J.D. Salinger published The Catcher in the Rye on July 16, 1951. Two years later the author retreated to rural New Hampshire where his reclusive lifestyle and diminished writing output found a legend growing up around the author that nearly eclipsed the fame — and infamy — of his first book.
Catcher‘ celebrated its 65th birthday over the weekend and Vox had some good words to share…
Holden is, like most adolescent rebels, a rule follower at heart, and he exerts so much energy hating the people who break his rules that it is exhausting just to read about. So it’s a relief when he sits down with his former English teacher, who tells him that if he doesn’t relax on this hating people business, he’ll be headed for a fall:
“It may be the kind where, at the age of thirty, you sit in some bar hating everybody who comes in looking as if he might have played football in college. Then again, you may pick up just enough education to hate people who say, ‘It’s a secret between he and I.’ Or you may end up in some business office, throwing paper clips at the nearest stenographer. I just don’t know. But do you know what I’m driving at, at all?”
“Yes. Sure,” I said. I did, too. “But you’re wrong about that hating business. I mean about hating football players and all. You really are. I don’t hate too many guys. What I may do, I may hate them for a little while, like this guy Stradlater I knew at Pencey, and this other boy, Robert Ackley. I hated them once in a while — I admit it — but it doesn’t last too long, is what I mean. After a while, if I didn’t see them, if they didn’t come in the room, or if I didn’t see them in the dining room for a couple of meals, I sort of missed them. I mean I sort of missed them.”
It’s one of the few times in the book where Holden gestures toward forgiving the people who don’t live up to his exacting standards, toward recognizing that people have value and worth even when they break his rules. It’s almost enough to give you hope for the future — but then the English teacher tries to molest Holden while he sleeps, so that kills that idea.
Here’s Charlie Rose remembering Salinger with The New Yorker‘s Adam Gopnick…
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