The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger (1951) follows Holden Caulfield, a cynical yet deeply troubled 16-year-old, who leaves his prep school days before Christmas break after being expelled. He wanders New York City for three days, struggling with alienation, grief over his brother’s death, and a desire to protect childhood innocence.
THE CATCHER IN THE RYE
by J.D. Salinger
TO
MY
MOTHER
1
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is
where I was born, an 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 hemorrhages 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.
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.
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 gam
e
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.
There were never many girls at all at the football games. Only seniors were
allowed to bring girls with them. It was a terrible school, no matter how you looked at it.
I like to be somewhere at least where you can see a few girls around once in a while, even
if they're only scratching their arms or blowing their noses or even just giggling or
something. Old Selma Thurmer--she was the headmaster's daughter--showed up at the
games quite often, but she wasn't exactly the type that drove you mad with desire. She
was a pretty nice girl, though. I sat next to her once in the bus from Agerstown and we
sort of struck up a conversation. I liked her. She had a big nose and her nails were all
bitten down and bleedy-looking and she had on those damn falsies that point all over the
place, but you felt sort of sorry for her. What I liked about her, she didn't give you a lot of
horse manure about what a great guy her father was. She probably knew what a phony
slob he was.
The reason I was standing way up on Thomsen Hill, instead of down at the game,
was because I'd just got back from New York with the fencing team. I was the goddam
manager of the fencing team. Very big deal. We'd gone in to New York that morning for
this fencing meet with McBurney School. Only, we didn't have the meet. I left all the
foils and equipment and stuff on the goddam subway. It wasn't all my fault. I had to keep
getting up to look at this map, so we'd know where to get off. So we got back to Pencey
around two-thirty instead of around dinnertime. The whole team ostracized me the whole
way back on the train. It was pretty funny, in a way.
The other reason I wasn't down at the game was because I was on my way to say
good-by to old Spencer, my history teacher. He had the grippe, and I figured I probably
wouldn't see him again till Christmas vacation started. He wrote me this note saying he
wanted to see me before I went home. He knew I wasn't coming back to Pencey.
I forgot to tell you about that. They kicked me out. I wasn't supposed to come
back after Christmas vacation on account of I was flunking four subjects and not applying
myself and all. They gave me frequent warning to start applying myself--especially
around midterms, when my parents came up for a conference with old Thurmer--but I
didn't do it. So I got the ax. They give guys the ax quite frequently at Pencey. It has a
very good academic rating, Pencey. It really does.
Anyway, it was December and all, and it was cold as a witch's teat, especially on
top of that stupid hill. I only had on my reversible and no gloves or anything. The week
before that, somebody'd stolen my camel's-hair coat right out of my room, with my fur-
lined gloves right in the pocket and all. Pencey was full of crooks. Quite a few guys came
from these very wealthy families, but it was full of crooks anyway. The more expensive a
school is, the more crooks it has--I'm not kidding. Anyway, I kept standing next to that
crazy cannon, looking down at the game and freezing my ass off. Only, I wasn't watching
the game too much. What I was really hanging around for, I was trying to feel some kind
of a good-by. I mean I've left schools and places I didn't even know I was leaving them. I
hate that. I don't care if it's a sad good-by or a bad goodby, but when I leave a place I like
to know I'm leaving it. If you don't, you feel even worse.
I was lucky. All of a sudden I thought of something that helped make me know I
was getting the hell out. I suddenly remembered this time, in around October, that I and
Robert Tichener and Paul Campbell were chucking a football around, in front of the
academic building. They were nice guys, especially Tichener. It was just before dinner
and it was getting pretty dark out, but we kept chucking the ball around anyway. It kept
getting darker and darker, and we could hardly see the ball any more, but we didn't want
to stop doing what we were doing. Finally we had to. This teacher that taught biology,
Mr. Zambesi, stuck his head out of this window in the academic building and told us to
go back to the dorm and get ready for dinner. If I get a chance to remember that kind of
stuff, I can get a good-by when I need one--at least, most of the time I can. As soon as I
got it, I turned around and started running down the other side of the hill, toward old
Spencer's house. He didn't live on the campus. He lived on Anthony Wayne Avenue.
I ran all the way to the main gate, and then I waited a second till I got my breath. I
have no wind, if you want to know the truth. I'm quite a heavy smoker, for one thing--that
is, I used to be. They made me cut it out. Another thing, I grew six and a half inches last
year. That's also how I practically got t.b. and came out here for all these goddam
checkups and stuff. I'm pretty healthy, though.
Anyway, as soon as I got my breath back I ran across Route 204. It was icy as hell
and I damn near fell down. I don't even know what I was running for--I guess I just felt
like it. After I got across the road, I felt like I was sort of disappearing. It was that kind of
a crazy afternoon, terrifically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were
disappearing every time you crossed a road.
Boy, I rang that doorbell fast when I got to old Spencer's house. I was really
frozen. My ears were hurting and I could hardly move my fingers at all. "C'mon, c'mon,"
I said right out loud, almost, "somebody open the door." Finally old Mrs. Spencer
opened. it. They didn't have a maid or anything, and they always opened the door
themselves. They didn't have too much dough.
"Holden!" Mrs. Spencer said. "How lovely to see you! Come in, dear! Are you
frozen to death?" I think she was glad to see me. She liked me. At least, I think she did.
Boy, did I get in that house fast. "How are you, Mrs. Spencer?" I said. "How's Mr.
Spencer?"
"Let me take your coat, dear," she said. She didn't hear me ask her how Mr.
Spencer was. She was sort of deaf.
She hung up my coat in the hall closet, and I sort of brushed my hair back with
my hand. I wear a crew cut quite frequently and I never have to comb it much. "How've
you been, Mrs. Spencer?" I said again, only louder, so she'd hear me.
"I've been just fine, Holden." She closed the closet door. "How have you been?"
The way she asked me, I knew right away old Spencer'd told her I'd been kicked out.
"Fine," I said. "How's Mr. Spencer? He over his grippe yet?"
"Over it! Holden, he's behaving like a perfect--I don't know what. . . He's in his
room, dear. Go right in."
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