The Catcher In The Rye

Title: The Catcher In The Rye

Author: D. J. Salinger

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Publish date: 1951

ISBN: 9782253009788

Book quote:

“Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean - except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be.” 

I re-read this recently after a gap of three decades or so, and a prompting from comments to the effect of What is the point of this book, why would I want to read about some crappy dude who’s hopeless at everything and screws up his life in every possible way? To be fair, my only recollection of the novel from last reading was a vague sensation of annoyance.

For starters, what comes out of Holden’s mouth and transpires in action is certainly crappy, but there’s no doubt we’re meant to have empathy for him – precisely because of his empathy for others. It’s this, and the inability to bear the monstrous injustice he starts to be aware of as he grows out of the viewfinder of childhood, that makes him turn away from the painful sight and start poking his finger in his eye or whatever moronic consequential action he decides on next. He can’t stand to see a stranger snubbed in the street, or a roommate he doesn’t like being excluded (even it’s for precisely the same reasons he dislikes them for). Certainly not even entertain the idea of a young girl whom he likes being treated in a way that – well, in a way that boys tend to treat girls. The moral struggle and culpability of not being able to right all (or any) of the wrongs in the world is an ongoing issue for any human with a conscience. The post-war environment of the early 1950s and the state of being an adolescent serve here as nexus for this anxiety to coalesce against. It’s not, however, a unique situation.

Critics sometimes cite the ‘shocking’ vocabulary as a milestone in literary freedom of expression. The only shocking thing about the vocabulary is the head-bangingly monotonous repetition. Whether Salinger set out to gain profanity-notoriety-points or whether he was merely using the inarticulacy as a show-not-tell for the powerlessness of Holden’s emotional state is a moot point. For sure, something written this self-indulgently and carelessly would never see past the inside of a garbage bin in an editor’s office these days. If writers today wanted to gain the same effect we’d have to use a whole heap of other tactics to keep the reader interested and validate the page count. The flat-footedness is accentuated in portions where other narrators come in. Strangely, they all have similar diction – minus some profanity, perhaps. It’s probably because of the shock-value that the volume ever got published. Moral mores are some of the hardest obstacles to transcend and often they’re so ingrained we don’t even know they’re restraining us. So I guess good on you Salinger. Does that make it a classic though? No, I don’t think so. It makes it a historical piece, worthy of note. To hold it up as a valid literary example to generations of today is erroneous.

It’s only towards the end that we’re told of the event that started Holden on his downwards spiral: the suicide of a boy in the first school he was expelled from. The boy jumps to his death one night having borrowed Holden’s polo neck jumper. The jumper and not knowing why he’d wanted to borrow it connect Holden indecipherably and unstatedly to culpability for the death. The still relatively new field of psychology that Salinger explores through this plot and structure is clumsy by today’s standards but as an early conscious assay in literature it probably has a laudable place. Not one we need to linger at.

In short, yes, there is a point to Catcher In The Rye. It says, take time to bear with obnoxious moody teenagers (and people in general) because they might well be trying their best to reconcile themselves to an insane world full of cruelty, and figuring out how to respond. Today, we’d try to say this on a budget of about 1,500 words max. If you wanted longer, you’d have to make it a damned sight more interesting.

Two Moose Hoofs up out of five – both for historical value.

The White Tiger

Title:  The White Tiger

Author: Aravind Adiga

Publisher: Atlantic Books             

Publish date: 2008

ISBN: 978-1-84354-722-8

Book Quote:

‘There are three main diseases of this country, sir: typhoid, cholera, and election fever. This last one is the worst; it makes people talk and talk about things that they have no say in. …. At the tea shop, the gossip grew furious. … Like eunuchs discussing the Kaka Sutra, the voters discuss the elections in Laxmangarh.’

This novel is a polariser. A glance round the review circuit will show fans raving at the satirical wit and galloping pace, and detractors growling at the unfavourable portrayal of the poor. The unsavoury exploits of the anti-hero, and the liberties with political and social facts that Adiga is supposed to have taken. The novel won the Booker for 2008 and is (unbelievably) a debut novel. Debut novel! Holy smoke.

Who is the novel’s target audience? I would say, people like me. We have no idea about India or Indian politics, or customs. Any small knowledge we have is third hand. The acrylic-colour sketches of life are a vivid backdrop to the story for us – intriguing but not the main focus. The human interaction and the social structure constructs a much more solid level for us to be guided around. The ‘coop’ is at first glance an entirely alien system of populace management. But as we look closer, and closer, it all starts translating into something much more familiar. Frighteningly similar to ‘Western’ culture control methods. You do something because it’s expected of you. If you don’t do it, you’re bad. People in power have exemption passes for doing bad things because well, how would anything get done otherwise?

