Writing Style

The Catcher in the Rye was written in a way that cleverly combines seriousness with humor. Holden Caulfield narrarates in the first person, from a psychhiatric facility a few months after the events that are presented. Colloquial, or familiar, language is used to express Holden's cynicism and disgust with the world.

Caulfield's recollection of the past is blurred by depression and the inexperience that comes with young age. Flashbacks rely on a memory that is never perfect, leaving interpretation of the story up to the reader. Frequent use of swearing captures Holden's insecurities and showcases the vocabulary of the mid 20th-century teenager.

To provide an example, I have written my own version of The Three Little Pigs fable using Salinger's voice.



 “ The Three Crummy Little Pigs”

If you really want to hear about it, I’ll tell you this grand story of mine. You probably won’t believe it, due to the fact that it sounds kind of phony and all, but it’s true.

In the first place, my name is Wolf. It’s kind of a boring name, but that’s okay. There is nothing I hate more than corny names like Saffron or Ham. People think they are being so clever naming someone after a goddam food item, but they are just being phony.

Anyway, I’ll just start by telling you that I was taking a stroll through the forest, not looking for any trouble, just taking a stroll. I came across this fantastic little straw house, and boy, was it crafted with great skill. Feeling lonesome and all, I knocked on the door and asked the pig to let me come in. He said no and mentioned something about a stupid hair on his chin. Feeling depressed, I huffed and puffed, and blew his house in. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt hungry. I’m normally not a big eater, but I decided to gobble up the pig anyway.

Continuing my stroll, I thought about what I had just done. I felt even more depressed now, and really wanted someone to shoot the breeze with for a while. Up ahead, I saw what looked like a giant mound of sticks. As I got closer, I realized it was another quality made house. Feeling excited now, I knocked on the door, and asked the second pig to let me come in, hoping he would know a little bit more about hospitality than the first one. He didn’t, and just like the other one, he said no, along with something about a goddam hair on his little chin. Full of anger, I huffed and puffed harder than I did at the straw house, and the lousy pile of sticks finally blew in. I gobbled this pig up too, but only because he looked like a good source of my much needed daily protein. To be honest, I’m quite concerned about my health and all.

I decided to continue my stroll, only so the 20,000 calories I just consumed wouldn’t make itself visible at my waistline. I’m quite fond of my appearance, if you haven’t noticed. To my surprise, I came across yet another house, this one made of bricks. Who knew there were so many goddam houses in the forest, of all places? Still searching for some hospitality, I knocked on the door, and I asked to come in. I said it ever so nicely too, but he said no like the others. He also added that stupid reference about a hair on the chin. More depressed than ever, I huffed and puffed as hard as I could to knock the crappy little house down, but it wouldn’t move. This was some serious craftsmanship.

On my way to this house, I noticed a brilliant field of turnips owned by Mr. Smith. I told the pig about it, and he agreed to go with me at six o’clock the next morning to pick some for dinner. Without my knowledge, the little phony woke up at five o’clock and got the vegetables without me.

Still wanting to meet the guy, I mentioned that we get some apples down at Merry Garden the next morning at five o’clock. Again the phony pig woke up an hour early and tried to sneak to the tree without my knowledge. Just as I arrived at the tree, the little porker was climbing down. He offered to throw me an apple, and when I went to catch it, he ran off like a goddam coward.

The next day, still feeling friendly, I offered to meet the pig at the Shanklin fair. As I was climbing up this hill, which took all of my wind, a churn started speeding towards me, scaring the hell out of me. I ran back to the pig’s house, and was furious to find out he was the one who almost killed me with the churn. I declared with ferocity that I would eat him, and that’s where my story ends. The rest is too depressing to even think about, if you really want to know. All I can say is don’t ever try to climb down a goddam chimney.