3.2 – Establishing a Voice

 

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger – First person flawed / unreliable character-narrator – narrative dominated by the character’s distinctive voice and defective perspective.

 

 

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. In the first place, that stuff bores me, and in the second place, my parents would have about two haemorrhages apiece if I told anything pretty personal about them. They’re quite touchy about anything like that, especially my father. They’re nice and all–I’m not saying that–but they’re also touchy as hell. Besides, I’m not going to tell you my whole goddam autobiography or anything. I’ll just tell you about this madman stuff that happened to me around last Christmas just before I got pretty run-down and had to come out here and take it easy. I mean that’s all I told D.B. about, and he’s my brother and all. He’s in Hollywood. That isn’t too far from this crumby place, and he comes over and visits me practically every week end. He’s going to drive me home when I go home next month maybe. He just got a Jaguar. One of those little English jobs that can do around two hundred miles an hour. It cost him damn near four thousand bucks. He’s got a lot of dough, now. He didn’t use to. He used to be just a regular writer, when he was home. He wrote this terrific book of short stories, The Secret Goldfish, in case you never heard of him. The best one in it was “The Secret Goldfish.” It was about this little kid that wouldn’t let anybody look at his goldfish because he’d bought it with his own money. It killed me. Now he’s out in Hollywood, D.B., being a prostitute. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s the movies. Don’t even mention them to me.

1. If you really want to hear about it – front-focused subordinate (conditional) clause
2. probably – adverb of modality
3. and all – idiom
4. that David Copperfield kind of crap – noun-phrase
5. going into it – idiom
6. if you want to know the truth – end-focused conditional clause & continued use of second person
7. In the first place – prepositional phrase & discourse marker
8. about two haemorrhages apiece – humerous mixture of litotes and hyperbole
9. pretty – idiomatic adverb of degree
10. touchy – non-standard (dialect) evaluative adjective
11. I’m not saying that – parenthetic self-referential clause
12. touchy as hell – idiom and hyperbole
13. Besides – discourse marker
14. my whole goddam autobiography or anything – taboo language as a pre-modifier (adjective)
15. just – adverb of emphasis typical of colloquial lexicon
16. this madman stuff – deictic term and idiom
17. pretty – adverb of degree typical of colloquial lexicon
18. take it easy – idiom
19. I mean – self-referential tag and discourse marker
20. and all – vague language typical of spoken language
21. That – deictic term
22. this crumby place – deictic term and idiomatic language
23. practically – adverb of degree typical of colloquial lexicon
24. maybe – adverb of modality typical of colloquial lexicon
25. One of those little English jobs – deictic term, vague reference and idiomatic language
26. damn near – adverbial of degree typical of colloquial lexicon & taboo language
27. bucks – colloquial lexis
28. dough – colloquial lexis
29. in case you never heard of him. –
30. It killed me. – short sentence, idiom/hyperbole
31. Don’t even mention them to me. – imperative (typical of spoken interaction in that it implies it is taking place)

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.

To be honest, the basic facts of my existence, like who I am and where I came from, and who shagged who so many years ago in order to bring me into existence, and what star some shepherds followed to find me lying there a dumb naked baby, and all that kind of once-upon-a-time crap, are all kind of not very interesting.

In the first place, that stuff bores me, and in the second place, my parents would have about two haemorrhages apiece if I told anything pretty personal about them. They’re quite touchy about anything like that, especially my father. They’re nice and all–I’m not saying that–but they’re also touchy as hell. Besides, I’m not going to tell you my whole goddam autobiography or anything.

You see, I’m no one special, and what’s more, my old man and old lady are even less special. They’d tell you that themselves if you gave them half a chance. In fact, they’d more or less chew your goddamned ear off with stories of their miserable upbringing and how hard they had it, and how back in the day no one was special and everyone was cool with that, and how these days people don’t know they’re born, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.

