The Catcher in The Rye

This post might get me in trouble with a few of you. You might really be upset with me after this one, but hey, what is this world without opinions? (The answer to that question is ‘peaceful’). I’d also like to point out that this isn’t meant to be a review, just really my opinion (that’s worth mentioning because I never read reviews on blogging sites). So here goes, The Catcher in the Rye.

It sucks. It seriously sucked my soul out of my body, ground it up into pathetic little dusty pieces, and spit it out in the face of my soulless body that was left behind. Yeah, it’s that bad.

My brother and I have this ongoing argument about it. If you don’t know what I’m talking about and you’ve heard of the novel before and are debating whether or not to read it, DON’T. If you do read it, I promise you will regret wasting your time on it. He says I don’t get it because I’m not the type of person who can relate.

This ‘charming’ novel is about a teenage boy who is trying to find himself, but if you ask me, it’s about a jerk who thinks everyone is a phony, and narrates a bit too much. Holden Caulfield, seriously I’ve never hated a character more than I hate him. Not even Voldemort or *shudder* Umbridge (is it just me or did anyone else want Umbridge to die more than they wanted Voldemort to?).

On top of just being an absolute pessimist and not even trying to be a decent human being, he didn’t care about anyone except for his little sister. I admit, it’s sweet that he cares about his little sister, and sometimes I thought he was acting decently because he would be nice to people and make up stories so as not to slander the name of anyone that any particular stranger thought highly of (for example, he met the mother of a boy he went to school with on a train and went on and on about how great a kid he was). So maybe he wasn’t an all around horrible person, but there couldn’t have possibly ever been a character generated by an author that was more dull or pessimistic or bipolar for that matter.

Maybe it’s the fact that my brother just doesn’t read as much as I do (I literally gave my mom a list of books when she asked what I wanted for Christmas). He can’t see how badly it’s written, but the author is so redundant.

I was in the middle of telling my younger brother to never waste his time on that book (he’s in seventh grade and I believe it will be on his reading list when he gets his summer work for next school year) when my other brother walked in, picked up the book, and claimed that he was considering re-reading it. It’s not worth the re-read (it’s also not worth the initial read, but to each his own), but I encouraged it hoping that this time he would see that there is no plot, and no point to the novel whatsoever. He’s read other books since then, what with all of the English classes he’s taken since seventh grade.

He told me I should respect the book that killed John Lennon. I told him he was an idiot.