I wasn’t going to say anything, but the Salinger worship is getting a bit out of hand. Honestly, people. Catcher in the Rye is basically a Judy Blume book that grew a little hair on its balls.
Before all you English majors get your panties in a twist, go pull that paperback with the red cover off your top shelf and give it a fresh look now that you’re not writing a high school book report on the significance of the elephants on Phoebe’s pajamas.
Read it with the eyes of an adult.
I think you’ll quickly realize why Salinger knew better than to let it become a movie, because it’s hard not to imagine some ineffectual little pussy like Robert Pattinson in the role of Holden Caulfield.
If you loved the book, fine. That’s great. I’m not saying it’s bad. I’m just agreeing with everyone who thinks Salinger is overrated.
I mean, come on. The guy lived for ninety-one years. He basically hit the literary lottery over a half-century ago with one little novel about teen angst. Good for him, but let’s stop confusing Salinger for guys like Vonnegut and Hemingway.