‘The Catcher in the Rye’ by J. D. Salinger.

I am coming to this classic of literary fiction rather late, but I had long known of its reputation as an Anerican classic, and a divisive work. Those who read it either loved it or hated it and many people who have never read it also seemed to either love it or hate it; such is its reputation.

For every person I found for whom the book was required reading in the US, I found another for whom it was banned. If nothing else, that certainly marks it as worth the time to read. It's a good rule of thumb to always try and read things they want to ban.

It is hard to know for sure why a book might affect someone so strongly one way, and others in the opposite way with equal intensity—even those who have read it. I read a few reviews and opinions about it after I had finished the book myself, and there was a common thread among those who hated it. They would say that there is no plot and that nothing happens; that Holden, the book’s protagonist, is arrogant and annoying.

The sixteen-year-old Holden is the book—it is entirely his story, told in his voice—so if you don't care about him, it is not going to be a fun read. His critics say he is unlikeable because everything annoys him; he thinks everyone he meets is a phoney; and, despite his privileges in life, he simply whines about being depressed all the time.

In a way, I am rather envious of those who can read this book in that way. True, they may never understand why 'The Catcher in the Rye' is such an incredible work of literature, and they miss out on the poetic lament of the human condition—the expression of deep anguish, alienation, suffering, pain, futility, and existential dread. They may well have never found themselves in a situation where they needed so badly to talk, to find someone to really listen and hear them, but could not. To be a young man without a way to get help; one foot into adulthood and already carrying more than you can take, wondering all the time if this is normal. Too old for the comforts and care of childhood and too young for the respect of adults. To whom everyone appears too busy playing their role in life, wrapped up in their superficial comfort and superficial conversations, to notice you. To feel as though you are drowning right in front of people, and no one seems to notice—as though you are already a ghost. So you smile, and laugh, and try to do anything to distract from the pain of it, as the madness of the thing just grows inside you. You have to laugh, and be angry at a world full of people so wrapped up in themselves that it cannot see a young man drowning right in front of them.

I am glad they don't know what that is like, and cannot see how beautifully J. D. Salinger encapsulates it here. Good for them.

For me, I loved it. Hell, in places the goddamn thing hit me so hard I was almost in tears; I really was.