Libraries in a Book about Books

Given her self-described “bookish” upbringing, it’s not surprising that libraries feature prominently in Alison Bechdel’s coming-of-age/coming-out narrative. Her own memoir is saturated with other books, which aren’t only referred to in passing but are fundamental structural elements of the story she tells: we view the story of the Bechdel family through the lens of Greek mythology, Marcel Proust, Oscar Wilde, James Joyce, Henry James, Collette, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Albert Camus, and a bunch of others I’m probably forgetting right now. Fun Home is a book that is very much “about” other books, and Bechdel uses other books as a way to give shape and meaning to her story. She gets this habit, in large part, from her father. The brief period of “closeness” between them, in the final years of his life, has a lot to do with the fact that Alison is now getting into reading, and Bruce clearly is thrilled at the prospect of sharing his favorite books with her, serving literally as her teacher in English class (in a coming-of-age-themed course “Rites of Passage”), with her as the “only one in that class worth teaching” (199). It is fitting that her efforts to understand him after his death are filtered through the books he loved. She hates Ulysses when she tries to read his old copy in that winter-session course, but she’s clearly studied it very closely in the intervening years: chapter 7 of Fun Home reflects a deep critical familiarity with Joyce’s uber-modernist, antiheroic mock-epic, which is itself an extended ironic riff on Homer’s Odyssey.

Early in chapter 3 (“That Old Catastrophe”), Bechdel introduces us to Bruce’s library as a prime reflection of the artificial façade that defines him—the “art” that the constantly remodeled home represents, which prizes artifice and appearance and décor over underlying reality. She acknowledges the pretensions reflected in Bruce’s “library” right away: “For anyone but the landed gentry to refer to a room in their house as the ‘library’ might seem affected, but there really was no other word for it” (60). The illustration of the room includes labels that specify the artful décor—velvet drapes, gilt awnings (or whatever those tops of window-dressings are called), “flocked” wallpaper (not sure what “flocked” means either). The room looks like the epitome of Bruce’s art—ornate, lush, baroque, antique, crowded with ornament and accessory, very much a visual spectacle. Bechdel narrates the room as a kind of stage set for Bruce’s performance: “My father liked to imagine himself as a nineteenth-century aristocrat overseeing his estate from behind the leather-topped mahogany and brass second-empire desk” (60). The “library” appears to be the masterpiece of Bruce’s carefully curated illusion, a pretentious affectation that (once again) conceals an underlying reality.

But Bechdel qualifies this picture somewhat, by acknowledging that, for all its pretensions, the room is a functional library (“Where’s the atlas?” “In the Canterbury atlas rack” [61]). “Perhaps affectation can be so thoroughgoing, so authentic in its details, that it stops being pretense . . . and becomes, for all practical purposes, real” (60). Bruce is both playing a role, projecting himself as a quasi-nineteenth-century aristocrat with a library in his mansion, and actually being that role. The image is Bruce’s reality. The room is a key prop in his “country-squire routine,” which involves “edifying the villagers—his more promising high school students” by lending them books by Hemingway and Fitzgerald. And she also notes that these innocent exchanges of books were often likely cover for clandestine sexual relationships (just about everything in Bruce’s life could be seen as cover for his clandestine sexual relationships), a key feature of the “act” through which he seduces his students: “Such a suspension of the imaginary in the real was, after all, my father’s stock in trade,” Bechdel narrates, as a “promising high school student” remarks, “Man, being in this room is like going back in time. What’s this shit?” (65).

