J. D. Salinger’s book The Catcher in the Rye started out as filler material during the University of Alberta’s International Week. There’s loads of time to kill waiting for lectures to start, and not a whole ton of homework to fill it with, so I started cruising through another book. It took until reading week to gather enough time together to finish off the last couple chapters but it’s not because I didn’t enjoy it. I’d say it’s probably one of the better books I’ve ever read.

Salinger really manages to share his thoughts about phonies, societal uniformity, and finding purpose in life without ever straying from the story he’s telling. While I thought the massive quantity of goddams and other assorted curses was kinda humorous I can see why my Mom’s recollection of the book is one of the controversy it caused rather than the content.

So for highlights of the book, I guess the whole commentary that Salinger is making on the everyday person’s “facade” is really what I started digging out as I read through it. The best snippets (that I remember) are below:

“Then, after a while, right in the middle of the goddam conversation, he asked me, ‘Did you happen to notice where the Catholic church is in town, by any chance?’ The thing was, you could tell by the way he asked me that he was trying to find out if I was a Catholic. He really was. Not that he was prejudiced or anything, but he just wanted to know. He was enjoying the conversation about tennis and all, but you could tell he would have enjoyed it more if I was a Catholic and all. That kind of stuff drives me crazy. I’m not saying it ruined our conversation or anything – it didn’t – but it sure as hell didn’t do it any good.” — Page 112-113

“You should have seen him when old Sally asked him how he liked the play. He was the kind of a phony that had to give themselves room when they answer somebody’s question. He stepped back, and stepped right on the lady’s foot behind him. He probably broke every toe in her body. He said that the play itself was no masterpiece, but that the Lunts, of course, were absolute angels. Angels. For Chrissake. Angels. That killed me. Then he and old Sally started talking about a lot of people they both knew. It was the phoniest conversation you ever heard in your life. They both kept thinking of places as fast as they could, then they’d think of somebody that lived there and mention their name. I was all set to puke then it was time to go sit down again. I really was. And then, when the next act was over, they continued their goddam boring conversation. They kept thinking of more places and more names of people that lived there. — Page 127-128.

So, this Holden Caulfield kid is pretty critical of everyone else who goes about life being fake and achieving nothing. Really though, he’s being the dead weight in society. He feels entitled to go about life cruising New York and avoiding reality because he’s being himself and not some phoney, who doesn’t want to be himself. To be honest I’m just waiting for someone to slap this guy up side the head and send him out to work for his daily wage. Where’s the balance supposed to go though? Let people fake their entire lives as long as they do so in a socially acceptable way, pulling their own fair share of the world’s weight? Or should we embrace the “enlightened” and allow them to go about their enlightened ways because somehow they are bringing some good into our lives.

If you stretch the analogy too far, which I did because I had the time, you start to wonder why the government should support any form of arts, any form of advanced research, any form of sport, that cannot fund itself by the capital it can raise on it’s own. If Canada can’t support a nordic skiing team based on public interest and event ticket sales why does anyone have the right to do that as their profession. How come some sociology professor can study Buffy the Vampire Slayer with government funded grants when they cannot support that research with the funding of an interested commercial enterprise. Why should I get a ride on government funded scholarships to study material properties, fly back and forth to Holland, and try to get papers published in academic journals when there is no industrial application ready to be put into production.

Holden Caulfield acts as though he has some right, or entitlement to behave in the way he does because he feels he is being true to himself. His own measure of integrity is internal and fully variable with each day’s circumstances. We in some sense like the guy, partly because he’s the protagonist and we’re supposed to, but mostly because we see what we’d suggest are phonies all around us. People towing the consumerism line, married with 1.4 kids and 2.2 cars. Holden’s entitled because he is real, but where is my definition of real coming from. I can’t swing too far that way without making myself sick. There’s a perceived real-ness to being the granola munching, bike riding, sweater-pant wearing, communist voting, anarchist protesting hippie. Isn’t that form of real-ness somewhat different from the form of real-ness that is in fact honorable and beneficial to the world. There’s a fine line between being the practice what you preach form of “real” and taking such a hard and fast interpretation of real-ness that you’re incapable of being real yourself.

Between the end of classes and the beginning of exams there is a dangerous pause in the life of any student. There’s enough time to take a bit of a breather before diving headlong into the new semester, there is also enough time to get thoroughly distracted and forget that you’ve still got more than 50% of your GPA to earn in the next 10 days of tests.

It was during this dangerously relaxing stretch of December that I picked up Lance Armstrong’s first autobiography entitled It’s Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life which tells the story of Lance Armstrong’s rise to triathlon superstar in the jr leagues and then competing on the national and international stage as a cyclist.