I’ll just tell you about this madman stuff that happened to me around last Christmas just before I got pretty run-down and had to come out here and take it easy.

Because I do know I’m born. And on top of that I know that my being born was more of a burden than anything else. And it’s that burden that I want to tell you about. and it’s because of that burden that I’ve been holed up here in this shit-heap so that I can cleanse my psychic temple or some crap.

I mean that’s all I told D.B. about, and he’s my brother and all. He’s in Hollywood. That isn’t too far from this crumby place, and he comes over and visits me practically every week end. He’s going to drive me home when I go home next month maybe. He just got a Jaguar. One of those little English jobs that can do around two hundred miles an hour. It cost him damn near four thousand bucks.

Though I did confide in Coriolanus, but he’s only the goddamned caretaker. But he’s a good guy, as far as that goes. Of course, he’s still a bloody caretaker and all that that implies. Like, he hasn’t read a single book in his life and he left school before they covered the basic facts of life and the laws of nature and stuff. But he’s wise too, in a funny way. Which kind of makes you think. Like, why the hell did I go to school at all?

He’s got a lot of dough, now. He didn’t use to. He used to be just a regular writer, when he was home. He wrote this terrific book of short stories, The Secret Goldfish, in case you never heard of him. The best one in it was “The Secret Goldfish.” It was about this little kid that wouldn’t let anybody look at his goldfish because he’d bought it with his own money. It killed me. Now he’s out in Hollywood, D.B., being a prostitute. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s the movies. Don’t even mention them to me.

Old Coriolanus doesn’t give a damn about no one. He really doesn’t. Which is mainly what makes him dead wise. And even though he only learnt to write words when he was twenty or something, he still manages to churn out a fair few pages of words-of-wisdom every couple of weeks. He writes about kids like me, kids who come here and think they’re messed up in the head, and then who leave when they just figure out that they’re not and never have been. It’s the world man, he tells me. It’s the world that’s messed up.

Where I want to start telling is the day I left Pencey Prep. Pencey Prep is this school that’s in Agerstown, Pennsylvania. You probably heard of it. You’ve probably seen the ads, anyway. They advertise in about a thousand magazines, always showing some hotshot guy on a horse jumping over a fence. Like as if all you ever did at Pencey was play polo all the time. I never even once saw a horse anywhere near the place. And underneath the guy on the horse’s picture, it always says: “Since 1888 we have been molding boys into splendid, clear-thinking young men.” Strictly for the birds. They don’t do any damn more molding at Pencey than they do at any other school. And I didn’t know anybody there that was splendid and clear-thinking and all. Maybe two guys. If that many. And they probably came to Pencey that way.

The whole sorry tale more or less begins when I turned up at that private school out in the middle of nowhere. That’s where I have to start telling. Of course it’s famous: Stone Masons’ College. Like, what the hell are they trying to turn out? Sculptors? I don’t think a single sculptor ever went through that place. Not even in the middle ages when the whole thing kicked off when some king threw a few groats at a peasant and told him to set up a school or something. And not only are there no sculptors there, but the whole place is completely empty of anyone with a bit of originality. It’s like there’s no one allowed with the least hint of any spark. And I’m not saying that I have all that much spark. But Jesus: those guys are like automatons or something. They really are.

Anyway, it was the Saturday of the football game with Saxon Hall. The game with Saxon Hall was supposed to be a very big deal around Pencey. It was the last game of the year, and you were supposed to commit suicide or something if old Pencey didn’t win. I remember around three o’clock that afternoon I was standing way the hell up on top of Thomsen Hill, right next to this crazy cannon that was in the Revolutionary War and all. You could see the whole field from there, and you could see the two teams bashing each other all over the place. You couldn’t see the grandstand too hot, but you could hear them all yelling, deep and terrific on the Pencey side, because practically the whole school except me was there, and scrawny and faggy on the Saxon Hall side, because the visiting team hardly ever brought many people with them.

Anyway, it was the day of the…