The primary intertext here is The Great Gatsby, Fitzgerald’s novel about a man who reinvents himself and creates a house (an actual mansion) that reflects and projects this invented personality. Gatsby’s mansion on Long Island prominently features a library as a foundational element of his fictional origin myth, even if Jay Gatsby (not his real name) hasn’t actually read any of the books on the shelves—Bechdel alludes to the moment when a party guest marvels at the “thoroughness” and “realism” of Gatsby’s illusion because his books are “real” and not “cardboard fakes” (84). Gatsby “knew when to stop,” however—the pages in his books are not “cut” (which is how you could tell if a book had actually been read or not: pages used to be in bundles, and you’d have to “cut” the edges in order to separate the pages). Bruce’s books (most of them) have “clearly been read,” and therefore his illusion doesn’t go as deep as Gatsby’s, but nonetheless, Bruce’s library reflects “the preference of fiction to reality” (85). The library in the Bechdel home is an elaborate stage set designed to bolster Bruce’s “fictional” self, and a convenient cover for his “secret life,” his surreptitious affairs with younger men and boys. In chapter 3, it serves as a primary image for Bruce’s essential dishonesty, sexual repression, and self-evasion, hidden behind a beautiful façade.

Libraries (and a co-op bookstore) play a key role throughout Alison’s own coming-of-age/coming-out experience, and once again we see fundamental contrasts between her and her father. Bruce’s library is an affectation, window dressing, a stage set, the creation and maintenance of an illusion so thorough it becomes “real.” He uses it to push books that he values onto others, and we see him do the same thing with Alison when she’s old enough to appreciate it—a place for him to tell others what they “have to” read next. Alison’s library experience, significantly, is framed as more of a private experience of self-discovery: she describes her “realization at nineteen that I was a lesbian” as “a revelation not of the flesh, but of the mind” (74). (Technically, this scene takes place in a “co-op bookstore,” but the function is very much like a library: she stumbles upon the book herself and “borrows” it, reading it surreptitiously in the aisle.) She experiences the first “qualms” about her emergent identity at age thirteen, when she sees the word “lesbian” in the dictionary, and from there, her journey of self-discovery and self-revelation takes place almost entirely through books. First she “screw[s] up [the] courage” to buy a book called Lesbian Women at the bookstore (an initial, partial, hesitant form of public acknowledgment), and then she follows all the references in that book to find others in the school library. She finds “homosexuality” in the card catalog (you have no idea what this is, a kind of early prototype of an online book search using paper cards in alphabetical order), and then she proceeds to “ravish” a “four foot trove” of books on the subject. There’s an early kind of coming-out progression, as the initial fear and embarrassment leads to her “trolling even the public library, heedless of the risks.” This initial course of “independent reading” leads directly to the moment when she writes to her parents to declare “I am a lesbian.”

The contrasts with Bruce’s stage-set library are stark: the library for Alison is functional, practical, a source of nonfiction information rather than fiction (she reads books of interviews with lesbian women, psychology, cultural studies, history), and, most importantly, a route to self-knowledge and a public embrace of that identity. In chapter 7 (“The Antihero’s Journey”), she frames this experience as the start of an “odyssey . . . nearly as epic as the original” (203). To put a fine point on it, Bruce uses his library and fictional books to construct an elaborate façade; Alison uses the co-op bookstore and academic and public libraries in order to get to a deeper truth about herself, which she will then declare and embrace publicly. His library is private and a reflection of his personal aesthetic (concealment, decoration, artifice), while Alison’s is public, academic, scholarly. Bruce’s serves to conceal a fundamental truth about himself; Alison’s serves to reveal a fundamental truth about herself. One more way that these two can be seen as “inversions” (or negative mirror-images) of each other.

