The Catcher in the Rye: I caught a body

Posted on May 31, 2012 by zhenya alvaranga

two words: original emo

1st edition cover, 1951

I tend to like suicidal gits who just so happen to be the smartest (and the dumbest) fucker in the room. In fact, that is the story of my life.

The Catcher in the Rye is about a rich kid – articulate, athletic, but a bit weird – whose bad day just got dipped in shit because he’s been expelled yet again from yet another prep school. Instead of returning home, he goes on a bender in his native New York City. But he’s not your predictable American-psycho entitled meathead. He’s as sad as they come. And he’s trying to tell you why, in his own voice. Seriously, it’s a first-person narrative.

Here’s what he says in a nutshell,

“I’m sensitive prick with a stupid hat and a death wish. Adults are frauds and social norms are bullshit. But if you were the underdog in any fight I’d have your back, like a catcher in the rye.”

Naturally, it caused a ruckus when it came out. A promising kid rebels to a point of self-annihilation for no apparent reason; there’s smoking, drinking, bad language, death, violence and sex, and he’s pants-down vulnerable. And what’s with J.D. Salinger’s unusual narration? Catcher’s power resides exactly in the reader’s response to these exquisite ‘problems’. Why is Holden so self-destructively disillusioned? And how did J.D. write such an original, sublimely informal and utterly convincing young voice?

It killed me. p5

Many have tried unsuccessfully to adapt the book to film, which makes me clap-hands-quietly pleased. This is one depressing slice of perfection I do not want to see happied-up or angsted-out. It’d be like adapting On The Road for screen… Wait, they did what?… NOOOOO!!!

Anyways, I adore The Catcher in the Rye. I’ve been re-reading it every chance I get for more than a decade. It gets better every time. Oddly enough, my live-in lover @galactusrages couldn’t get past the first page. He hates it in the same way I hate the sound of my own voice played back to me. OH, HAIL NAW, there’s no goddam way I sound like that!

My lover isn’t the first or last to hate the guy; Holden Caulfield is a douche. He may be an angry, reckless, whiny bastard… wait, which emo am I talking about again? Either way, I’m in love.

soundtrack
creep-radiohead
o.g. original gangster-ice t

the list revision

Posted on July 30, 2011 by zhenya alvaranga

female author: check. non-'american' author: check.

After emerging curiosity and biases, along with the realization that I’m cheating myself with so many re-reads, I’ve revised The List:

Four re-reads have been replaced,
I’m reading a (different) Philip Roth after Callil quit over his 2011 Man Booker win,
I’m tossing Naipaul because he’s a bigoted ass-wipe -Jean Rhys has the Caribbean covered and I’ve reached my limit with his bullshit,
The List has been de-Yank-ified -although with Nabokov classed as ‘American’ and Rhys as ‘English’, national status isn’t terribly meaningful- and
As many female authors as possible, from a severely restricted ‘Top 100‘, have been added.

it’s been a while…

Posted on July 29, 2011 by zhenya alvaranga

When it’s winter and nighttime in this great southern land, it’s summer and daytime up north, which means this fiendin’ sista gets no sleep – I’m nightly on the tube, high as a kite on sports. By day, with bleeding eyes and chilblained fingers, I groan through the perfunctory.

Welcome to zombie-land, you’re stuck on this fun ride for three months solid!

I’m not about to feign regret. It will happen again next year, and 2012 will be disgusting since it’s an Olympic year. Like I said, it’s the way daddy made me.

But wait, I recall musical digressions too.

Reggae/Dancehall is meant for sticky summer nights, if only for the batty riders and dry-humping. But Gyptian, my beautiful Jamaican brother, braved our Melbourne cold and so did I. He was beautiful. His stage presence and voice were incredible. Granted, there was no band, just some dude mixing riddims which shits me no end, but did I mention Gyptian is beautiful and brotha can sing?

The night was further blighted by a police incident. ‘Nuf said.

Wherever you are, nothing beats local talent and Karnivool is phenomenal. Ian Kenny is a weedy bespectacled musical god. I happily destroyed myself in an albeit lame pit – I know, I’m as weak as pus – but my hoarseness and aching neck paid tribute to those Perth boys. I close on them with Fade and testament to just how hard these fuckers work.

Oscar+Martin, a joyful answer to Friendly Fires and Sparkadia, and down-the-road local boys from Two Bright Lakes, was also a treat. I was nearly the tallest, a novelty, and definitely the oldest, sadly not a novelty, at this gig. The best bit by far was the kid taking puffs off his inhaler before dipping into a killer hip-hop skit. And those drums, man I loves me some drums! Here they are in video…

Finally, I mourn the passing of a legend.

