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Written in the conversational patchwork of a 17 year old boy, filled with the musings, trepidations, and often banal interests that strike his fancy, this book has propelled the protagonist, Holden Caulfield, into the front row of American novels by the interplay of interesting characters, novel situations, and classic adolescent dilemmas. Yet, it may only be fair to point out that stylish sentences, intricate analysis, and memorable phrasings will only be found in another novel.

This is a book that was written in a chronological, stream of consciousness flow of observations that neither peels away the layers of Caulfield's personality, nor piques the pretensions that unravel the purpose of his journey. In this reviewer's opinion, Holden Caulfield is no more an iconic figure of literature than Batman or Superman; we root for him and ascribe to him a set of super insights but, in the end, are left with only his alter ego which is not nearly as interesting nor as successful as the superhero we would prefer.

Populated with a stream of unique and unexpected acquaintances, "The Catcher In The Rye" is intriguing for its tireless quest into the meandering experiences of its protagonist while stumbling to find relevance in the shallowness of his discoveries. He seems neither to learn from his experiences nor to enjoy them. Yet, he moves from one to the next like an anteater sampling termite nests; one seems to be the same as the next, and none seems to satisfy the hunger that drives him to look in the first place.

His observations are often unnecessary or without purpose. As he seems, absentmindedly, to point out in one chapter: "I passed by this playground and stopped and watched a couple of very tiny kids on a seesaw. One of them was sort of fat, and I put my hand on the skinny kid's end, to sort of even up the weight, but you could tell they didn't want me around, so I let them alone." Was there purpose in this remark? Did it add to our understanding of Holden Caulfield, or was it just a random comment tossed in to make it appear to be a full accounting of his actions even though I'm sure he may have also looked at a bird in a tree, or stepped over an ant hill that could have as easily been included?

I am actually dumbfounded as to why this book has become an American classic. I see no elucidation, no discovery, no insight, no imaginative plotting, only a clueless boy drifting from one aimlessly haphazard situation to the next without satisfaction, without illumination,

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