There is a sense in which, in chapter 7, we see Bruce’s library take on new potential—as a possible form of bonding and mutual understanding with his daughter. There aren’t many points in this book where I identify with Bruce, but the way he gets so “elated” while picking books off his shelf to share with his daughter is one of them. He ends up lending her the French feminist writer Collette’s memoir Earthly Paradise, in part about gay and lesbian Paris in the 1920s, which plays a key role in her “independent reading” on the subject of queer identity through the ages. Bruce, in these scenes, seems more “real,” less performative. He isn’t putting on an act for Alison, and he is only trying to “seduce” her by inspiring her mind, finding some common ground to talk about books. As you may know, I too very much enjoy sharing books that I have found interesting and revelatory with younger people—it’s really at the heart of what I do for a living. And I admit to occasionally pressing a book or movie on my kids, telling them they “have to” read or see it. (In fact, the very night before I posted this commentary last year, my own daughter, about to depart for an international trip, asked me to recommend and lend some books from the family “library” for her journey. I did feel a bit like Bruce, eagerly perusing the shelves and trying to limit myself to just two or three.) It is one of the great pleasures of life to introduce someone to a book that may make a difference to them, and I remain grateful to the people who introduced me to these same books when I was younger. We see some potential for a deeper, more meaningful, and more truthful relationship between father and daughter start to emerge here—but, perhaps predictably, we see Bruce start to overdo it, getting too excited, talking at Alison about all the books he’s pressing on her, and generally driving her away into her own independent-reading course. She’s not as into Ulysses—initially—as he hopes she will be. She’s far more interested in reading about lesbian culture, and she quickly falls behind in her course. But Joyce’s novel has clearly made an impact on her, as this whole final chapter represents an extended meta-riff on Ulysses and its creative refiguring of The Odyssey. Bechdel knows Ulysses very well, now, at the time she is writing this book, and it’s as if she’s sharing these insights into “spiritual” and “consubstantial” fathers and children with Bruce posthumously, to try and come to some kind of understanding of their complex and ambiguous relationship.

I can’t help but assume Bruce would be proud of his former student.

Notebook prompt: An Antihero's Journey?

Why does Alison Bechdel title the seventh and final chapter of Fun Home "The Antihero's Journey"? What ideas does it evoke, and how do you see these manifest in the chapter (and the book as a whole)? In what sense might we view Bruce as an antihero? Would this make Alison the "hero" of her own narrative? How, in the end, does this graphic memoir frame the complex relationship between these two protagonists?

Please take 5 minutes to contemplate these questions in your notebook.

Sylvia Plath reading her late poems

In the final year of her life, Sylvia Plath was living in England as her marriage to the poet Ted Hughes fell apart. This was a very productive year of writing for Plath, as she completed the manuscript of The Bell Jar and prepared it for (pseudonymous) publication and wrote a number of her most well-known, beguiling, and deeply personal works of poetry, usually in the early morning hours before her infant and toddler were awake. These late poems were posthumously collected in the book Ariel (1965), but Plath was reading versions of them publicly in 1962, including a series of recorded readings for the BBC.

Here is a recording of Plath reading one of her best-known poems, "Lady Lazarus," on the BBC in 1962:

And here is a recording of Plath reading another of her best-known poems, "Daddy," also on the BBC in 1962:

Notebook Prompt: Esther's Recovery as a Coming-of-Age?

The Bell Jar ends at a literal threshold: Esther is about to step into the room where her psychological fitness to return to college will be assessed by a panel of experts. She is hopefully "graduating" from the asylum and returning for the spring semester--she describes herself as "patched, retreaded, and approved for the road" (244), as if she were a car being inspected for safety. How do we view Esther's harrowing experience in these psychiatric institutions, and what do they have to do with the larger question of her coming-of-age? Is her life-threatening descent into clinical depression and what sounds like schizophrenia a brief episode of deviation from her path, and at the end of the novel she is essentially returning to where she left off? Or do we view these experiences as an inherent and important part of her coming-of-age? Is she being "restored," or do we see her as somewhere new at the close of the novel? Does the narrative of The Bell Jar represent a significant kind of growth or development in her character, or is she instead "starting, after a six months' lapse, where [she] so vehemently had left off" (236)?

Please take five minutes now to contemplate your views on the conclusion of The Bell Jar and the question of coming-of-age in your notebook.

