Cather in the Rye

Should Cather in the Rye be banned?

            The book Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger should be taught everywhere and taken off the banned list. It teaches and gives examples of coming of age issues.  It also teaches basic morals wich are useful in any time period. Cather in the Rye although full of profanity is nothing compared to how common these words have become today. There are many reasons to why it shouldn’t be banned.

            This book should be taught because of the strong connection Holden has with his inner child, like kids today. By placing an adults actions on the point of view of a man that thinks like a child the reader can understand what is wrong and what is right in a simple way. From Holden’s point of view one also notices that sometimes Holden makes false assumptions that the reader notes to be wrong and learns the moral. “I can even get to hate somebody. Just by looking at them, if they have cheap suitcases with them.” (141). Here one knows Holden is “judging a book by its cover” so we know that he is judgmental. Yet later on Holden gets to know the possessors of the suitcases, two affable nuns.

            The book should no longer be banned because the basic morals it can teach anyone. Like every book has a moral Cather in the Rye is filled with them and daily life lessons in each chapter. Treat others like you would like to be treated is teacher in every chapter as Holden misjudges his friends and acts in a manner that isn’t normal. His friends notice this and find him annoying but as Holden starts to realize he tries to go for a change in his actions.

           One may think that a book about a kid expelled from school that falls victim of drunkenness, prostitution, and delinquency has nothing good to teach. It does, like many kids now days could use it as an example to be careful for the path they choose. They can use Holden’s experience from getting expelled as a reason to study more. Holden started getting all woozy and picking up fights because he is drunk or trying to act drunk can be used to teach kids not to drink. The delinquency too can be used to teach kids what could happen if they started to steal.

           In conclusion Catcher in the Rye shouldn’t be banned because it has great things to teach. I believe that not only Catcher in the Rye but all books shouldn’t be banned because everything can teach us and everyone has their opinion so just because one person doesn’t like it they shouldn’t take the privilege of reading it for everyone.

Mother's Day

Dear Mommy,        

The online magazine, Smith asked their readers to describe their life in six words. The result was worldwide as many famous and not so famous people started to create more. The Smith magazine ended up publishing book titled, Not Quiet What I was Planning. It became such as marvelous idea that some people were simply writing them everywhere from bathroom mirrors to street art. One had to describe one’s own life in a concise matter, six words not one more or one less. Therefore Mrs. Meadows asked us to create some of our own.

Thus, my mind was full of words that were all trying to come together to form the perfect sentence to describe you. I came up with tons, but once they came out to more than six words. Until I finally picked the perfect one. You are always showing me new things to learn from and always with that sweetness of yours. Plus you are beautiful and let nobody say anything else.

Sincerely,

Ximena Vasquez Perez

Anyone?

Hey I need followers, well I don't need them but it is actually quiet depressing to have 4.
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Stradlater's Composition

He used to have a baseball glove, before, you know he died. I own it now. It was real special to him, it really was. He used to write poems in it to see at the baseball games when there was no batter.

            The leather is worn out. It used to be light brown, the color of coffee sprinkled with cream and milk. Now it is dark, like wooden dark. Not ebony but pine tree wood like of dark. You could still read all his poems though, all in green ink. He’d never use another color.

            The poems are everywhere, up the finger, down the webs, between his palms, and encompassing the rim. Not all of it was his though, most were. Frost, Poe, Williams, Smart, Macari, they were all there. Not only are there poems in that glove, but sadness hangs in an air around it. So young, he could have been something bigger than just a baseball player or a poem writer; he could of reach somewhere more than school.

            His name was Tony. He died before, eight years old, so young. Of leukemia, on his deathbed he handed it over, his precious glove. I still remember the smile he had on his face that day, July 18, 1946. His head in its little heart shape was glowing, not because of the reflection of the screen that could only play bad soap operas, but it was a natural glow, an inside glow. Even with all the tubes and needles he was still smiling, even with the lack of his hair wich we all loved he was still smiling, in that tiny room filled with all of us crying and weeping he was smiling. Bringing a smile into such a room, whose green light puke walls hold the stench that hospitals have that’s supposed to smell like clean yet it smells like a fake try to make alcohol. His smile was pretty much what kept us alive. I still remember his red head. He was a real red head, not a ginger or dyed but natural coral red. We used to go golfing together; he could be 100 miles away and you would still know he was there, his hair was that red.

            Not only as he a red head but he was really smart too, much smarter than me. Such a shame he died. All his teachers wrote to mom, to say how a pleasure it was to have a kid like Tony in their class. They weren’t just writing bull like most do but they were serious, you ever had him in your class and you’d be the same. His sunny disposition I still charming, probably hangs around with his past teachers, they loved him they really did.

          No matter how much sadness hung in his glove, his warm smile stayed there. In the glove, in the green ink, in the leather, in the poems it stayed there. Tony wrote many, some weren’t his. Some Frost others Angelou even Bryant. But the ones his own were fabulous, no kidding. Most he wrote about me or Daniel, our big brother. Others he wrote about the family or holidays or even baseball. He wouldn’t write sad poems though, he didn’t like it, but he still did because they were part of him. He barely wrote about himself, there were a maximum of four poems that he wrote about himself and in three of those he included me. Even in the one about Rosen, Grandma’s dog, he included me. The dog loved him a lot yet he wrote about her final good-bye, to me. I knew he loved Rosen with all his tiny little heart, she did say good-bye to him after all he was the last one to see her before she died yet he wrote about her last good-bye to me. It went a bit like this:

Sun kissed fur

With welcoming blue eyes

Leaping, jumping,

All over Stradlater

Licking his face,

This was the last day

For Rosen

The last breath in the house

Came from her

Licking Stradlater

My Blog is Sad

My blog is sad people. If you want to make it happy, comment. That is like giving food to it... please??
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Historic Letter

Dear Claire,

            I know I’m a sinner for this thought but it’s eating my mind. My guile towards Momma was something I wished to put in action. I couldn’t, but I still hoped. She’s probably wishing the same. We all wish you here, with us. Yet we know God will keep your soul safe. Don’t worry you are in a better place. I bet Momma even wishes I died instead of you that day, in the ship. She loved your sunny disposition, she abores my happiness.

