The Catcher in the Rye

I'm up too late; it's nearly eleven, and I haven't yet turned out the light.

I was reading The Catcher in the Rye, the second book in my quest to devour the classics this year.

I admit; I just looked up the interpretations of it, to see if there was something I was missing in it. It's a classic, so it has to be good (supposedly), but it just made me sad.

How horrible, to be so cynical, so hopeless. To, at seventeen, find no spark, no meaning in anything.

I think the saddest thing about the book is that it mirrors what I see so often in my own generation. We have been taught that to be intelligent, to be thoughtful, is to be cynical.

I can't say that I liked the book. But I'm going to sleep on it, and I may find in the morning, upon reflection, that I can appreciate it.


Morning After Update: I still find the novel deeply sad, but I think I do appreciate it for its style and examination of a teenage mind, even such a troubled one as Holden Caulfield's. However, I do have to say that before going to bed last night I wanted something to lift my spirits. I Has A Hotdog is good for that. How could you possibly look at this...

...and not laugh??