I was never one of those kids who read Catcher in the Rye and immediately related to Holden. I pretended I was, though, because I loved the idea of afternoons at the Natural History Museum in New York and a red hunting hat. Also, it seemed edgy at the time. Nah. It was a while before I read Franny and Zooey, but it became a love that lasted through to now. When I'm feeling particularly misanthropic, I imagine myself laying fully clothed in a bath, taking pathetic drags on a soggy cigarette, and staring upwards at an old New York apartment's bathroom ceiling. I can usually drown out the noise made by my floormates this way.
It's not even that I feel particularly connected to either one of the characters, but it's like I don't have to think anymore when I read and reread their dialogue; it all just seems like thoughts I had days ago but am only now remembering. So, when Salinger died, I wasn't sad or heartbroken or relieved or anything. It just sort of felt like the one person that understood the pain of being was finally gone and a part of history, where he belonged. I don't like it when people I admire are still alive, because it always feels like they're never actual people.