“The Perfect Setup of the True Neurotic”

The Bell Jar opens at the onset of a serious identity crisis for Esther Greenwood. Her dislocation to the unfamiliar world of New York City and fashion magazines—the result of one more “prize” she’s won for her excellent academic performance—seems to kick in some deep uncertainties about who she is, and from the start of the narrative we see her “trying on” a range of identities. Is she more Betsy or Doreen? Will she try to be Jay Cee, a powerful literary editor who lunches with famous novelists and poets, or a housewife who knows the practical skill of shorthand, like her mother? She “experiments” with a Doreen-style persona in her evening on the town as “Elly Higginbottom from Chicago” and then recoils from the carnal and creepily violent grotesquerie she witnesses back at Lenny’s memorable bachelor pad. But she can no longer pull off the Betsy persona, either; she tries to go along with the Ladies’ Day events planned for the interns, but her heart isn’t in it (and it literally makes her ill at one point). “[S]omething was wrong with me that summer,” she states early in the narrative; “I felt very still and very empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullaballoo” (3).

The “something wrong” clearly has to do with identity, with the pressure to construct and maintain a passable public self. (She only feels truly “herself,” notably, when she’s in the thoroughly private confines of a hot bath.) When Jay Cee interrogates her, the “terrible things” she says might not seem all that terrible, or even unfamiliar, to the average Uni junior or senior. “Doesn’t your work interest you?” (31); “What do you have in mind after you graduate?” (32). Esther is deeply troubled by these questions—or, rather, she’s deeply troubled by her inability to produce the usual acceptable answers. She describes herself as being “unmasked” by Jay Cee, even though we can see that her mentor is only expressing reasonable concern, doing the kind of thing mentors do. The cheerful, overachieving persona that has defined Esther so far in her life no longer feels genuine to her, and under Jay Cee’s direct questioning, her façade crumbles quickly: “I felt now that all the uncomfortable suspicions I had about myself were coming true, and I couldn’t hide the truth much longer. After nineteen years of running after good marks and prizes and grants of one sort or another, I was letting up, slowing down, dropping clean out of the race” (29). She tries to access her “old, bright salesmanship” (33) and produce some answers that will get Jay Cee off her case, but the very recognition that giving such answers equals “salesmanship” is at the root of her problem—she doesn’t quite believe in her own product.

It’s not that Esther lacks motivation, or has no idea what she’d like to be when she grows up. She has a passion for poetry, and she’s always imagined herself as an academic poet/professor or a literary editor. Jay Cee freaks her out by reminding her what a competitive world she’s thinking of entering and making her believe that her award-spangled perfect-GPA transcript will not be sufficient (“Hundreds of girls flood into New York every June thinking they’ll be editors. You need to offer something more than the run-of-the-mill person” [33]). I suspect that this idea of daily life as a perpetual effort to  build a resumé will resonate with Uni students, and Jay Cee’s admonitions—you’ve always impressed people, and you’ve been amply rewarded and praised and told that you’re special and gifted, but soon you’ll be in the “real world” where these achievements won’t amount to much—might be depressing for you to read. If anything, the process has only gotten more cutthroat since Plath’s day. The conversation Esther is having with Jay Cee, the summer before her senior year of college, is one that high school juniors regularly have, with counselors and parents and other concerned elders, nowadays. You’re being asked to “define yourself” earlier than ever; education is seen less as an opportunity to explore and discover your interests, to mold your identity, and more as a rigorous program of training in preparation for a specific career. You’re expected to know what program you want to enlist in at the point of entry; indecision puts you behind in the “race.” In Plath’s day, the moment of truth comes near the end of the college career; these days, it tends to come near the end of high school. To answer Jay Cee’s loaded question—“What do you have in mind after you graduate?”—with “I don’t really know” increasingly might feel like a failure on the student’s part. Of course you need to know what you want to be when you grow up; childhood and adolescence is merely a preparatory stage toward this ultimate act of self-definition. Coming-of-age as a declared major.

Do you relate at all to Esther’s sense of failure—of some deep inadequacy as a person—for her uncertainty about her future? It’s not that she isn’t interested in anything, although it is grimly funny to watch her try to persuade Jay Cee with her flailing efforts to articulate this interest (“I felt like yelling the words, as if that might make them more convincing” [31]). She feels strongly about the inherent value of poetry, as she comes up with a good rejoinder to Buddy’s dismissive remarks about poetry compared to medicine months after the fact (“I couldn’t see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick and couldn’t sleep” [56-57]). But there’s also a strong social pressure on a young woman in the 1950s to marry, and she gets the idea—from Buddy, from Mrs. Willard, from the example of her own parents—that poetry and housewifery are incompatible. That freedom and housewifery are incompatible, for that matter.

