Do you ever read something and when you get through the last page and close the book just think to yourself, "Well, that was pointless?"

Yes, yes, I know the "point" of The Catcher in the Rye (loss of innocence, yearning for the simplicity of the black and white world of childhood, the confusing time between childhood and adulthood, etc.). But when I finished the book this afternoon and put it down on my desk and thought about whether I got anything more out of it than I did the first time around when I was 15 years old, I came to this conclusion: not really.

While I was reading it, I did manage to feel more sympathy for Holden, which was a strain at times. I did feel bad that he felt so alone and misunderstood and unloved. But it's hard to keep that sympathy going when he's badmouthing nearly everyone he comes across and causing his own downfall simply by being lazy and self-centered.

I was brought up to believe that if things went wrong, it was probably my own fault. I heard "use your head" and "that's common sense" more than once, I can tell you that. And I'm not complaining about it. I'm glad that I was taught to own my mistakes and try harder next time. And as someone who enjoyed school and applied herself in order to excel, I find it very difficult to understand why someone would completely slack off and do nothing. How boring. So it is hard for me to relate to Holden Caufield.

Here's what I did like about the book. I liked the way Holden described things using hyperbole, referring to his childhood as 50 years ago or the play he saw with Sally as being about "five hundred thousand years in the life of this one old couple." And I especially liked the passage about how comforting it was that nothing changed behind the glass in the museum.

The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything stayed right where it was. Nobody'd move. You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with their pretty antlers and their pretty, skinny legs, and that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that same blanket. Nobody'd be different. The only thing that would be different would be you. Not that you'd be so much older or anything. It wouldn't be that, exactly. You'd just be different, that's all. You'd have an overcoat on this time. Or the kid that was your partner in line the last time had got scarlet fever and you'd have a new partner. Or you'd have a substitute taking the class, instead of Miss Aigletinger. Or you'd heard your mother and father having a terrific fight in the bathroom. Or you'd just passed by one of those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them. I mean you'd be different in some way.

I think to some degree we all get that sort of strange feeling when we revisit some place from the past and find it all as it was but we are different. I got that feeling when I revisited some old haunts of my college and young married days in Grand Rapids, Michigan (see my other blog). This wasn't the only passage with which I identified, but it was one of the ones I know that I couldn't have identified with when I read it at age 15. In a way, my revisitation of this book is the same thing. I have 15 years more under my belt and now I find I can be a bit more sympathetic and understanding.

But that doesn't mean I like the book. I still really don't like Holden Caufield. I find that the message of the book teeters between poignant and pointless whining, veering dangerously toward the latter. I'm sorry Holden's life sucks, but if he wasn't such a colossal jerk and slacker maybe it wouldn't be that bad. I appreciate that he wants to scrub out the profanity on the walls, but he is constantly thinking mean, profane things toward nearly everyone he meets. He has a terrible, insulting view of women and he's so wrapped up in himself he can't see that all the guys he despises are probably just as unsure of themselves as he is.

Maybe I'll change my mind when I read Nine Stories, but I just don't think Salinger was that talented of a writer. I don't think it takes much talent to tell a rambling, first person p.o.v. story from the perspective of an angsty teen. And I find myself wondering what it is about this story that teachers love. Because obviously they like something about it, feel it will in some way improve the writing or reading or thinking skills of their students. Otherwise, why assign it? Or do they assign it just to stick it to the man (not realizing that they are the man) as some lingering rebellious boomeresque metaphorical middle finger? "Oh, it's been banned, so let's undermine those stuffy conservative jerks who just want to repress our human nature and assign it to 9th and 10th graders." I dunno. I just don't get it. It seems like there ought to be better books out there about loss of innocence. Anyone know of any they'd recommend?

Early on in the story, Holden says, "What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it."

Well, here's one person who wouldn't be clamoring to call up Salinger if he was still alive.