Many readers drop by the wayside because they can’t take the ‘savage’ humour. Why is it often described as ‘savage’? Too painful? Too nasty? Too near the bone? Or great because it is all of these? The function of the satire is of course utilizing humour to speak the unspeakable. This overarching concept is verbalized wthin the novel in the recurring phrase (originating from Pinky Madam), ‘What a fucking joke.’ Balram says: ‘But to be called a murderer by the police? What a fucking joke.’ Pretty much the nub of the argument.

However both fans and detractors tend to miss the point. Aravind doesn’t describe India. He’s describing an imbalance of social acceptability and culpability which is global, and seemingly inbuilt to human nature.  He’s drawing attention to moral hypocrisy in a way that is too visceral for many, and too apparently localized for immediate transparency. Think Animal Farm. Without a doubt we’re meant to make the literary connection, with the insistent repetition of The Stork, The Raven, and The Buffalo and The Mongoose as character substitution names. They’re even called ‘The Animals’ collectively. Yet I haven’t seen a single reviewer mention this. The local colour is there for structure and interest. The story’s purpose is moral analogy, not a comment on India per se.

Five Moose-hoofs up. This one was a jaw-dropper. 

The Strays

Title: The Strays

Author: Emily Bitto

Publisher: Affirm Press

Publish date: 2014

This author has two problems here:

1. They are working out their own doubts through the medium of this story. That’s not necessarily a bad thing but in this case, they’re worried about whether their writing is interesting enough and whether they’re talented enough. Which automatically makes for boring writing, even if the fears are erroneous.
2. Their editors failed them.

The narrator Lily is a single child from an average family, who’s semi-adopted into a fledgling artist colony. Apparently she finds the whole experience terribly bohemian and enviably, talentedly shocking. Some bad things happen along the way. The end.

The story could have been fine. There’s nothing better or worse about choosing this particular setting. But Lily in her constant struggle to validate her vicarious existence through the Trentham family simply serves as a puppet mouthpiece for the author, who has decided that anything so out-there as an artistic community with paedophilic tendencies has got to be worth a second look. Bitto hasn’t grasped the concept that there is more pathos and empathy to be had in the spilling of a glass of milk than in the explosion of several galaxies, given the right storytelling.

For the story to have worked, Lily would have had to do one of two things:

• Validated herself independently of the Trenthams
• Been more of an unreliable narrator and transparently weak, so the author and reader could talk over her head

She does neither.

In addition to this, the jumping about in time, particularly towards the end, ensures dissipation of whatever tension there was well in advance of the close of the novel. The relief when the whole lamentable dirge is over is immense.

It’s a shame, because Bitto has a nice turn of phrase and a fine hand for painting pictures. Were her editors more on the ball, they would have encouraged a calmer approach that played to her strengths of observation and given in less to uncontrolled histrionics. Hopefully this debut novel will boost confidence enough (having for some reason won the Stella Prize) for fears to be allayed and something more sensible in the future. There is scope.

I do have one burning question, though. How, in this world of The Strays, does one roast duck feed a gathering of at least 11 people? In my house it will feed three at the very most. If I knew the secret, my housekeeping money would last till October on January’s budget. There are three explanations I can think of:

1.  Evan Trentham possesses Christ-like carving and serving capabilities.
2. The family lives mainly by photosynthesis and only sits at table for show. This option would validate some of the other household arrangements.
3. There is a species of duck the size of a large turkey.

Or there’s a fourth possibility. The author and the editors were sloppy. Here and elsewhere. Better luck next time, maybe.

One weak wave of a Moose-hoof up out of five.

Repulsion Thrust

Title: Repulsion Thrust

Author: Magdalena Ball

Publisher: BeWrite Books, UK

Publish date: 2009

ISBN: 978-906609-30-6

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A curious book of poetry, which in the aftertaste reminds me more of John Donne than anything I can put my finger on. Replete with images and analogies from science, it tilts its gaze at the world into an unfamiliar angle, raising brows with facets and reflections unexpectedly apposite. Fragility, love and existence are measured in planetary distances, atoms, chemical reactions, quantum particles and scales of evolution. A metaphysical bent tuned neatly to our age, plucking harp strings with latex gloves.

Well worth the read and slow digestion - and not just because I know the author. Four Moose Hoofs up.  

