the mails began to pour in just about 17,30 today (if nine counts as 'pouring') and my first reaction was 'MOTHERFUCKER!' *in a Ving Rhaimes voice* cause Holden Caulfield became one of my first fictional heroes when i was like seven or eight and just a few pages into Catcher In The Rye for the very first time (i had this edition. still do, actually):
from then on in, it's been one of the three books i never tire of reading (the other two being Alice in Wonderland and Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas). *sigh*
instead of sobbing all wordy and shit, i'm gonna pull a quote from here cause i dig it due to my
'...Thursday's statement from Salinger's literary agent acknowledged the writer's isolation. "Salinger had remarked that he was in this world but not of it"...'
i wonder if
i remember the first time i read it: i was up in my room with the door shut, as usual, supposedly doing my stupid homework. i read it, and in true delight, recognised the situ —> nothing i'd read in print up to then had seemed as real to me as that shit did... so i went back and read it again and again, then laughed my fucking ass off to the point at which Daddy got up from his chair and called up the stairs to see if i was alright. anyway, here's the real deal, in toto and in context:
'...I had quite a bit of time to kill till ten o'clock, so what I did, I went to the movies at Radio City. It was probably the worst thing I could've done, but it was near, and I couldn't think of anything else.
'I came in when the goddamn stage show was on. The Rockettes were kicking their heads off, the way they do when they're all in line with their arms around each other's waist. The audience applauded like mad, and some guy behind me kept saying to his wife, "You know what that is? That's precision"...'
thing of it is, by then, my parents had taken us to Radio City enough times for me to know there was always some guy saying sump'n pretty much exactly like that. when i was like five, this old-ish dude sitting behind us actually seddit and i turned around and laughed in his face. everyone looked at me apart from my mother whose gaze was frozen, fixed onstage with the Rockettes.
fun-fact: needless to say i hated em mainly cause just like the chicks who became Miss America, they were already being held up to me as clean-cut role model types, the kind my mother wanted me to turn out to be *smirk* and whenever she'd start in, i'd think sump'n along the lines of 'fat chance, ma'. anyway, after the show was finally over and we reached the garage where Daddy'd parked our car, my mother finally caught up to me and smacked me — 'for being fresh' — but it was totally worth it. *snigger* so AFAIC, Salinger nailed it and that particular passage never failed to make me LOL — but not tonight. *sigh*
JD Salinger: 1, january 1919 – 27, january 2010. RIP dude and thank you for everything.
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