            So how is it up there, in heaven? Down here, it’s horrible. Everything is “for the general good of the colony”, ugh.  Let me tell you how it is, so let’s say you want to play hide & seek, well guess what you can’t! Why? Unless everyone wants to play you can’t. Joseph’s dad needed some meds. For Rosemary, his mom, but they couldn’t. These selfish beings wouldn’t let him go back to England because it would take days and preparation and a bunch of lame excuses. In the end, we were all present when she died.

Days later I tried to take a stroll with Joseph, to my favorite spot, Marie’s Pastry Shop. We never made it; a spontaneous winter came upon us. We’ve had to stay inside for days. So many that we’ve lost count. I did record something else, something of far greater importance.

Deaths.

Millions, Zillions. All dead!

            Oh, Claire we’ve dropped to less than half the colony. Now I have to do the washings, dishes, and hear Momma complain about how slow I am with work and the weather. It would be much better if you were still alive. You could help me end mom’s imperative announcements on how everything, including me, would be better if you were alive. In the end we probably will end up dead, like you.

            There is nothing fun in the house. We can’t even look for fresh flowers for your shrine, the snow is too dense. I’d wish I knew how to send this letter but all I can do is pray for God to lower the snow or to tell you how much I miss you. That and to be honest for him to excuse my soul. In the end everything here is so bad. Ok, it IS terrible, the food stock has been decreasing and Momma is unbearable but BEFORE the snow the new world wasn’t all that bad. Then again if the snow will ever decrease maybe the journey might be worth it.

Your beloved sister,

Rosen Ducayne

I Do Not Regret it and I Am Not Mad

     I still do not regret it. I do not regret killing that old man, neither will i regret it later. I'm probably going to rot in jail. Still I will remember my last night with the old man and his eye.
    Oh! His eye. What gruesome feelings it caused me. Don't tell me wrong I loved that man, but his eye, his evil vulture like blue eye. I could not stand such stare.
    The last week I gave to him, was I in my nicest. Every night, for eight days -- the last eight days of the old man--I would gingerly watch the man sleep. About midnight, never would I act with cursory. Never would he be able to corroborate evidence of me being in the room with anyone. For each day, had I put in a dark lantern all closed, closed so that no light shone out.
    When the last night came, and his eye was thrust open. I grimaced. a smile of contempt, not madness. He probably was dehydrated, woken by a mighty thirst. If he could see me that night I would of caused him fear. If anyone could feel my sagacity that night, too have they been scared. "Who's There." His last two words ALL IN VAIN. For I remained quiet. Hour past I made my next move.
   Do you fancy me mad? How could a mad man make such a wise plan? Could he have thought of a thief, maybe. He had a fence and the shutters were close fastened. He feared someone would derive a single coin from his dragon's hoard. Wich he'd made me keep inventory of for plain fear of robbery.
   Why is it that you; a Nobody,keep on insisting I'm mad. For I am not in jail for madness but for murder. Yes for this plane thing I find myself behind the bars. I do not regret it; Nobody, I never will. My endeavor to kill that old man was far to great to be madness. My wise plan was too careful to be madness. So why is it that you, a Nobody, a person who is of such little importance call such a wise man mad? Oh, you still desire to know how I killed the old man? Well, Nobody, let me tell you so that your life will have a meaning.
   Clad with the heavy bed the instant I had dragged him to the floor. His heart wich simulated the courage of a soldier, wich had made me nervous, now marked the old man's hour. It could not be heard through the wall. He was stone dead, no pulsation. His eye would trouble me no more.
   Now if you still think me mad, you better shouldn't for I'd taken my precautions. I took three planks from the flooring, the less abrasive and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the board so cleverly, so cunningly that no human eye -- even his or yours.. could have detected anything wrong. There was noting to clean, there was no blood -- no stain-- I had been too wary for that. Four o' clock, I was done. As for the door, their was knocking, the bell sounded the hour.
   So now you think it's safe to surmise I was scared. You couldn't be wronger for what had I to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. Apparently a dammed neighbor heard the old man scream but what had I to fear? Eagerly I should them all the rooms even the old man's chamber.
   I lied to them, I said the shriek was my own in a dream and the old man was put of the country. I was so electrified my plan had work, they would have no clue. I asked them, no, pulled some chairs for them, mine was on top of the very man. They would never guess that they were in the room were he lay. While I myself, had convinced them. The officers were satisfied.
   Now you must be thinking, then how did you manage to be here? Well, while they sat and I answered cheerily, they chatted about familiar things. Some time within our conversation about where the old man was I felt myself getting pale and wishing them gone. I fancied a ringing in my ears, but it wasn't it was a sound low, dull, quick sound -- much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I tried talking faster but the sound increased, I grew paler. Why did they not leave?
   Had I not provided all the information they needed? Mockery, that is what it was. I swung the chair, grated it upon the boards, I swore!
   Finally did I succumb to that horrid noise. Did they not hear it, Almighty God!-- no; no? They heard!-- They KNEW!-- It was me all along. I was in agony, anything was, no, is better than that agony. Anything was more tolerable than this derision! