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My thinking here is to put everything in the order of how it happened, give or take certain intervals of a young man skunked out of his skull box, some dots duly connected. But damn. A kid is a terrible thing to be, in charge of nothing. If you get past that and grown, it’s easiest to forget about the misery and pretend you knew all along what you were doing. Assuming you’ve ended up someplace you’re proud to be. And if not, easier to forget the whole thing, period. So this is going to be option three, not proud, not forgetting. Not easy.
This quote opens Chapter 2 and sets the tone for the novel's narrative style. The tension between remembering and forgetting speaks to the broader human tendency to rewrite personal history—either to take pride in one’s journey or to bury the pain of failure. Demon, however, commits to "option three": facing his past head-on, neither glamorizing nor erasing it, and acknowledging both the misery of his childhood and the struggles that persist into adulthood.
The quote underscores the vulnerability of childhood, describing it as a state of powerlessness where the trajectory of a life is shaped by external forces beyond the child’s control. This aligns with one of the novel's central concerns: how systemic failures and personal hardships converge to shape a person’s future. Demon’s acknowledgment that "a kid is a terrible thing to be" reflects the novel’s critique of how society often neglects and exploits its most vulnerable members, leaving them without the tools or agency to alter their circumstances.
Demon’s commitment to recounting his life truthfully serves as an act of defiance against the forces that have tried to silence or define him. By documenting his experiences "in the order of how it happened," he reclaims his narrative, refusing to let others’ perceptions or the cultural shame of poverty and addiction dictate how his story is told. This choice is neither "proud" nor "forgetting," but it is transformative—it’s a step toward understanding and reclaiming his identity. This self-awareness adds depth to Demon’s character and illustrates the novel’s exploration of narrative as both a survival tool and a means of resisting the erasure of difficult truths.
That Holden guy held my interest. Hating school, going to the city to chase whores and watch rich people’s nonsense, and then you come to find out, all he wants in his heart is to stand at the edge of a field catching little boys before they go over the cliff like he did. I could see that. I mean, see it, I drew it, with those white cliffs on the Kentucky border where Miss Barks took me that time. I’ve not ever seen rye growing, so I made him the catcher in the tobacco. Likewise the Charles Dickens one, seriously old guy, dead and a foreigner, but Christ Jesus did he get the picture on kids and orphans getting screwed over and nobody giving a rat’s ass. You’d think he was from around here.
This quote from Chapter 45 serves as a meditation on the enduring power of literature to expose systemic injustices and provide a sense of solidarity. The intertextuality of this moment, particularly its nod to David Copperfield, deepens the novel's exploration of systemic failure and the universality of human struggle. In Dickens' work, orphans and vulnerable children are symbols of a society that fails to protect its most innocent members. Demon’s observation that Dickens "got the picture on kids and orphans getting screwed over and nobody giving a rat’s ass" links the 19th-century critique of industrialized England to the present-day reality of opioid-devastated Appalachia. By stating that Dickens could be "from around here," Demon underscores the timelessness of these issues, suggesting that while the particulars may change, the mechanisms of exploitation remain consistent.
Holden’s metaphor of "catching little boys before they go over the cliff" is reframed in Demon’s context as “the catcher in the tobacco,” a poignant reimagining that grounds the universal theme of lost innocence in the specific cultural and economic struggles of rural America. This reinterpretation is not only a reflection of Demon’s creativity but also a commentary on how narratives can be adapted to illuminate new truths. The tobacco field, a symbol of Appalachian labor and exploitation, underscores the precariousness of survival in a region defined by systemic poverty and limited opportunities. It’s a moment that encapsulates the novel’s mission: to reframe the Appalachian experience not as an isolated tragedy but as part of a universal human story.
She asked me what I wanted to be whenever I grew up. I had to think about that. We went past some barns and tobacco fields with their big yellow-green leaves waving in the sad evening light. She looked over at me and said, Hey, why so glum, chum?
I told her nobody ever asked me that question before, about growing up and what I wanted to be, so I didn’t know. Mainly, still alive.
This quote from Chapter 12 encapsulates Demon’s profound sense of disillusionment and limitation. The scene is simple: a child being asked what he wants to be when he grows up is a universal moment of hope and possibility, yet for Demon, it is a question that underscores the absence of these very things in his life. His response—“Mainly, still alive”—exposes how survival itself feels like the pinnacle of ambition in his circumstances.
The imagery of the barns and tobacco fields in the "sad evening light" reflects the melancholy that pervades Demon’s worldview. These fields, symbols of labor and exploitation, serve as a backdrop to his realization that no one has ever considered his future, let alone encouraged him to dream beyond mere survival. This moment highlights not only the limitations imposed by systemic poverty but also the emotional void left by a lack of nurturing and guidance.
Demon’s admission that he has never been asked about his aspirations speaks to the dehumanizing effects of the systems that have failed him. Foster care, addiction, and economic hardship reduce him to a statistic rather than a person with potential and individuality. His answer, stripped of hope or ambition, reflects the internalization of these failures.
