BookEnds

Salinger scares up a perfect summation of adolescence in the initial scenes between Holden and his roommate, Stradlater.
Stradlater, who is obviously the ladies man that Holden is not, reveals he has a date with a girl who says she knows Holden:

“ ‘I’m thinking … Uh, Jean Gallagher.’
“Boy, I nearly dropped dead when he said that.
“ ‘Jane Gallagher,’ I said. I even got up from the washbowl when he said that. I damn near dropped dead.”

Holden is overcome with excitement, but at the same time declines to go downstairs and say hi to her.

“ ‘I’m not in the mood right now,’ I said. I wasn’t either. You have to be in the mood for those things.”

More, obviously, is behind his reluctance than not being in the mood. And plenty is behind the rage he unleashes on Stradlater later over the prospect of what Stradlater might have done with Jane on the date — especially since the “very sexy bastard” doesn’t even care how she lines up her kings when she plays checkers.

Illogical and conflicting reactions that make perfect sense. Those scenes are one example, I think, of why ‘Catcher’ will always be the standard for coming of age novels.

There are many places in the book that capture that volatile period in life. What are some that struck you? How about moments in other coming-of-age tales?

I was probably a couple of years younger than Holden’s 17 when I first read ‘Catcher.’ Now I’m 25 years older than he was (is).  It’s been a very long time since I’ve reread the book, 10 years or so. But I’m finding I remember much of it more than most of the books I’ve read in the past year.

Not all of it, though, including what the actual experience of reading it is like. I apparently forgot how flat out funny it is. Take Holden’s description of why he liked the headmaster’s daughter:  “… she didn’t give you a lot of horse manure about what a great guy her father was. She probably knew what a phony slob he was.”

I can’t help but like that kid.

Of course, that word “phony” coming out of Holden is something I remember very well. It’s only a page and a half into the book that Holden’s biggest gripe with the world first surfaces when he offers his perspective on his school’s claim of “ … molding boys into splendid, clear-thinking young men.”

“Strictly for the birds,” he says.

Another thing I forgot was Holden’s physical characteristics — almost 6-foot-3 with gray hair. That surprised me the first time I read it — only a few pages in, I’d had him pegged differently — and it’s jarred me each time since. In my mind’s eye, Holden is a relatively small, wiry guy, and that’s not going to change.

One of my favorite moments so far, and one that I do remember, is Holden standing on the hill, above the football game, trying to feel a sufficient goodbye from the school. I do remember first reading that, and a gong going off in my head. I’d often had the bewildering experience of knowing what my emotions were “supposed” to be in a given situation and wondering what the heck was wrong with me for not feeling them. It was my first real feeling of connection to Holden, and the moment still resonated with me all these years later, although I’ve gained some perspective with age.

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One of the most distinctive qualities of Salinger’s prose in “Catcher in the Rye” is breezy, colloquial style of the language. In a way, Holden’s mode of self-expression follows in the tradition of Huck Finn’s, and the task of writing in a specific and believable vernacular is, I would imagine, very challenging  — capturing the precise essence of a character’s voice without sounding grating. Mark Twain, of course, mastered it with perfection, and so, I believe, did Salinger.

“I’ll just tell you about this madman stuff that happened to me around last Christmas just before I got pretty run-down and had to come out here and take it easy. I mean that’s all I told D.B. about, and he’s my brother and all. He’s in Hollywood. That isn’t too far from this crumby place, and he comes over and visits me practically every week end. He’s going to drive me home when I go home next month maybe. He just got a Jaguar. One of those lithe English jobs that can do around two hundred miles an hour. It cost him damn near four thousand bucks. He’s got a lot of dough, now. He didn’t use to. He used to be just a regular writer, when he was home. He wrote this terrific book of short stories, The Secret Goldfish, in case you never heard of him. The best one in it was ‘The Secret Goldfish.’ It was about this little kid that wouldn’t let anybody look at his goldfish because he’d bought it with his own money. It killed me. Now he’s out in Hollywood, D.B., being a prostitute. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s the movies. Don’t even mention them to me.”

— “Catcher in the Rye”, chapter 1

I mentioned before that Holden’s voice enthralled me the first time I read it — and I have rarely laughed as hard at any book. I’m curious, though, what everyone else makes of his style. Do you think the use of 1940s and ’50s slang makes the prose sound dated, or do you think Holden’s message is universal? Has Salinger accurately captured the voice of a teenager, and does that voice still resonate? What were your initial impressions of the character?

Incidentally, I’ve noticed that since I’ve begun reading “Catcher” again, the word “phony” has crept into my daily speech with greater prominence…

“If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.”

— “The Catcher in the Rye”, opening line

Today kicks off our staff read (or re-read) of “The Catcher in the Rye”, in honor of J.D. Salinger. We will be blogging along the way and invite everyone to join in the discussion.

Personally, I plan on curling up with my high school copy of “Catcher” and a nice cup of tea, losing myself once again in the adventures of Holden Caulfield. This will be my third time reading the book: I first discovered Holden the summer I was 15, and returned to the novel again in my sophomore English class. I loved the book then, and I’m almost certain I’ll love it now, though viewing the words through a filter of several years may shift my perspective slightly. What I remember enjoying most was Holden Caulfield’s voice, clear and resonant, conversational and jaded, honest and original. Throughout my initial reading, I could almost hear him echoing in my head, mixing with my own thoughts. I think this helped me to identify with him, as though we were sharing ideas through the secret medium of the novel — and, as with many of my favorite characters, I couldn’t help wishing that he was real, like another member of my sophomore English class.