Esther seizes on the image of the fig tree from the short story Jay Cee asks her to read to illustrate her indecision: “I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch . . . a wonderful future beckoned. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was . . . the amazing editor, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila,” and so on (77). “I saw  myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest” (77). “What’s wrong with her” isn’t indifference, apathy, or a lack of intelligence or creativity. It’s an inability to choose. And the choice here has to do with more than a mere occupation. It’s a matter of identity—who she will be in the world. She’s convinced she is supposed to be able to choose one, and to be unable to choose is to fail to come of age properly.

Something in Esther recoils from the prospects of being a housewife as her primary identity, largely because she’s been given the idea that marriage means something different for a woman than for a man. In Mrs. Willard’s words, she’ll be the “place the arrow shoots off from”—the domestic stability in the background that makes possible her husband’s worldly accomplishments: “That’s one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket” (83). Buddy Willard finds her indecision amusing, and he doesn’t seem to take it all that seriously. When he asks if she wants to live in the country or the city, she says both, and he laughs and tells her she has “the perfect setup of the true neurotic” (93); the question itself was drawn from a diagnostic test he’d learned about in psychology class. Her putative boyfriend gets a kick out of diagnosing her, here and elsewhere.

As the novel moves into the second half, it becomes clear that Esther is in fact grappling with some serious—and life-threatening—psychological issues. But at this earlier point, she fully and rather confidently embraces the label of “neurotic”: “If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I’m neurotic as hell” (94). Do you see her inability—or hesitation—to commit to one “fig” at the expense of all other possibilities as a weakness, even an illness? Or does Esther’s indecision seem at all familiar here?

I suppose I envy the student who, as a senior in high school, knows (or thinks they know) precisely what they want to do after graduate school—but I also wonder how much of this certainty is genuine. As long as the plan accords with what the parents and other important elders want, I can see how this apparent sureness of purpose would be rewarded. It’s awkward to ask one’s parents to shell out a small fortune in tuition simply to allow a young person to explore a fig tree’s worth of interests in search of identity and purpose. There’s a powerful incentive to tell them what they want to hear, to frame college tuition as a sound investment in a clearly foreseen future track. As Esther and Jay Cee illustrate, it feels better to be able to answer the Big Question with poise and confidence. But personally, I relate to the student who openly admits they have no idea what to do after graduation, but who’s still excited about the road ahead—who approaches the prospect of college (or even the prospect of not going to college, right away or ever) as an opportunity for genuine learning, exploration, and self-discovery with no particular “career path” in mind. Maybe this narrowness of purpose isn’t required. Maybe we are more than our chosen careers. Maybe we can stumble into a career—or multiple careers—without any “master plan” in effect. When students tell me they know exactly what they want to do with their lives at age sixteen, I just hope they’re not telling me what they think I want to hear. I hope they really mean it, and that it works out for them. And I hope that they’re open to the idea that their plans might change.

While Esther’s experience becomes harder and harder for many readers to relate to in the second half of the novel, it’s important to recognize that her identity crisis—which eventually becomes as extreme a crisis as we can imagine, where she literally loses all sense of self and will to live—arises from some stuff that’s pretty easy to relate to. It’s too simple to say that her breakdown results only from people asking her what she’s going to be when she grows up, but it’s crucial that we recognize how these pressures to define herself, combined with the increasingly limited options realistically available to her as a woman in 1950s America, provide a reasonable basis for her loss of reason.

For a high-school student struggling with these same questions of self-definition, this novel can be pretty scary.

Small-group discussion: Is Buddy Willard a hypocrite?