On July 23, 2011, Amy Winehouse died. She was love too raw, too exposed. She numbed the hurt of love to death. I rend my shirt for the one who gave pieces of her soul in prescient lyrics and infallible tones unceasingly, and am ashamed that I have nothing but endless tears to give back…

If my man was fighting
Some unholy war
I would be behind him
Straight shook up beside him
With strength he didn’t know
It’s you I’m fighting for
He can’t lose with me in tow
I refuse to let him go
At his side and drunk on pride
We wait for the blow
We put it in writing
But we are writing for
Just us on kitchen floor
Justice done presiding
My stomach standing still like you reading my will
Still stands in spite of what his scars say
And I’ll battle til this bitter finale
Just me, my dignity and this guitar case
Yeah, my man is fighting some unholy war
I will stand beside you
And who you dying for?
B, I would have died too. I’d like to
If my man was fighting
Some unholy war…

You died and became immortal, Amy Winehouse. And I grieve.

Oh, and I ploughed through some heavies, On The Road, The Grapes of Wrath and All The King’s Men included. I have new thoughts on the blog, and will be changing The List accordingly.

So begins my battle – nearly dried out, newly rested and clutching sketchy drafts – to reclaim the second half of fiftytwoin52….

less than one week til i go cold turkey…

Posted on July 20, 2011 by zhenya alvaranga

le tour de france, 2011

While on my Northern-Hemisphere-Summer-of-Sports fix, which is sadly and thankfully about to end with LeTour, I’ve been reading and tweeting. Check out the tweets here.

Beginning to miss my blog dearly, however, expect me to be off the wagon again in September when the US Open begins in NYC, but only for two weeks as opposed to three months. It’z da way it iz…

freudian shits

Posted on July 16, 2011 by zhenya alvaranga

you said your bother...

I just noticed ‘solomom’, fuck knows how long it’s been there. Funny, since that’s all I’ve been for two weeks solid – the padawan and princess are on holiday. Every thought has to be rushed at peril of interruption. Mommy, can I have _____? Mommy, _____said/did _____! Mommy, can you play with me? Must wrap this up now. The squinkies and clone troopers are…

where ya been, woman?!

Posted on June 7, 2011 by zhenya alvaranga

rafa and what's his face @ men's final french open, 2011

I’d like to blame it all on being very ill after a trip to Sydney (I really was), but the truth is, a little event at Roland Garros put a world-class moratorium on my book blog. I’m a little bit of a tennis fan, so May/June are write-off months for me. I watch live sports all night and sleepwalk all day.

I have a week or two before SW19 flu (a.k.a. Wimbledon) takes hold, so I’ll be slamming down the rest of The Grapes of Wrath and The Heart of the Matter before I become hopelessly distracted again.

The pains of blogging! Vamos Rafa and Serena!!!

we need to talk about tilda

Posted on May 14, 2011 by zhenya alvaranga

Yippieeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Not on The List, but the BBC film adaptation of We Need to Talk About Kevin, directed by Lynne Ramsay (once sacked and replaced by Peter Jackson in The Lovely Bones) and led by the amazing Tilda Swinton, gives me mad chills.

We Need To talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver is a thoughtful and riveting thriller about the relationship between a New York career-oriented mother and her unusual son who grows up to be a Columbine-style mass murderer. Its discourse on nature v. nurture is compelling, so much so it fucked me up royally for weeks, and I began frequently and randomly hugging my kids for much longer that they were comfortable with.

I cannot wait to see the movie.

another book bites the dust

Posted on April 25, 2011 by zhenya alvaranga

I can’t find a copy of Deliverance. It’s like it never existed. So I’m reading All The King’s Men because it’s available.

Just got a text from City library that The Corrections is ready for pick-up. Thanks, guys :).

hooray!

Posted on April 9, 2011 by zhenya alvaranga

Galactus has his own blog! galactus rages

euripides, o’brien and me on derivative literature

Posted on April 9, 2011 by zhenya alvaranga

shakespeare relied heavily on holinshed etal.

O’Brien believes that all literature is referential, so describing his work as derivative is a bit too easy. In fact, he defends just that in At Swim‘s epigraph,

For all things change, making way for each other. Heracles, c.416BCE.

So what if there are Joycean elements in his novel? There’s a whole lot of O’Brien there too. Joyce’s work is ingenious but admittedly peripatetic, big pee and little pee. Aristotle’s work is derivative of Plato’s, Plato’s of Socrates’ and so on and so on, but they each add something significant. It’s nigh on impossible to be entirely original, but if it’s inevitably the same shit from another mother, strive to add to the rhetoric.

Embrace your references, but not in the entitled way McEwan does, do it with flare like Shakespeare. Make your shit potent and personal. And don’t forget to say thank you.

13 weeks, 13 books

Posted on April 7, 2011 by zhenya alvaranga

where is that 13th book?

…well, not quite.

I’m still struggling with An American Tragedy, so make that 13 weeks, 12.667 books. And while I can read ‘a book a week’, reading ‘a book and organizing my thoughts on it a week’ is more tricky, so the blog is lagging, but I’ll catch up.

