Punching Holden Caufield: An Essay
Here is my Catcher in the Rye essay for AP English. The entire thing, apart from the first paragraph and the first two sentences of the second, was frantically written during last period today (the absolute last deadline to turn it in. late.), hence the rushed ending.
There are exactly 281 words on the first page of J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, but it only took 63 (the length of the opening sentence) for me to realize that I hated Holden Caufield. Disillusioned teenage icon, and all I wanted to do was punch him in the face. Unfortunately for everyone involved, this sentiment did not fade as the story continued, rather it grew in ferocity and resolve.
I began The Catcher in the Rye somewhat warily, my view of the novel already colored by its iconic stature. Widely revered figures have a tendency to disappoint. Slumping back into the couch, resigned to my task, even as I loathed the pages in my hands. “If you really want to hear about it,” Holden began, and I thought ‘Well, no, I don’t really want to hear about it,’ but he continued as if I did not exist (which, I suppose I did not), prattling on for another 41 words before closing the sentence with “I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.” Well, that was a relief. Even if I hated him, I had to give the kid credit for knowing when to shut up. I soon realized that he was far from shutting up, indeed, I had to endure another 213 pages of this crap, each page filled with words that spilled from Holden Caufield in a manner that was at once novel (none of the other writers that we had encountered in AP English used slang and foul language as liberally as he did) and aggravating (ever the hypocrite, I spew slang myself and yet quickly grow tired of reading and hearing it when the source is someone other than myself).
I was vocal about my hatred for Holden, telling anyone who’d listen what a self-involved jerk he was and that he had no right to be denouncing phonies left and right when he was a product of wealth and prep schools himself (far from “real” life). As Holden’s account progressed, my declarations became more impassioned, more urgent. Every particle of my being was screaming in pain because, as much as I hated him, as much as I disliked listening to his jawing, I was finding myself identifying with him. Not all the time, Lord no, but there were flashes. An example (one that came early on, and gave me a feeling an inescapable feeling of terror that lingered throughout the reading of the rest of the novel): When Holden is speaking with Mr. Spencer before he leaves Pencey, the conversation quickly veered to resemble, with alarming accuracy, several that I had had with my parents quite recently.
“Do you feel absolutely no concern for your future, boy?” Old Spencer asked Holden, and I could hear the ‘What are you going to do after high school? Can’t you be worried about this, just a little?’ of my parents echoing in my head. Holden’s response- “Oh, I feel some concern for my future, all right. Sure. Sure, I do. But not too much, I guess. Not too much, I guess.” - was somewhat more eloquent than my own mumbled ‘I don’t know,’ but the sentiment was the same. Old Spencer could have been my mum and dad, when he told Holden (me) that “You will. You will, boy. You will when it’s too late.”
Luckily for me, that was the worst of my I-am-Holden moments. The rest of the book was able to be spent in a state of mild disgust as Holden talked a big game but did little more than get drunk and nearly freeze to death. I still don’t get why so many people like him so awfully much. If the rest of my generation (and the generations of teenagers before me) identifies with him so perfectly, maybe it’s no wonder why I hate (nearly) everyone.
There are exactly 281 words on the first page of J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, but it only took 63 (the length of the opening sentence) for me to realize that I hated Holden Caufield. Disillusioned teenage icon, and all I wanted to do was punch him in the face. Unfortunately for everyone involved, this sentiment did not fade as the story continued, rather it grew in ferocity and resolve.
I began The Catcher in the Rye somewhat warily, my view of the novel already colored by its iconic stature. Widely revered figures have a tendency to disappoint. Slumping back into the couch, resigned to my task, even as I loathed the pages in my hands. “If you really want to hear about it,” Holden began, and I thought ‘Well, no, I don’t really want to hear about it,’ but he continued as if I did not exist (which, I suppose I did not), prattling on for another 41 words before closing the sentence with “I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.” Well, that was a relief. Even if I hated him, I had to give the kid credit for knowing when to shut up. I soon realized that he was far from shutting up, indeed, I had to endure another 213 pages of this crap, each page filled with words that spilled from Holden Caufield in a manner that was at once novel (none of the other writers that we had encountered in AP English used slang and foul language as liberally as he did) and aggravating (ever the hypocrite, I spew slang myself and yet quickly grow tired of reading and hearing it when the source is someone other than myself).
I was vocal about my hatred for Holden, telling anyone who’d listen what a self-involved jerk he was and that he had no right to be denouncing phonies left and right when he was a product of wealth and prep schools himself (far from “real” life). As Holden’s account progressed, my declarations became more impassioned, more urgent. Every particle of my being was screaming in pain because, as much as I hated him, as much as I disliked listening to his jawing, I was finding myself identifying with him. Not all the time, Lord no, but there were flashes. An example (one that came early on, and gave me a feeling an inescapable feeling of terror that lingered throughout the reading of the rest of the novel): When Holden is speaking with Mr. Spencer before he leaves Pencey, the conversation quickly veered to resemble, with alarming accuracy, several that I had had with my parents quite recently.
“Do you feel absolutely no concern for your future, boy?” Old Spencer asked Holden, and I could hear the ‘What are you going to do after high school? Can’t you be worried about this, just a little?’ of my parents echoing in my head. Holden’s response- “Oh, I feel some concern for my future, all right. Sure. Sure, I do. But not too much, I guess. Not too much, I guess.” - was somewhat more eloquent than my own mumbled ‘I don’t know,’ but the sentiment was the same. Old Spencer could have been my mum and dad, when he told Holden (me) that “You will. You will, boy. You will when it’s too late.”
Luckily for me, that was the worst of my I-am-Holden moments. The rest of the book was able to be spent in a state of mild disgust as Holden talked a big game but did little more than get drunk and nearly freeze to death. I still don’t get why so many people like him so awfully much. If the rest of my generation (and the generations of teenagers before me) identifies with him so perfectly, maybe it’s no wonder why I hate (nearly) everyone.