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رواية عبارة عن سرد طويل ميت بدون احداث و لا عقدة يحكي فيه صبي مراهق
نظرته الوجودية الغريبة و عن فلسفته الصبية التي ترى في العالم زيفا وتصنعا كبيرين يمنعانه من التأقلم الصحيح في مدرسته أو في المجتمع ..ربما هي نظرة ناقدة للكاتب للمجتمع الامريكي بعد الحرب و للحلم لامريكي الذي اصبح يعتمد على الصورة أكثر من الحقيقة فعمد الى نقده عن طريق صبي مراهق.هولدن كوفيلد لا يرى في الحياة شيء يستحق الحياة فيبقى سؤاله المصيري اين يذهب البط بعد تجمد البحيرة ,اين يذهب الانسان بعد تجمد الانسانية و تقمصها الزيف و التصنع,ربما لو فمنا باحصائية للكلمات المستعملة في السرد لتفوقت كلمة زيف عن جدارة و تتبعها كلمة يقتلني, كل شيء في المجتمع الامريكي اصبح جافا بدون حياة آلة تسكر و تزني و تصنع و تستهلك و تصعد السلم و تنزل في مصعد و لا يبقى للمراهق سوى الطفولة التي يحبها بصدق فهي غير زائفة ..ليس بعد لكن حتى الطفولة تموت فالأخ الصغير مات و ماتت معه بعض من أحلام هولدن و امة بكاملهاو هولدن لم يسعفه الحظ أن يحتفظ بهذه البراءة و هذه الطفولة فسرعان ما استسلم لهذا الزيف و تجاوز خططه لتغلق الدائرةمن جديد..ما حصل مع هولدن ربما يحصل مع أي مراهق ربما حصل معي و معك و مع غيرنا من البشر دورة حياتية تبدأ ببراءة و تستسمر بالتساؤلات و المتاهات و البحث لننتهي بالرضوخ لما هو حتمي و مقرر..لا اعرف ان كنت فهمت هولدن جيدا ام لا..لا اعرف ان كانت تلك الذبابة فيَ مستمرة في لعبة الاسقاطات التي لا تنتهي لكن الحارس في حقل لشوفان بالنسبة لي نظرة الكاتب ذاته للمجتمع الامريكي فهو يعريه من زيفه ليظهر للجميع بمظهره الكاذبة و الأدهى من هذا كله يعري كل انسان من قناعه و يجبره ان يقف امام المرآة ليسال السؤال هل هذا ما أردته فعلا؟هل هذا أنا أم انا مجرد بيدق في لعبة شطرنج؟ أعتقد جازمة أن اجابة البعض لن تروق لهم و هو الأمر الذي دفعهم الى ارتكاب حماقات كثيرة.

journal entry

today i am 15 years old. everything is all bullshit, as usual. i can't believe how fucked everything is around me. like i'm surrounded by zombies. i can't talk to any of my so-called friends, i can't talk to jamie, i can't talk to my parents. who would bother listening anyway. i cannot wait to leave orange county! this place makes me fucking sick. everyone is a hypocrite. everything is so goddamn bright and shiny and sunny and meaningless. FUCK, life is so full of crap.

there is one good thing in my life though. just read this book Catcher in the Rye. blown away! i don't know how a book written decades ago could say exactly what i would say. it is like the author was reading my thoughts and put it all down in this book. things i didn't even realize i felt were right there on the page! I LOVED IT. i think this is my favorite novel of all time. which is not saying a whole lot because there is a ton of pretentious bullshit out there and i bet mrs. durham will force us to read it all. man i hate that bitch.

journal entry

today i am 20 years old. life is great as usual. just enjoyed my wednesday morning wake-and-bake session with j-p, the sun is shining, the san diego weather is beautiful, and tonight i'm off to rob & gregg's to destroy them at bullshit. love that game! gregg says that joelle will be there (yes!) but she'll probably bring that prick pete with her. one of these days i'm going to lose it and kick his ass. "i'm in a band"...fuck you, pete! i will never spin your records.