Three months in and I’m still thrilled. I’ve checked so many great novels off The List that I’ve decided to make a reading blog a permanent fixture. There has been 1, maybe 2 real stinkers, but there are 5 in the pool room, very soon to be 7, so it’s happy trails all round.

I may need a bigger pool room.

happy reading, mes amis!

the axed assistant

Posted on March 19, 2011 by zhenya alvaranga

bye-bye bernard

That’s it.

I’ve given up on trying to locate Bernard Malamud’s, The Assistant. In a green/cheap bid, I use all facets of multiple libraries or buy second-hand books if I’m keen to own a copy of something special, but The Assistant is demanding a less sustainable paper-trail so it’s axed.

On the upside, voilà, Phillip Dick’s, Ubik now has a spot!

hit list v. shit list

Posted on March 1, 2011 by zhenya alvaranga

I’ve decided to include my top ten and worst yet reads in the side bar. That way I get to keep Beloved on my front page. Seriously, that’s the reason I came up with a Hit List and a Shit List; Beloved withdrawal.

The Lists will, of-course, develop as I complete more novels.

songsin52: A’s & ulysses

Posted on January 19, 2011 by zhenya alvaranga

Ice-Ice Baby-Vanilla Ice-Atonement
The Embrace-Michael Nyman-Atonement
The Heart Asks Pleasure First-Michael Nyman-Atonement
The Promise-Michael Nyman-Atonement

Homecoming-Kanye West-The Adventures of Augie March
The Very Thought of You-Billie Holiday-The Adventures of Augie March
The Wings of a Dove-Blues Busters-The Adventures of Augie March
Wherever I Lay My Hat-Paul Young-The Adventures of Augie March
Born to Be Wild-Damien ‘Jr Gong’ Marley-The Adventures of Augie March
One Crowded Hour-Augie March-The Adventures of Augie March

I’m In Here–Sia-Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret

War–Bob Marley-Animal Farm
Killing in the Name–Rage Against The Machine– Animal Farm
Babylon System-Bob Marley-Animal Farm

Strange Fruit-Nina Simone-Ulysses
Time To Pretend-MGMT-Ulysses
I Kissed a Girl-Katy Perry-Ulysses
Hand In My Pocket-Alanis Morisette-Ulysses
Ain’t No Fun-Snoop Dogg-Ulysses

There’s Nothing In The Water We Can’t Fight–Cloud Control-fiftytwoin52

that song in my head

Posted on January 19, 2011 by zhenya alvaranga

There is always a song in my head, a spontaneous soundtrack of sorts, shedding light on whatever I do: Snoop Dogg and Alanis Morisette’s lyrics mimic Dedalus and Bloom’s antics; Bob Marley’s Babylon System and RATM’s Killing in the Name were my anthems for Animal Farm; I listen to Michael Nyman’s Piano to get in the mood for Atonement... So why not include ‘that song in my head/on my iPod’ in my posts? It is an integral part of my reading process. Of everything I do.

The next book in line is The Adventures of Augie March. So guess which song is in my head. Come on, sing it with me,

But for One Crowded Hour, you were the only one in the room
And I sailed around all those bumps in the night to your beacon in the gloom
I thought I’d found my golden September in the middle of that purple June
But One Crowded Hour would lead me to my wreck and ruin

to fang or not to fang?

Posted on January 14, 2011 by zhenya alvaranga

I’ve been tossing around whether I should leave emphatic words like ‘fuck’ etc in my posts since Galactus catches up on my blog mostly at work and his server disallows websites with that kind of content. So I tried it today, replacing all swear words with tamer substitutes, and I felt like one post in particular was defanged. It lost some of its meaning. So fuck it, I’m putting them all back. Galactus is okay reading my shit at home anyway.

…and so it begins.

Posted on December 5, 2010 by zhenya alvaranga

Here’s how I chose the 52.

six of the 52 novels

White Teeth (Smith, 2004) and Lolita (Nabakov, 1955) were no-brainers. Read them, adored them. At Swim-Two-Birds (O’Brien, 1938) intersected in the critics’ choices, so it’s on the list. It’s already proving a bitch to locate. Like Grossman and Lacayo, I wanted to make this a reading and re-reading adventure, so some books that I read when I was much younger, eg. Their Eyes Were Watching God (Hurston, 1937), as well as quite a few I’d never heard of but I’m now curious about, eg. Snow Crash (Stephenson 1992) made the list. I wanted representation from the Caribbean, so A House for Mr. Biswas (Naipaul,1962) made the list, as did an Australian novel, since it’s where I now reside. I wanted to cover as many genres as possible, so I included teen fiction, sci-fi/fantasy and a graphic novel.

And I’m reading Ulysses (Joyce 1922). It was specifically mentioned by the critics as ineligible, even though it is possibly “the greatest novel written in the 20th century”, because it was written a year before TIME. So I’m reading it in December 2010 as a ‘warm-up’ exercise for January 2011. I’ve got some gonads!