This weekend, I finished the latest book to claim Catcher in the Rye-ish-ness. And although the snarky little read, Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You, was profound in its own right, it was, alas, no Catcher.So I wondered: What is it about Holden Caulfield that makes us want him replicated?
Is it that he’s real? That he’s deeply pained, both literal and existential, wise and weighed down by a sorrow so great, he’ll never get out from under it?
Whatever it is, we can agree that it’s something.
Since 1945, writers have tried to craft the next Caulfield. None have succeeded. JD Salinger still has the monopoly.
“I have an idea for our next family read-aloud,” my ten-year old son announced a month ago. “It’s right on the shelf. How about The Catcher in the Rye?”
No, I told him. Not yet.
He’s not ready.
But there will be a time when my son is lost in his adolescence, when he is misunderstood, seeking definition and purpose, simultaneously resisting and demanding change.
That will be When.
Dominic will read the book and love it, because he’ll see that he’s not alone in the world. There’s Holden, right there with him. Only Holden. Only Holden.
Not a single other person. Or character.
