Mighty Mango #10
My name is Holden Caulfield, and I was fired from my job as the catcher in the rye.
No doubt this comes as a great surprise to you. After all, you probably only know me as one of the most famous literary characters from the 20th century. In fact, I am a real person. I am like you. I have hopes and aspirations and become irritated when reclusive authors change my whole life story to make the ending of their book better.
You see, I am not just a real person. I am alive. And I am real. But I am also fictional. One of the great weird things is that people have confused "real" and "fictional" to be antonyms, rather than just two separate things. You are real. I am real and fictional. When I read a book, the characters are fictional, but not real. When they read books, it is about you: real, but not fictional.
J.D. Salinger basically wrecked my life. In the original ending to his book, I get a job at the Park Service and get to be the closest thing to my boyhood dream: a catcher in the rye. I know this, because I lived it. Early drafts. Those were good times. It wasn't exactly like I imagined, because what parents would let their children play on cliffs? But it was pretty good. About as good as you can ever get when your entire storyworld is invented by a recluse who won't let his wife finish college. Yeah, I said it.
Unfortunately, a job at the park service is kind of a letdown ending, and if you want your story to be loved and hated by generations of people, you need some zing. Some zjsaz! So, I ended up in this mental hospital, which is the location from which I am writing this letter.
Of course, due to the pervasive influence of J.D.'s novel, even in my own fictionverse, everyone thinks I am crazy. Brilliant, right? I am, in fact, Holden Caulfield; but because everyone knows Holden Caulfield is a fictional character, they assume I am crazy, so I am in this institution, which is exactly what J.D. wrote. I mean, he didn't do the metaverse thing I'm doing now, because honestly, I don't think he knew about it. But it's weird, ya?
The thing is, since I'm not crazy, a mental institution is sort of a weird place. And because I'm fictional, I'm always open to revision. For example, the author of this story (who J.D. wrote into the original story as my older brother) could write: "And Holden Caulfield escaped from the mental hospital. And lo, he won a free trip to the donut factory." And I would.
It wouldn't be me, though. Not me-me. It would be Holden Caulfield; it would be me. This is a difficult sticking point on which I will not labor too long, but suffice it to say that my fictional nature differentiates me from you in this fashion.
Ever since I was in high school--earlier, really--there had been one exact job that I had wanted. While kids in my class talked about being doctors or nurses or accountants, I had something different in mind. Of course, they were all phonies--none of them really wanted to be doctors or nurses or accountants.
Who does? Who sits down at 15 and genuinely believes they want to be an accountant? 15 year olds don't understand a damn thing about accounting. I think they just like the pencils and visors. Actually, I think that's true about real accountants, too.
You might think it's strange that I am aware I'm fictional. But you're aware I'm fictional, and that you are real, so what is so strange about me sharing that knowledge? And you might note that it would be impossible for me to be aware of myself or my former job as saver of Phoebe-standins, since I am a collection of words. But I might just as easily tease you for your corporeal existence.
This is running long. I mostly wanted to let you know that I'd lost my job, but I lost in a time that you never knew. I've had a hundred parallel lives, all before you were born, and just one captured in the page. But I remember them all. The roads J.D. never took, the thoughts he committed to napkins about me--I lived it all. I don't agree with every choice he made, but he didn't have much choice. I wrote about it all in my book, "The Author of the Catcher in the Rye."
No doubt this comes as a great surprise to you. After all, you probably only know me as one of the most famous literary characters from the 20th century. In fact, I am a real person. I am like you. I have hopes and aspirations and become irritated when reclusive authors change my whole life story to make the ending of their book better.
You see, I am not just a real person. I am alive. And I am real. But I am also fictional. One of the great weird things is that people have confused "real" and "fictional" to be antonyms, rather than just two separate things. You are real. I am real and fictional. When I read a book, the characters are fictional, but not real. When they read books, it is about you: real, but not fictional.
J.D. Salinger basically wrecked my life. In the original ending to his book, I get a job at the Park Service and get to be the closest thing to my boyhood dream: a catcher in the rye. I know this, because I lived it. Early drafts. Those were good times. It wasn't exactly like I imagined, because what parents would let their children play on cliffs? But it was pretty good. About as good as you can ever get when your entire storyworld is invented by a recluse who won't let his wife finish college. Yeah, I said it.
Unfortunately, a job at the park service is kind of a letdown ending, and if you want your story to be loved and hated by generations of people, you need some zing. Some zjsaz! So, I ended up in this mental hospital, which is the location from which I am writing this letter.
Of course, due to the pervasive influence of J.D.'s novel, even in my own fictionverse, everyone thinks I am crazy. Brilliant, right? I am, in fact, Holden Caulfield; but because everyone knows Holden Caulfield is a fictional character, they assume I am crazy, so I am in this institution, which is exactly what J.D. wrote. I mean, he didn't do the metaverse thing I'm doing now, because honestly, I don't think he knew about it. But it's weird, ya?
The thing is, since I'm not crazy, a mental institution is sort of a weird place. And because I'm fictional, I'm always open to revision. For example, the author of this story (who J.D. wrote into the original story as my older brother) could write: "And Holden Caulfield escaped from the mental hospital. And lo, he won a free trip to the donut factory." And I would.
It wouldn't be me, though. Not me-me. It would be Holden Caulfield; it would be me. This is a difficult sticking point on which I will not labor too long, but suffice it to say that my fictional nature differentiates me from you in this fashion.
Ever since I was in high school--earlier, really--there had been one exact job that I had wanted. While kids in my class talked about being doctors or nurses or accountants, I had something different in mind. Of course, they were all phonies--none of them really wanted to be doctors or nurses or accountants.
Who does? Who sits down at 15 and genuinely believes they want to be an accountant? 15 year olds don't understand a damn thing about accounting. I think they just like the pencils and visors. Actually, I think that's true about real accountants, too.
You might think it's strange that I am aware I'm fictional. But you're aware I'm fictional, and that you are real, so what is so strange about me sharing that knowledge? And you might note that it would be impossible for me to be aware of myself or my former job as saver of Phoebe-standins, since I am a collection of words. But I might just as easily tease you for your corporeal existence.
This is running long. I mostly wanted to let you know that I'd lost my job, but I lost in a time that you never knew. I've had a hundred parallel lives, all before you were born, and just one captured in the page. But I remember them all. The roads J.D. never took, the thoughts he committed to napkins about me--I lived it all. I don't agree with every choice he made, but he didn't have much choice. I wrote about it all in my book, "The Author of the Catcher in the Rye."
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