I’m re-reading Catcher in the Rye because I had forgotten why I was in love with Holden Caulfield. I remember now, that charming integrity about him has swept me into this little maroon novel with much entertainment. I do adore how comical this book is. And yet in adoring it I get odd looks from those that wonder however I could be laughing at such a “depressing book.” Well never mind them, they just don’t get it. It’s a bit sad to think though, that if I ever met Holden he would probably think me a phony, or just some girl that dates phony bastards, especially being in college and all.
If I ever went out for drinks with Holden I think I would order whiskey. I wouldn’t get a scotch and soda, cause that would be copying him, and talk about phoniness there, and I would definitely not get some froo-froo drink. Can you really take a froo-froo-drink-orderer seriously? No.
In my life I have sent two copies of Catcher in the Rye through the mail, to boys I’ve loved. One has gone to Montana, and the other to Nebraska. I sent the first copy, my copy, beat up and all, to Montana. That was the copy that had all my finger smudges and such throughout the pages. The copy I loved, that went to Montana.
The other copy was white and picked up at a nearby bookstore, and was mainly a result of me being appalled. The boy in Nebraska that I tell I love each night had not read it. Which is really astonishing becuase he reminds me so much of Holden. I wrote a message to him in the back, and dedicated this copy to him and all in the front. You know, cheesy literary love stuff. I sent it with a box of Girl Scout cookies.
For some reason this is striking my symbolism tambourine, that one that grows inside as I take more English classes. Though I think I’m going to ignore it, and pass it off as a fear of commitment.
P.S. Chapter 7 is so far my favorite.