When my brother first read The Catcher in the Rye—he loved it—I asked my mom if I could read it, too (tho when did I start consulting with my mom on whether I could read a book?), and she said, “No. It’s in appropriate” or something like that. The point was I was too young. I wish I could say that I read it anyway, by cover of darkness—but, alas, no. I waited till I was deemed “old enough”—eighth grade—and then I read it and reread it. I absolutely LOVED this book. I loved Holden Caulfield. I loved his angsty angry teenage voice. I loved the size of the book (it fits in a jacket pocket!). I loved the mysterious title. I loved that it was partly set in New York City, where I grew up.
Now I’m 27. It’s been at least 11 years since my last reread, I honestly remember very little about the book, and now I am going to blog my experience of the long-awaited re-encounter. Come along for the ride!