all i have on the agenda today is to go to the gym and then off to keracik's american lit class. it is not a bad class, although it is nowhere close to gender studies with halberstam. or davidoff's survey of modern postmodernism last semester. now that was a class! it blew my mind. so many things to think about. the reading in american lit has been okay. but we've been assigned to read Catcher in the Rye and it is terrible. can't believe i ever liked this book. caulfield is a whiny little bitch. the book has no depth. there is literally nothing going on with the narrative, style, theme, characterization, it is just one rote cliché after another. he thinks he is such a rebel-without-a-cause but in reality he is just another tired representation of rootless, stereotypical masculinity and gender essentialism. completely inane and without meaning. i think my essay will use some acker-style postmodernist techniques to show how simplistic this trite "classic" truly is. i'm going to deconstruct the shit out of this novel, baby!

journal entry

today i am 25 years old. another gray, drizzly san francisco morning. i wish christopher would wake up, i really need to talk to him after all that shit last night. notes on my pillow, really?? time to grow up dude, i will never "complete you". well actually i'm glad he's still asleep, my throat is too sore to get into it right now with him. plus Food Not Bombs is happening this morning and i have to get the kitchen ready. john is probably hard at work already, typical over-achieving behavior. i bet the wisconsin kids are still crashing on our living room floor. it's time for them to leave! they've seen The Vindictives at every single Epicenter or Gilman show now and it is time for them to hit the road. or learn to take a shower. this apartment is not the world's crashpad!

i woke up early this morning and thumbed through A Catcher in the Rye. i remember hating this book in college for some reason. probably wasn't po-mo enough for me. or "challenging". feh. what a pretentious idiot i was. this is a beautiful book. it changed my life as a kid, i'm not sure how i would have survived orange county without it. just re-reading parts of it brought back all that old angst about all the fucked-up shit in the world that kids have to deal with. i'm not sure there is another book as insightful or as meaningful. or funny! that part with the clipping-of-the-toenails is hilarious. ackley is such a douche. this book is the foundation of every zine that i have ever loved. a perfect novel. it is so...."human", i guess.

journal entry

today i am 30 years old. man my head hurts...so hungover! my birthday party last night was awesome. even got to spend some time on the turntables (thanks kraddy for actually relinquishing a tiny bit of control for once). i must have made out with a half-dozen people. sadly, no real action. i think last night's party will be the last big party i will ever throw. things have got to change. no more partying like the world is about to end, i still have my entire life ahead of me! tomorrow i am going to go into AIG and hand in my notice. i am not an entertainment insurance underwriter, that is not me. fuck them. if erika can get me that job working with homeless kids at Hospitality House, than i am set. although moving from the biggest room in the flat to the water heater closet will be no fun. i'm 30 years old now for chrissakes! still, i've got to do something meaningful with my life. it cannot all be about booze, drugs, hooking up, and paying everyone's rent when they're broke. things have got to change.

i cracked open A Catcher in the Rye yesterday before the party and read some of my favorite parts. what an inspiration! seriously, that is a classic novel. it is packed with meaning. i'm twice caulfield's age but i still somehow connect with him in a very direct way. my life is going to change and the attitude expressed in that book is at the heart of that change. i love you, holden caulfied. it's not too late for me to learn from you, to find some meaning in life.

journal entry

today i am 35 years old. another intense, sad, but deeply fulfilling week has passed. every day something meaningful happens, something so emotional and real. sometimes i find myself just losing it in a fetal position because of the things i've seen. working with people who are drug addicted or who have been abused or who are dying is HEAVY. but it is also beautiful. it's hard to believe i am dealing with all of that and supporting my folks too. thank God i have good friends to talk to about these things. anyway. so now marcy wants to have a kid. i just don't know how i feel about that. this is such a fucked up world, do we really want to bring new life into it? i dunno. it seems....selfish, somehow. she should just quit her job with the d.a.'s office and get back to her roots in the public defender's office instead. does she think that having a child with me will bring more meaning into her life? my life has meaning enough already. and i really am not sure i can handle that responsibility on top of everything else.