The book tells the story of his nosedive in health from full time pro athlete to full on bed-ridden cancer patient. The thing about it though is that his mind takes a bit of a lag to get hit by the reality of cancer after his body does. Following surgery Lance writes as any athlete would write or say:

“But I was starving. I was used to my three square meals a day, thanks to my mother. I thought of heaping hot plates of food, with gravy. I hadn’t eaten anything in hours and my last meal had been some kind of cereal. Cereal wasn’t a meal. I mean, come on. That was a snack.” — page 118

Within a couple months the focus had changed, it “wasn’t about the bike”, it wasn’t even about being healthy, it was about surviving the cancer. When the focus of life is so significantly reduced there are only a couple things that really matter. It’s amazing how universal they are, that’s what really struck me. Lance Armstrong was, and so far as I know, continues to live a life independent of any faith in Christ Jesus. His needs though are identical to mine, when I boil off the superfluous aspects of my existence and his existence, we’re pretty much the same person.

The story is not a great one to read but because I knew how it would turn out I never really debated whether or not I should keep on cruising through. And of course I wasn’t disappointed. Again there was a mental lag between some physical recuperation and the development of the toughest psychological cyclist on the pro-tour. When it started to happen though the story was grand and awfully inspiring.

“From then on, all we did was eat, sleep, and ride bikes. Spring had just begun moving up into the mountains, creating a constant fog and drizzle that seemed to muffle the the piney woods. We rode in the rain every day. The cold seared my lungs, and with every breath I blew out a stream of white frost, but I didn’t mind. It made me feel clean. We rode winding back roads, only some of which were paved and mapped. We cycled over gravel and hardpan and beds of pine needles and under hanging boughs.

At night, Chris made big pots of pasta and baked potatoes and we sat around the table wolfing down the food and having unprintable conversations. We told stories and laughed about old times and the start of our friendship, and my first years as a pro.

I called home each night, and Kristen could tell that I was starting to sound life my old self; I was having fun, joking, I didn’t seem depressed. When I would tell her about the cold and rainy weather or how far we had ridden, I would laugh `I’m feeling really good,’ I said, almost puzzled.” — pages 195-196

The opportunity Lance Armstrong had to rebuild himself from nothing to be exactly what he wanted isn’t an opportunity that very many people have physically in life. It’s also probably not something you’d ever really wish on yourself either, but it was essentially the reason he was able to construct a 165 pound climbing and time-trialling powerhouse.

When you start being able to add back into life, things in addition to that common basic threshold that Lance experienced as a cancer patient, there is going to be a sense of joy. When bits and pieces of what is typical get removed and then added back there’s a greater appreciation for them.

“I passed the rest of the trip in a state of near-reverence for those beautiful, peaceful, soulful mountains. The rides were demanding and quiet, and I rode with a pure love of the bike, until Boone began to feel like the Holy Land to me, a place I had come to on a pilgrimage.” — Page 198

I figure that I should be keeping up to date with writing down my thoughts about the books I’ve read. Relatively close proximity to the reading is probably going to do a better job of relaying information than distant memory… So here goes.

Cry The Beloved Country by Alan Paton was Christmas Break reading material. Riding the bus around Belize was conducive to inhaling books for some family members but not myself unfortunately. I finished it up during the first week of school instead.

Cry, the Beloved Country is a story written in the years leading into the establishment of full fledged apartheid in South Africa. The novel tells the story of two sons who leave Ixopo, the village of their pseudo-common-heritage and move to the big city of Johannesburg. There they create lives for themselves, but the lives they are able to choose are dictated for them by their race. The black man, trapped by a culture of ‘native crime’, becomes a criminal and murderer. Paton contends loosely that this cannot be far from inevitable due to the lack of any social structure for the black population following the breakdown of the tribal system. The white man, who is thrust into success and education by the color of his skin, then is unfortunately forced to live with the consequences of the society built around him. The story is told through the experience of the black umfundisi of Ixopo seeking out his lost son in the big city. Through his travels and discussions the reader learns why the nation is hurting, and is prompted to cry or at least ache a bit, because the health and beauty of what once was is no longer seen in day to day life. While the main storyline is enough to drag you along and sucks you in, I found that it was the side stories: the history of the slums, the discussion about the economics of the mining industry, and the recurring failure to establish quality agriculture that make the book fantastic. They’re really the bits and pieces that bring to light how damaged the country had become.

While we now can look back at the pain that South Africa went through and be thankful that things are finally slowly turning around towards reconciliation I feel an urge to pause and wonder what role I’m playing to push social structures that are unjust. Paton’s message is of course multi-faceted but the bit that caught me repeatedly is the ability of society to come to half of a resolution and then move forward, never having really done justice to an injustice.

“In the meantime the strike is over, with a remarkably low loss of life. All is quiet they report, all is quiet.

In the deserted harbour there is yet water that laps against the quays. In the dark and silent forest there is a leaf that falls. Behind the polished paneling the white ant eats away the wood. Nothing is ever quiet except for fools.” — page 224

While I cannot sit here and list all of the “social structures” I’m supporting I am wise enough to realize that I do so, and do so frequently and forcefully in daily life.