In chapter 6 of The Bell Jar, Esther tells the story of how she has “discovered” that Buddy Willard is “a hypocrite.” What does she mean by “hypocrite,” and what is her “case” against Buddy? Do you think that Esther is correct or fair in her allegations of hypocrisy? What do you make of the fact that the seniors at her college don’t seem to share her outrage (“most boys were like that” [71])?

Please take 7-10 minutes and discuss Esther's depiction of Buddy Willard and her assessment that he is a hypocrite in small groups. Every group member's notebook should include notes from this small-group discussion, and the full-class discussion that follows.

Holden’s Grecian Urn

In chapter 16 of The Catcher in the Rye, Salinger switches up the relentless stream of negativity coming from Holden Caulfield. The night before had him up past dawn, alone in a sleazy hotel in Manhattan, recovering from a beating and grifting from an unscrupulous pimp and apparently contemplating suicide. His search for a “good conversationalist” has been frustrated—the cab drivers are either “touchy as hell” or indifferent to aimless queries about where the ducks go in the winter; the women from Seattle he meets at the Lavender Lounge are too obsessed with movie stars (and too prone to making cracks about Holden’s youth) to satisfy his desire for companionship; even the young prostitute, Sunny, who is being paid to spend time with Holden, isn’t interested in “just talking.” It’s becoming increasingly clear that our narrator is profoundly lonely and maybe even clinically depressed. And Holden tends to depict depression as something imposed upon him from the outside—people’s words, actions, and even clothing choices “depress the hell out of [him]” or “drive [him] crazy.” Holden isn’t “crazy”; he experiences depression as a (reasonable) response to the world around him, which is, well, depressing.

So as he walks around New York, Holden’s mood tends to get worse—the more people he sees, doing the kinds of things people do, the more depressed he gets. But in chapter 16 (and in fact starting in chapter 15, when he meets the nuns at breakfast), we start hearing a new refrain from Holden. He tells the nuns that he “enjoyed talking with them,” adding, “I meant it, too” (112). Then he sees “one nice thing”: a little kid walking along behind his parents, singing a song to himself while traffic squeals all around him. “The kid was swell,” Holden comments. “It made me feel better. It made me feel not so depressed any more” (115). He finds a rare record he’s been thinking of buying for his sister Phoebe, and this success “made [him] so happy all of a sudden” (116). He heads over to Central Park, thinking Phoebe might be there, but instead he meets a classmate of hers and helps her tighten her rollerskate. This, too, marks an improvement in his mood: “God, I love it when a kid’s nice and polite when you tighten their skate for them or something. Most kids are. They really are” (119).

Each of these surprisingly “happy” moments reveals a good deal about Holden’s value system—what he likes, to counterbalance so much that sickens and repulses him. A range of common denominators emerge: the unworldliness and genuineness of the nuns; the innocent indifference of the little kid to his parents, to the dangers of the traffic, and to the general fact that people don’t tend to walk down the street singing; and the overall “little-kidness” of the girl in the park, who reminds him of his beloved sister.

After the girl in the park politely declines his offer to join him for a cup of hot chocolate (how many strangers has Holden invited out for a drink at this point in the novel? For a misanthrope, he sure seems desperate for company!), Holden heads over to the Museum of Natural History (“the one where the Indians”), even though he’s pretty sure Phoebe won’t be there with her class, since it’s a Sunday. It becomes clear right away that this is something of a nostalgic trip for him. Central Park is his neighborhood, the turf where he spent much of his time as a kid, and he marvels throughout this chapter at all of the ways Phoebe is now doing so many of the things he used to do (“It’s funny. That’s the same place I used to like to skate when I was a kid” [118]). “I knew that whole museum routine like a book,” Holden remarks. “Phoebe went to the same school I went to when I was a kid, and we used to go there all the time” (119). He proceeds to recount his memories, not of any single visit to the museum, but a kind of composite montage of images from all the times he went there with his elementary classmates. It’s one of the longest paragraphs in the novel—it begins on page 119 and goes all the way into 122 in my edition. (One of the nifty “real-time” conceits of Salinger’s narrative style is that Holden tends to digress and reminisce during moments when the story affords him an opportunity—we get the sense of “time passing” on his walk because he shares with us what he was thinking about as he walks. He never simply says, “I walked until I got there.” It’s like we walk with him, listening all the while.)