i skimmed A Catcher in the Rye yesterday, after an awkward talk with marcy about having a baby. it was not an inspiring read. caulfield is so full of misplaced angst! i'm not sure i even understand him anymore. why is he so pissed off? he's seen nothing of the world and what the world can actually do to people. i want to like him, i want to re-capture that feeling of affection i had for him, but now his contempt and his anger just seem so meaningless, so naive. he really does not have it so bad. there is so much worse out there. i don't know how i would handle a kid like that. i hate to say it, but i constantly rolled my eyes when reading it. oh the emotional self-absorption of youth! just you wait, caulfield. it sure gets a hell of a lot more complicated once you grow up.

journal entry

today i am 40 years old. when did i become a boss? it is like i woke up one day, mysteriously transformed into an old man. am i really a "leader"? what does that even mean? sometimes i feel like i am just faking it all and someone is going to figure it out and blow the whistle on me. last week i made a huge play on the Council, i had all my ducks in a row, and all the votes came in just as i had planned. everyone has their own agenda and the way to get things done is simply to recognize and engage with that disappointing fact. some folks got up and started clapping and then the whole room joined in, even council members who voted against my motion - feh, phonies. the experience was sort of amazing but it also made me feel very odd, almost disconnected from myself. is this who i am now, a public policy figure, a community advocate, a mayoral appointee? ugh, i can't stand the mayor. i don't feel like me. there is accomplishment there, and some satisfaction... but i am missing something, something visceral, something real. sweet Jesus, is this what a mid-life crisis feels like? it is a weird feeling, like i know everything that i need to know about the world, about the people around me, how everything connects, but yet i still feel like i know so little about life. oh, such angst, mark. surely you've outgrown this?

i've started re-reading A Catcher in the Rye. it's so strange, during different parts, i felt like crying. a wonderful and moving novel. i feel like i really understand holden, like he is my guide, my son, my brother, my friend... myself. i think of him and i know that change in the world and changing myself can still happen. it just has to happen. that's life after all, right?

Genuinely terrified for Emma and Carolyn to read this in April… Holden bby I will stay on your side for life

Sometimes truth isn't just stranger than fiction, it's also more interesting and better plotted. Salinger helped to pioneer a genre where fiction was deliberately less remarkable than reality. His protagonist says little, does little, and thinks little, and yet Salinger doesn't string Holden up as a satire of deluded self-obsessives, he is rather the epic archetype of the boring, yet self-important depressive.

I've taken the subway and had prolonged conversations on the street with prostitutes (not concerning business matters), and I can attest that Salinger's depiction is often accurate to what it feels like to go through an average, unremarkable day. However, reading about an average day is no more interesting than living one.

Beyond that, Salinger doesn't have the imagination to paint people as strangely as they really are. Chekhov's 'normal' little people seem more real and alive than Salinger's because Chekhov injects a little oddness, a little madness into each one. Real people are almost never quite as boring as modernist depictions, because everyone has at least some ability to surprise you.

Salinger's world is desaturated. Emotions and moments seep into one another, indistinct as the memories of a drunken party. Little importance is granted to events or thoughts, but simply pass by, each duly tallied by an author in the role of court reporter.

What is interesting about this book is not that it is realistically bland, but that it is artificially bland. Yet, as ridiculous a concept as that is, it still takes itself entirely in earnest, never acknowledging the humor of its own blase hyperbole.

This allows the book to draw legions of fans from all of the ridiculously dull people who take themselves as seriously as Holden takes himself. They read it not as a parody of bland egotism but a celebration, poised to inspire all the bland egotists who have resulted from the New Egalitarianism in Art, Poetry, Music, and Academia.