I’m looking forward to meeting Holden again.

The elusive and beloved author of “The Catcher in the Rye”, “Franny and Zooey”, and “Nine Stories”, died Wednesday at his home in Cornish N.H., at the age of 91. The New York Times ran a detailed and fitting obituary.

Salinger is perhaps best known as the creator of one of the most caustic and endearing anti-heroes in all of literature, Holden Caulfield, though his meticulous depictions of the eccentric Glass family consumed both  a novel, “Franny and Zooey”, and several stories. He was a veteran of both the Battle of the Bulge and the Normandy landings in the Second World War, a good friend of famed New Yorker magazine editor William Shawn, a husband to two wives, and a father to two children. He was also a writer whose work has had enormous cultural repercussions; an author who, with one book and one character, captured and distilled adolescence for generations of readers. In 1953, two years after the publication of the bestselling “Catcher”, he retreated from New York to New Hampshire, where he lived in seclusion for the rest of his life.

It’s not for me to sum up or expound Salinger’s talent and contributions to the literary world  — nor, I think, would Salinger like it if I did. I have a feeling that he would despise the long-winded, grandly-gestured tributes dripping with high praise that will naturally (and rightfully) follow his passing. I can only speak of my reaction to his work, as someone who has adored both “Catcher” and “Franny and Zooey”, not only for their memorable characters, but for the style with which Salinger introduced them onto the page, giving them fresh, arresting voices of their own. Those stories have made me shriek with laughter — like the scene of Zooey Glass reprimanding his mother from behind a shower curtain — or fill with compassion; despite all his faults (or perhaps because of them), there were many times in reading “Catcher” that I wanted to hug Holden Caulfield.

There’s a post on The Guardian book blog that wonderfully sums up our dilemma about celebrating Salinger: with so little of his life in public, it’s hard to know just how to honor his death. Perhaps what he’d like best, and what we all ought to do, is to go back to his work: to read it again, and remember.

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January 25, 2010 marks the 251st birthday of the Scottish poet Robert Burns, author of “Auld Lang Syne” and “My luv’s like a red, red rose.” Each year, the anniversary is commemorated with the celebration of Burns Night, a traditional holiday in Scotland and the UK.  Burns Night festivities usually honor the bard of Scotland with a combination of food, song and poetry. The host will serve a dish of haggis with bagpipe music, a whisky toast, and the recitation of Burns’ famous “Address to a Haggis.” The dinner concludes with readings of his poetry and, of course, the singing of Auld Lang Syne.

Alas, for Americans wishing to honor the poet, Burns Night celebrations lack a wee bit of authenticity – haggis has been banned in the United States for over twenty years, due to health concerns about its contents. The dish, which mixes sheep innards with oatmeal and spices, will soon be legal here, thanks to the planned reversal of the longstanding ban by the U.S. department of agriculture, and ending the neccessity for smuggled or “bootleg” haggis, or indeed an apparently substandard version made with beef.

Nevertheless, even without haggis at present, we can still honor Robert Burns, for auld lang syne.

“In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.” – George Orwell

Today marks the 60th anniversary of George Orwell’s death. He was born Eric Arthur Blair in Motihari, India, on June 25 1903, and died in London on January 21, 1950, at the age of forty-six. For the last three years of his life, he suffered from tuberculosis – a condition that was undoubtedly not helped by his habits of smoking and drinking, or the year he spent living on cold, wet Scottish island of Jura.

Orwell is predominantly known for his fervently political work; in particular, “1984″ and “Animal Farm.” He admitted that most of his life’s writing was penned with political intent, “against totalitarianism and for democratic socialism.” I often wonder what Orwell would make of today’s world; how the likes of Google, Twitter and Facebook would feature into his bleak, Big Brother-dominated world of “1984″, or how he would react to the financial crisis and the ongoing debate over health care in this country. Doubtless, whatever his political opinions would be, he would have no hesitation in tackling them with his fiercely prolific typewriter.

Though we are generally more familiar with his novels, Orwell wrote an astonishing number of essays, with content that ranged from the political to the seemingly commonplace (on the best sort of English pub, or how to make a nice cup of tea – a subject close to my own heart). I’ve read many of his essays and am enamored of his clear prose and direct style; he begins the essay “England Your England“, written during the London Blitz in 1941, thus: “As I write, highly civilized human beings are flying overhead, trying to kill me.” My favorite, though, is his candid “Why I Write.”

And so, here’s to George: fearless soldier, compassionate chronicler, brilliant writer.

It has to be one of the coolest literary rituals ever. And one particularly
fitting the honoree.

Every year, on Edgar Allan Poe’s birthday, a mysterious figure shows up in
the dark, early morning hours and leaves three roses and a half-full bottle
of cognac at the writer’s grave in Baltimore.

Poe fans come from far and wide to shiver in the cold and wait for the “Poe
Toaster” to arrive.

But this past Tuesday, Poe’s 201st birthday, the Toaster didn’t show for the
first time in at least 60 years. The disappointment had some Poe fanatics
ready to surrender to the pendulum.

Check out the AP story.

I’m sure there are other traditions like this. I’m aware of the annual
Bloomsday celebrations, although I’ve always been too chicken to try reading
“Ulysses”; and when I went to New Orleans several years ago, I had just
missed the “Stella!” shouting contest at the annual Tennessee Williams
festival. I also know that if ever in Key West, you have to go visit the
descendants of Hemingway’s six-toed cat.

But that’s about it as far as my knowledge of literary traditions is
concerned.

Anyone know any others?