And it’s clear that this digression, at least at the start, is a pleasant one—“I get really happy when I think about it,” Holden reports. “I loved that damn museum” (120). He recounts a bunch of evocative details, which for most readers will call up our own memories of elementary-school class trips. He doesn’t claim to have learned too much in terms of the substance of the museum’s exhibits, favoring instead his memories of the freedom from routine the kids enjoyed, the little mischief they would engage in (dropping marbles all over the floor), and the generally pleasant experience of simply being in the building surrounded by friends—“Nobody gave too much of a damn about old Columbus, but you always had a lot of candy and gum and stuff with you, and the inside of that auditorium had such a nice smell. It always smelled like it was raining outside, even if it wasn’t, and you were in the only, nice, dry, cosy place in the world” (120). This trip down memory lane really bolsters our sense of Holden as an essentially nostalgic and sentimental character; he idealizes childhood and laments the increasing distance he feels from this period of his life. Even the teachers and museum guards are “nice” when they correct the kids’ behavior (“She never got sore, though, Miss Aigletinger”; the security guard always reminds the kids not to touch anything,  “but he always said it in a nice voice, not like a goddamn cop or anything” [120-21]).

This passage works on a couple of levels simultaneously. The museum, of course, functions as a link to our collective past (that of “natural history”); it literally preserves evidence of distant ways of life. And the museum itself functions as a site for Holden’s personal memories, an imagined repository for these distant experiences he now thinks about so fondly—it now represents his personal past as well as that of the Native Americans in the canoe. It’s as if he is looking at his own childhood in a glass case, as he contemplates these class trips years ago, and we see these two levels start to blur as the chapter comes to an end.

In a revealing moment, Holden comments that “the best thing . . . in that museum was that everything stayed right where it was. Nobody’d move” (121). The dioramas depict “life” frozen in place, and for reasons that are becoming increasingly clear, Holden finds this idea appealing. Because, even though the museum houses images of life arrested in progress, this very consistency serves as a reminder that the rest of us are emphatically not in “glass cases. While everything in the museum stays the same, “The only thing that would be different would be you” (121). The stasis of the museum diorama, paradoxically, helps dramatize the fact that the rest of life does not—cannot—“stand still.” And this is something that really bothers Holden Caulfield. “I kept walking and walking, and I kept thinking about old Phoebe going to that museum on Saturdays the way I used to. I thought how she’d see the same stuff I used to see, and how she’d be different every time she saw it. It didn’t exactly depress me to think about it, but it didn’t make me feel gay as hell, either” (122). Maybe Holden is glimpsing the fact that Phoebe is growing older, just as he is; they both are going to be adults before too long. Nothing stays the same, and those “nice” days at the museum will never come again for him. This reflection leads to one of the quintessential statements of Holden’s worldview: “Certain things they should stay the way they are. You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone. I know that’s impossible, but it’s too bad anyway” (122). By the time he reaches the museum, sobered by these thoughts, he’s no longer in the mood to go inside. The last thing Holden needs now is another reminder of the inevitable passage of time.

Holden’s “impossible” wish—to stick “certain things” in a glass case to preserve them from decay, aging, change, and death—perfectly reflects his idealization of Allie (who will always remain static in Holden’s mind; he won’t grow up and disappoint him) and Jane (one of the reasons why he doesn’t go talk to her at Pencey, or call her; she’s “safer” in the diorama of Holden’s memories from two summers ago). Even the novel’s memorable final image—Phoebe circling around on the carousel, while Holden watches her from a rain-soaked bench—could be read in this light: the carousel, a quintessential child’s activity, represents a kind of stasis, “around and around” rather than moving purposefully in any direction. He is able to keep Phoebe suspended in childhood, for the moment, having stemmed her sudden premature development into a smaller version of himself (dragging a suitcase around, wearing his red hunting hat, talking rudely about quitting school and running away). A big part of Holden’s emotional distress has to do with the fact that he realizes this is an impossible wish, but he still can’t help but rage against the basic facts of life: nothing lasts, everything is transient, people die, even (especially?) young and good ones. There’s literally no solution to Holden’s dilemma; he either has to live with this knowledge, or cease to live.