True Stories

Title: True Stories

Author: Helen Garner

Publisher: Text Publishing

Publish date: 1996

ISBN: 978-1-921351-84-6

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A mixed bag, in quality and relevance. Garner probably knew this when she put it together, as the first story, ‘The Art of the Dumb Question’, draws you into its quiet intrigue in a typically Garnerish manner. The next few stories likewise pack a punch emotionally or by half-shock-tactics, half honesty. Things start dwindling with ‘My Child In The World’ and it’s a varied lot after that.

One wonders, why does the writer end up visiting and inspecting crematoria and morgues? Perhaps there’s a legitimate reporting reason behind it. Interesting as a one-time read that these pieces are, they sit as uncomfortably on the page as the author depicts herself in their physical space. Is their raison d'être similar to ‘Leonard Cohen’s taken a day job they say / For bizarre inspiration and hourly pay’?

Worth the read. Three Moose Hoofs Up.

Reaper Man

Title:  Reaper Man

Author: Terry Pratchett

ISBN: 978-0-06-102062-9

Published: Harper

Date: 1991

Book quote:‘How come you’ve got it? It’s upstairs! She was holding it […]’

SHE STILL IS. BUT IT IS ALSO HERE. OR ANYWHERE. IT IS ONLY A METAPHOR, AFTER ALL.

‘What she’s holding looks real enough.’

JUST BECAUSE SOMETHING IS A METAPHOR DOESN’T MEAN IT CAN’T BE REAL.
___________________________________________

The number of deeply philosophical issues this book addresses would put Socrates to shame. Only Terry Pratchett took himself much less seriously.

The nature of death, its balance with life, the origins of belief systems, the tangible reality of thoughts, the Ego and how it navigates through the Other, the evolution of dynamic thought… stuff like that. Wrapped up in a basketful of hilarious characters and must-read plot. In Discworld.

Death gets sacked (because he’s developing a personality) and in the un-administered void, chaos ensues. Things come right in the end. Somewhere in there there’s a rant about shopping malls and a discussion on inter-species relationships.

Humorous it may be, but pandering to the reader it ain’t. You need to keep up. P.O.V. changes aren’t necessarily demarcated and there is a laudable lack of dialogue tags – perhaps without always the necessary structure to tide the less agile reader over. At places it’s decidedly impressionistic. Which is not a bad thing, just watch for it while you’re reading.

Six Moose Hoofs Up out of Five. (Moose aren’t good at maths but they can sure be enthusiastic.)

Want To Know A Secret?

Title:  Want To Know A Secret?

Author: Sue Moorcroft       

ISBN: 978-1-906931-26-1

Published: Choc Lit (First published as ‘Family Matters’ by Robert Hale 2008)

Date: 2010

I picked up this book for educational purposes. Romance as a genre is out of my comfort zone. But as a writer, I have a problem. I have difficulty making my characters likable. Believable, sure. Sympathetic, not so much. And who would be better placed than a successful romance writer to show how it’s done? After all, ‘likable’ must be the core requirement for romance.

I wasn’t disappointed.

Moorcroft is a skillful crafter. Plot tempo and flow are well-judged and carefully thought out, although it did start to lack credibility towards the end. Characterization is fair, but doesn’t worry too much about having some cardboard cut-outs as stage-props. In fact is not squeamish about doling out a fair deal of two-dimensional structural support to all the characters. There’s nothing wrong with remembering that a story is an artifice, and an impressionist painting has just as much validity as a super-realism piece or a Chinese ink drawing: they reflect reality in a different manner.

The flow is so well controlled that although I was reading with a specific and technical purpose, keeping my mind on the job and not galloping gleefully along the plot line was difficult. It’s a very enjoyable book. It’s a testament to Moorcroft’s skill that only a minuscule proportion of her readers will notice the crafting techniques – all they’ll think was ‘That was great, where can I get more of this?’ Which is pretty much exactly the response you want, as a writer.

Plot? Ah. Downtrodden intelligent woman discovers dirty shenanigans her mean husband has been keeping from her and everything comes good. Enjoy.

What about that issue with the likable characters? Surprisingly simple. Here, it’s done mostly by opinions voiced by other characters. The figures you need to like don’t necessarily do likable things, but because other people keep going on about how great they are, the reader accepts it. It’s an incredible example of peer pressure and social conditioning working just as well on the written sheet as in the real world. The technique balances nicely with the narrative tactic of different points of view – which incidentally the author is not too particular about swapping in mid-gallop. Another one of those ‘rules’ which can be broken without repercussions, as long as you take the reader with you. You have to be good to pull it off.  

In short, I’d recommend the book. A little tailing-off towards the end and a few shadows of slap-dash here and there are the only reasons I’d give it 4 rather than 5 Moose-Hoofs up. But then Moose only have four hooves.