The Catcher in the Rye

Why’s It Called a Red Flag?

In 1980, when John Lennon (From the Beatles) was shot dead outside The Dakota, the man who pulled the trigger, Mark David Chapman, did not flee the scene. Nor did he cry or scream or pretend to be confused. He just sat down on the sidewalk and opened a copy of The Catcher in the Rye. The book was in his hands when the cops got to him.

When asked why he murdered Lennon, he gave a strange kind of answer. One that still echoes uncomfortably today: “Read the book.”

And ever since then, The Catcher in the Rye has carried a weird, haunted reputation. It is still considered a literary classic, still found on syllabi, still sold in every bookstore worth the name, but there is always a shadow hanging around it. Readers call it overrated, too whiny, too adolescent. And more recently, even worse, they have started calling it a “red flag”.

You know the type. The dating profiles that say, “If he says his favorite book is Catcher in the Rye, run.” And this is where I start to get annoyed. Because when someone says that, they are not really talking about the book. They are talking about the kind of guy they think reads it. The kind who think brooding counts as depth, and identify Holden Caulfield (The Protagonist) as their personality trait, and never realize the whole novel is about being lost as a teen, and not having the words to say how he feels.

Which is exactly the kind of misunderstanding Holden Caulfield would have seen coming from a mile away. And this book does not deserve to be labelled a “red flag”. Here are the reasons why I’d defend this masterfully crafted book:

Holden does not want to be your hero.

From the very beginning, Holden makes it clear he is not trying to impress you. He is not writing a polished story about growth. He is not giving you a roadmap for healing. In fact, I’d argue that he does not even want to be seen. I’d say he is just talking to you (or me). The way someone does when they are tired and sad and a little bit scared, but still too proud to admit it.

He lies constantly, but only because the truth never really works out for him. He keeps reaching out to people: former teachers, old girlfriends, even complete strangers. Just hoping one of them might get him, even for a second. But, they do not. They either talk over him, walk away from him, or treat him like he is a kid going through a phase.

And maybe he is. But that does not make the pain any smaller.

The second someone swings, he folds.

There is something almost heartbreaking about the way Holden tries to puff himself up in certain moments, talking about how he would punch someone or how much someone “kills” him. But when the actual fights come, and they do, more than once, he does not stand a chance. Stradlater flattens him instantly. Maurice, the elevator guy, roughs him up without breaking a sweat. And when he tries to argue with people, like Sally Hayes or Carl Luce, they just brush him off or leave.

His coping mechanisms are harmless symbols.

The red hunting hat is not some quirky detail. It is the one thing he has control over. He puts it on when he wants to feel invisible or untouchable. He takes it off when he is ashamed or scared. It is like armor he knows does not work, but he wears it anyway.

The ducks in Central Park, the ones he keeps asking about and wondering where they go in the winter, are his way of asking a deeper question he does not know how to form. What happens when the place that used to hold you stops making sense? Do you disappear? Or do you find some way to return?

The Museum of Natural History, the place where everything stays exactly the same, is the world Holden wishes he lived in. A frozen world, to him, a safe world. A place where nothing has to die or grow up or leave. Allie’s glove. The poems were written on it. You do not need me to explain that one. It already says everything.

All the symbols people love pointing to are not symbols for Holden. They are coping mechanisms.

The Carousel Ending

There is this moment at the very end of the book, and if you have read it, you remember it. Holden is sitting on a bench in the rain, watching his sister Phoebe ride the carousel. He does not say anything profound. He does not have a big revelation. He just watches her go around and around, and something in him settles.

For once, he is not trying to run. He is not lying. He is not interrupting. He is simply there. Watching someone he loves be happy, and letting it happen. It is the smallest thing. And it is everything.

On The Author

J. D. Salinger never let them turn it into a movie! Not because nobody tried. Everyone tried. Spielberg. Jerry Lewis. Even Harvey Weinstein, long before anyone knew what he was. Offers poured in constantly, and Salinger turned them all down. Because here is the truth. Holden’s voice cannot be acted.

And honestly, Salinger knew that. He spent most of his life avoiding the spotlight. After the book blew up, he retreated to a cabin in New Hampshire and lived there, mostly unseen, for decades. No press. No interviews. Because like Holden, he wasn’t trying to be a symbol or a brand or even a genius. He just didn’t want anyone to mess with what he had already said.

So is it a red flag?

Only if you think sadness is an aesthetic. Only if you have not read the book since high school and only remember the part where he says “phony.” But if someone tells you this is their favorite book, and they are not just trying to sound edgy, if they talk about the ducks, or the museum, or how the carousel made them cry in a quiet way they did not expect, maybe stop and ask what part of Holden they saw in themselves.

Because that is the part they are really showing you. And if you see it, if you really see it, that is not a red flag. That is the empathy Salinger might have wished someone had for him, when he was a teen.