Holden’s description of the dioramas themselves, these comforting images of life suspended, which are so reassuringly the same every time you visit—“You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with their pretty antlers and their pretty, skinny legs [like Phoebe’s!], and that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that same blanket” (121)—always reminds me of the famous poem by the nineteenth-century romantic poet John Keats (who, incidentally, died in his mid-twenties), "Ode on a Grecian Urn." In a nutshell, the speaker of Keats’s ode contemplates an ancient, illustrated Greek urn (the kind we see most often in museums), and seeing its scenes of everyday life (a young guy singing to a girl, a cow being led to ritualistic slaughter, a town seemingly empty of people) as a mystical form of communication between ancient past and present, and also a reminder of the transience of all life (“when old age shall this generation waste / Thou shalt remain”). The speaker zeroes in on the young lovers depicted on the urn, almost imagining them as sentient beings who “know” that they’re frozen on the urn for all eternity: “Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave / Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; / Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, / Though winning near the goal.” At first glance, this might seem like a bummer—a form of torture, to be forever stuck in the moment just before a kiss, never to come together. But Keats looks at it another way: “yet, do not grieve; / She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss / Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!” You may not ever “have thy bliss,” he says to the young lover, but at least you’ll always love with this same intense ardor, and she will always be beautiful! And the reader reflects how, indeed, they are preserved here on this urn for Keats to contemplate fifteen hundred years later (and now we contemplate them again via Keats’s poem, written two hundred years ago, and the cycle continues).

In other words, art achieves a kind of immortality. Holden’s dream—to “put things in a glass case”—can sort of be accomplished by art. In some ways, the intense anticipation of a kiss is better than the kiss itself, Keats seems to suggest. Beauty fades, but in the famous final line of the poem, beauty is also “truth”—and art can achieve this “truth” by preserving beauty “eternally” (or at least far beyond the individual artist’s lifetime, as the urn represents).

Rereading this novel every couple of years for my entire adult life—revisiting Holden’s strange odyssey through Manhattan, again and again—has led me to think about how the book itself works as a kind of Grecian Urn. The “moments” Holden is reliving here can be revisited over and over. The characters stay the same. Holden is always a restless and moody teenager. Phoebe is always a 10-year-old girl. Allie is always dead, but our image of him—drawn in Holden’s concise and evocative vignettes—is as alive as any of the characters in the novel. Art resists transience; it represents a way of “sealing off” a period of time, a set of events, or a person at a point in his or her life. And this counts for the author as well as the characters; we’re also always looking at a portrait of J. D. Salinger around 1948-50 when we read this novel. He died fifteen years ago, and here I am thinking hard about words he wrote more than seventy years ago. You can achieve a kind of “immortality” with the right poem or novel.

This is in many ways a bittersweet realization—as with Holden, I can’t help but reflect that I too am “different” each time I come back to the novel, and the period of life Holden is grappling with (which I was in the midst of  when I first encountered the novel at age seventeen) is increasingly distant to me (although the memories all feel very close). I revisit my own adolescence whenever I read Catcher—not only through identifying with Holden, but simply by visiting the “museum” again that I first visited as a teenager—but I also think of previous times I’ve taught the novel, here and at the University. I start to feel nostalgic for a particular class I had ten years ago, in addition to feeling nostalgic for the world I inhabited when I first read the novel. (And all of this is compounded by Holden’s own relentless nostalgia.) It’s always weirdly sad to realize that Phoebe would be in her eighties today, this eternally sharp, sweet, emotionally mature 10-year-old. There’s a weird kind of comfort in the fact that Holden has put her into his own “Grecian urn” in this novel; she’s always the same memorable little kid each time we come back to the book.