HappyMonk LaLaLa • The Catcher in the Rye

The Catcher in the Rye

On a cold winter morning, reading The Catcher and the Rye, under a heating system that whirs in that kind of monotonous meaningless that keeps me warm while emptying my mind. I think of the way the Buddhists repeat phrases, over and over again, and how one can get lost in its sound between the interval of silence, like laying flat on the ground, thinking of nothing but escaping the confines of time. The Catcher and the Rye, is said to epitomize a generation, Holden Caulfield, the boy who has lost his innocence in a burgeoning modern world, pressing him from all sides with corrupting influences, as his youth escapes his hands. I can just see it too, the Buddhist monks, in their temples with beads in their hands, repeating Om-Ma-Nee-Pahd-May-Hum swaying their bodies back and forth, reminding themselves that the world is ever changing. And then there is this boy, Holden Caulfield, doing everything in his power just to be happy, just like how we lose everything in the pursuit of something that is unreachable. He wants to be happy, so he gives these nuns 10 dollars as a donation, he drives in taxis just to talk, and wonders what happens to the ducks in the winter, do they fly away or do they die? The world goes on, but his is falling apart. The copy of the Catcher and the Rye I am reading, is an old copy, it’s binding is bent, and the paper is hard, but the book fits into my hands like a glove. I am bonding with the writing style, I am learning from the character of the boy caught in a corrupt world just trying to be young and happy. The book belongs to a friend of mine, who like the book, is old, old enough to understand the implications this book had upon his generation, the generation of the hippies, the rebellious generation, the generation that wanted to recreate the world as love. I told him I was reading the Catcher and the Rye, and that I had read it before, but I was too young to understand it, and that now I can appreciate it, like a long summer’s day spent at the sea, watching the sun fall below the horizon, as it’s light is reflected upon the water and refracts in that kind of sparkling infinity. My friend asked me, what copy are you reading, (his voice was hesitant) and I said, yours, (and then without skipping a beat) I said, but I’ll take good care of it. I know that it was given to you by John. Okay, he said (trusting my word.) This morning, reading the Catcher and the Rye, under the warmth of the heater above me, while the world outside is caught in the deep freeze of winter, I turn to the front page and read an inscription scrawled below the dedication:

January 6 1984-

To my catcher

in the Rye –

it isn’t gold,

not even

myrrh—

but it’s real

I love you.

John.

And then I close the book, and read the front cover that says simply, The Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger and think to myself Om-Ma-Nee-Pahd-May-Hum, because there are some things that do last.