Those same folks who treat rationality and intellectual fervor like a fashion to be followed, imagining that the only thing required to be brilliant is to mimic the appearance and mannerisms of the brilliant; as if black berets were the cause of poetic inspiration and not merely a symptom.

One benefit of this is that one can generally sniff out pompous faux intellectuals by the sign that they hold up Holden as a sort of messianic figure. Anyone who marks out Holden as a role-model is either a deluded teen with an inflated sense of entitlement, or is trying to relive the days when they were.

But what is more interesting is that those who idolize Holden tend to be those who most misunderstand him. Upon close inspection, he's not depressive, not consumed with ennui or an existential crisis, he's actually suffering from 'Shell Shock'--now known as 'Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder'.

The way he thinks about his brother's and classmate's deaths--going over the details again and again in his mind, but with no emotional connection--it's not symptomatic of depression, but of psychological trauma. He is stuck in a cycle, unable to process events, going over them again and again, but never able to return to normalcy.

It takes a certain kind of self-centered prick to look at someone's inability to cope with the reality of death and think "Hey, that's just like my mild depression over how my parents won't buy me a newer ipod!" It's not an unusual stance in American literature--there's an arrogant detachment in American thought which has become less and less pertinent as the world grows and changes. As recently as The Road we have American authors comparing a difficult father-son relationship to the pain and turmoil of an African civil war survivor--and winning awards for displaying their insensitive arrogance.

Perhaps it's time we woke up and realized that the well-fed despondence of the white man should not be equated with a lifetime of death, starvation, war, and traumas both physical and emotional. And as for Salinger--a real sufferer of Post-Traumatic Stress who was one of the first soldiers to see a concentration camp, who described how you can never forget the smell of burning flesh--I can only imagine how he felt when people read his story of a man, crippled by the thought of death, and thought to themselves "Yes, that's just what it's like to be a trustafarian with uncool parents". No wonder he became a recluse and stopped publishing.

Holden is the teenage mind in all its confusion, rebellion and irrationality, and in all its undefined hope for individual heroism.

If you work with teenagers, you eventually always end up asking yourself:

"WHY does s/he do that? It's not even helpful, realistic, smart, beneficial ..."

The answer is that the teenager is in a state of transition, moving from the relatively defined environment of childhood to the jungle of the adult world, and completely without tools to handle that journey. Using swearwords, trying different ways to tune out reality, not doing what one is supposed to do, those are all different methods of practicing the BIG SCARE. Growing up. Facing responsibility. Soon, soon, soon ... the teenager will have to earn money, make decisions, take care of others. And the weight is heavy on the young shoulders. Roaming the streets relaxes nerves. But still. There is an element of idealism in most teenagers' hearts. They don't usually want to fall into the traps of conventional evil. They want to change the world, make a difference. They are just struggling to come up with ideas how to do that, as their experience is limited. And they can't put their ideas into a wider context either. So being a catcher in the rye may make sense. It isn't necessarily the teenager's fault if nobody turns up where they wait to save lives, right? Teenage intentions are more often than not good. The results vary though.

And their verbal skills are developing in conjunction with their minds as well:

"Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You'll learn from them—if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It's a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn't education. It's history. It's poetry."

Teenage minds are indeed more poetry than prose: fractured, fragmented, emotional, in the moment, beautiful and fleeting. Luckily, some of them remember later and share, - for us teachers to enjoy when we think it is impossible to understand the monsters that all of a sudden show up at the end of Grade 7, replacing lovely and enthusiastic children over night!

I hope some of my students use the long summer to enter the beautiful arrangement Holden suggests and read this classic. Hope's that thing with feathers...

Cynical?

Am I too cynical for this book?

This narrative is just ranty and not good in a good snarky sarcastic way. Because that would need charm and this guy, Holden, got none. His voice was so devoid of hilarity. So... just annoying then.


*dnf*