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Finished reading: El Guardian Entre El Centeno by J. D. Salinger 📚

I read this book, in English, in the US when I was 16-17 years old and an exchange student there. I had an overall nice memory of the book. But the Spanish translation that I just read disappointed me. I don’t think it does a good job conveying the original’s style and rhythm.

Nevertheless, it is a great book. There’s two things that resonated with me. The first one is the main theme, a teenager’s view of his world and the difficulties he has to reconcile that view, the people around him and his own place in that world. I know young people around that age and particularly one that I think is very close to Holden’s troubles.

The second theme I liked is that of flight and isolation. I sometimes want that for myself. I highlighted a few passages in Chapter 25 that I liked, and I found the original text of The Catcher In The Rye so that I could cite them in their original form.

Finally, what I decided I’d do, I decided I’d go away. I decided I’d never go home again and I’d never go away to another school again. I decided I’d just see old Phoebe and sort of say goodby to her and all, and give her back her Christmas dough, and then I’d start hitchhiking my way out West. What I’d do, I figured, I’d go down to the Holland Tunnel and bum a ride, and then I’d bum another one, and another one, and another one, and in a few days I’d be somewhere out West where it was very pretty and sunny and where nobody’d know me and I’d get a job. I figured I could get a job at a filling station somewhere, putting gas and oil in people’s cars. I didn’t care what kind of job it was, though. Just so people didn’t know me and I didn’t know anybody. I thought what I’d do was, I’d pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes. That way I wouldn’t have to have any goddam stupid useless conversations with anybody. If anybody wanted to tell me something, they’d have to write it on a piece of paper and shove it over to me. They’d get bored as hell doing that after a while, and then I’d be through with having conversations for the rest of my life. Everybody’d think I was just a poor deaf-mute bastard and they’d leave me alone. They’d let me put gas and oil in their stupid cars, and they’d pay me a salary and all for it, and I’d build me a little cabin somewhere with the dough I made and live there for the rest of my life. I’d build it right near the woods, but not right in them, because I’d want it to be sunny as hell all the time. I’d cook all my own food, and later on, if I wanted to get married or something, I’d meet this beautiful girl that was also a deaf-mute and we’d get married. She’d come and live in my cabin with me, and if she wanted to say anything to me, she’d have to write it on a goddam piece of paper, like everybody else. If we had any children, we’d hide them somewhere. We could buy them a lot of books and teach them how to read and write by ourselves.

That’s the whole trouble. You can’t ever find a place that’s nice and peaceful, because there isn’t any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you’re not looking, somebody’ll sneak up and write “Fuck you” right under your nose. Try it sometime. I think, even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it’ll say “Holden Caulfield” on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it’ll say “Fuck you.” I’m positive, in fact.

It was about ten after twelve or so then, and so I went back and stood by the door and waited for old Phoebe. I thought how it might be the last time I’d ever see her again. Any of my relatives, I mean. I figured I’d probably see them again, but not for years. I might come home when I was about thirty-five. I figured, in case somebody got sick and wanted to see me before they died, but that would be the only reason I’d leave my cabin and come back. I even started picturing how it would be when I came back. I knew my mother’d get nervous as hell and start to cry and beg me to stay home and not go back to my cabin, but I’d go anyway. I’d be casual as hell. I’d make her calm down, and then I’d go over to the other side of the living room and take out this cigarette case and light a cigarette, cool as all hell. I’d ask them all to visit me sometime if they wanted to, but I wouldn’t insist or anything. What I’d do, I’d let old Phoebe come out and visit me in the summertime and on Christmas vacation and Easter vacation. And I’d let D.B. come out and visit me for a while if he wanted a nice, quiet place for his writing, but he couldn’t write any movies in my cabin, only stories and books. I’d have this rule that nobody could do anything phony when they visited me. If anybody tried to do anything phony, they couldn’t stay.

I started reading: El Guardian Entre El Centeno by J. D. Salinger 📚

I had a copy at home, a Spanish translation by Carmen Criado. I bought it quite a while ago and was lying around waiting for me to pick it up. I read Catcher In The Rye in English when I was 16 and was staying in Lancaster, PA, for my junior year in an exchange student program. I remember Mr. Schlichter was my English teacher. An awesome one at it, too. So today I went back to JD Salinger, in Spanish this time, and I have to say that, so far, Holden Caulfield does not disappoint.

It’s raining men, elevated style.

Golconda, by René Magritte.

I was reminded of Magritte by this picture published by Rex Barrett.