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This past Saturday I finally finished the Origin of Species. Saturday was the 27th of February, meaning I had a single day left to read an entire book to up the count of how many I had read for the month, which was the embarrassingly low number of only four: The Satanic Bible, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, On the Origin of Species, and the one I’m going to be excerpting today.
I could have read a number of things, but something struck me as a great idea. From my creeping skills, I knew one of Jonathan’s favorite books is The Catcher in the Rye. (Unless he lied to the internet, of course.) Luckily, I owned it from a few years back when I wondered what it was about, after the book name-dropped in “Emo Kid.”
When I bought it, I had read it up to the last twenty or thirty pages. Reason being, it had fallen behind my bed where I couldn’t reach it without seriously hurting my arm. I thought it was dull, so I didn't care much and it remained there for years fairly forgotten.
I’ve planned to read it again eventually, as I knew it was a classic and I'm really pushing myself to cram as much knowledge and culture into my brain before college later this year. I always envisioned I’d be incredibly bored, and want to poke my eyes out while I read it, so I kept putting it off. Surprisingly, I thoroughly enjoyed it, and I have a greater appreciation for it than never before. I’m so glad I reread it, especially through to the end. The lasts few lines of the novel are so true to life.
Reading it, I kept wondering what Jonathan thought of what I read, and if the same parts I found significant stuck out to him too. It doesn’t really matter, though. The only reason I read The Catcher in the Rye yesterday was my romanticized desire to feel closer to him—in what way I wasn’t sure—after reading it. Surely, I did, and truthfully, I've never felt such a compulsion, actually one at all, to do something like this with someone in mind.
I used to think I was so uncaring and incapable, I disillusioned myself into believing my love would only be a business deal no matter who it were with. Now, I’m stuck in a tornado of everything I thought love meant, and everything it's becoming to mean for me. I cannot even define it, there's simply not the characters to explain it.
I wonder what makes us feel that way, the feeling we get when we listen to a special person’s favorite album, or read a special person’s favorite book. If there was one thing I wish I could explain the magic of by means of sociology today, that would be it. Above all else, that’s my second life love.
This Week's Book: The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. SalingerI could have read a number of things, but something struck me as a great idea. From my creeping skills, I knew one of Jonathan’s favorite books is The Catcher in the Rye. (Unless he lied to the internet, of course.) Luckily, I owned it from a few years back when I wondered what it was about, after the book name-dropped in “Emo Kid.”
When I bought it, I had read it up to the last twenty or thirty pages. Reason being, it had fallen behind my bed where I couldn’t reach it without seriously hurting my arm. I thought it was dull, so I didn't care much and it remained there for years fairly forgotten.
I’ve planned to read it again eventually, as I knew it was a classic and I'm really pushing myself to cram as much knowledge and culture into my brain before college later this year. I always envisioned I’d be incredibly bored, and want to poke my eyes out while I read it, so I kept putting it off. Surprisingly, I thoroughly enjoyed it, and I have a greater appreciation for it than never before. I’m so glad I reread it, especially through to the end. The lasts few lines of the novel are so true to life.
Reading it, I kept wondering what Jonathan thought of what I read, and if the same parts I found significant stuck out to him too. It doesn’t really matter, though. The only reason I read The Catcher in the Rye yesterday was my romanticized desire to feel closer to him—in what way I wasn’t sure—after reading it. Surely, I did, and truthfully, I've never felt such a compulsion, actually one at all, to do something like this with someone in mind.
I used to think I was so uncaring and incapable, I disillusioned myself into believing my love would only be a business deal no matter who it were with. Now, I’m stuck in a tornado of everything I thought love meant, and everything it's becoming to mean for me. I cannot even define it, there's simply not the characters to explain it.
I wonder what makes us feel that way, the feeling we get when we listen to a special person’s favorite album, or read a special person’s favorite book. If there was one thing I wish I could explain the magic of by means of sociology today, that would be it. Above all else, that’s my second life love.
What I did do, I gave old Sally Hayes a buzz. She went to Mary A. Woodruff, and I knew she was home because I’d had this letter form her a couple of weeks ago. I wasn’t too crazy about her, but I’d known her for years. I used to think she was quite intelligent, in my stupidity. The reason I did was because she knew quite a lot about the theater and plays and literature and all that stuff. If somebody knows quite a lot about those things, it takes you quite a while to find out whether they’re really stupid or not. . . . My big problem is, I always sort of think whoever I’m necking is a pretty intelligent person. It hasn’t got a goddam thing to do with it, but I keep thinking it anyway. (Page 105)
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The part that got me was, there was a lady sitting next to me that cried all through the goddam picture. The phonier it got, the more she cried. You’d have thought she did it because she was kindhearted as hell, but I was sitting right next to her, and she wasn’t. She had this little kid with her that was bored as hell and had to go to the bathroom, but she wouldn’t take him. She kept telling him to sit still and behave himself. She was about as kindhearted as a goddam wolf. You take somebody that cries their goddam eyes out over phony stuff in the movies, and nine times out of ten they’re mean bastards at heart. I’m not kidding. (Pages 139-140)
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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. (Page 204)
Books read this past week...
★★★☆☆ The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
★★★★★ On the Origin of Species: The Illustrated Edition by Charles Darwin
(All title links link back to my webpages of them on Goodreads.com, a great library/reviewing/rating website for readers. Check it out, and add me as a friend if you decide to join!)
5 comments:
It's astonishing how little one needs to know to succeed in college. If I were you, I wouldn't worry too much over it. I've been utterly bored and largely unchalleneged throughout my few years in college. So, you'll be fine.
Not to discourage reading, of course, or learning more, for that matter. Just something to ease the burden of expectation.
It's often that I feel horrifically ignorant of literature. I feel as if I've read a miniscule amount. ha. Which is the truth, I think but that can be debated.
Catcher in the Rye never interested me. Not my type of reading material.
I want to clarify that the comment was sent by me. I was on a school computer that was having difficulties publishing.
@ Writing Shadows/Shad B.: My dad tells me the same thing all the time. I always defend it with wanting a PhD as opposed to a Bachelor's or Master's. In reality, the drive is all my own. If I wasn't going to college, or college didn't exist, my thirst for knowledge would remain absolutely the same.
I didn't think it was my type either, but like I said, I did end up enjoying it. I'm having the same thing happen as I read The Great Gatsby!
Oh, I tried reading Catcher in the Rye, but I still can't get into it. Although, when I had to read The Great Gatsby in high school, I loved it. That's my type of novel.
I want several PhD's. Just don't get discouraged by the nature of college. Maybe it'll be different at a University, if you choose the right one. I'd go with one that gives you undergraduate research experience as a requirement rather than an extra.
@ Shad B.: I know what you mean about not being able to get into it. Unfortunately that's how a lot of books are for me, partially because I dislike reading so much.
Thanks for the advice about universities. :) I'll keep that in mind.
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