All readers are, in some small part, psychologists. The act of reading a work of fiction in which we are privy to the internal monologues and unconscious actions of characters means that we are always interpreters of their motivations. This is certainly the case with The Catcher in the Rye. As mentioned earlier, Holden’s book-length rant is not unlike a version of talk therapy. So, rather than growing annoyed with him (as I’m sure many of you already are), try to enjoy your unique position as psychologist, privy to the internal workings of a very confused teenage boy.
Holden is struggling through a transition from childhood to adulthood. He’s confused. And as we continue through the novel, you’ve probably realized that Holden seems to be in constant conflict with himself. One might even call him a hypocrite. The qualities he ridicules and despises in others are many of the same qualities that he himself possess: He thinks adults are liars and “phonies,” but Holden is a tremendous liar and is always trying to engage people he says he doesn’t even like (Mr. Spencer, Ackley, Sally, the three young women at the hotel). He thinks adults are hypocrites, but Holden continually contradicts himself (he’s an atheist who prays, he hates movies but immediately invites Ackley to one, etc.). He hates when people repeat themselves, but how often does Holden talk about calling Jane Gallagher? He hates when people exaggerate or go off on tangents, but that pretty much describes this whole book—on the very first page Holden tells us that his parents would have about two hemorrhages apiece if he shared anything too personal right before going into one long, self-absorbed, tangent-filled, angst-ridden rant.
As mentioned in the previous post, this novel was not met with open arms by many in the literary establishment. One prominent review complained that the reader “wearies of [Holden’s] explicitness, repetition and adolescence, exactly as one would weary of Holden himself.” But that’s the point! That’s exactly how many teenage boys think. That’s how many teenage boys talk. And that’s how many teenage boys feel. What Salinger accomplished was to capture this teenage stage in its purest, rawest, most direct form, and then to allow you, the reader, to play the role of adolescent psychologist.
Holden is full of hypocrisy, hyperbole, and insecurity—and this leads to the two Holdens. Holden feels alienated. (But he often alienates himself: Why else do we find him sitting on a hilltop, apart from everyone else, at the beginning of the story?) Holden feels victimized by the world. (But he often sabotages himself: Why else flunk every subject but English?) Holden wants to grow up. (But he’s obsessed with innocence and incredibly uncomfortable with change: Why else is he so fascinated by the Museum of Natural History?) Holden is completely obsessed with sex (But he’s terrified at the same time: Why else continually talk about “giving Jane a call” but never actually calling?) The story Holden tells the reader happens outside the parentheses. But the real story (and the real Holden) resides inside the parentheses… and that’s where you the reader, as psychologist, come in. Though he’s narrating his own story, Holden is about as unreliable a narrator as one will find, but his actions give him away, and an observant reader will pick up on that… like a good psychologist.
Holden is broken: It’s clear that he has never dealt with his underlying feelings about the loss of his brother Allie (think how lovingly he talks about Allie compared to everyone else; remember the topic he chooses when writing Stradlater’s paper; and recall where he slept and what he did on the night Allie died). Allie’s death is very likely the moment Holden’s life went off track, and he’s never been able to get it back under control. Holden has never recovered from that loss. He’s struggling. He’s lashing out at others when he’s really angry with himself. All this is remarkably clear… to everyone but Holden.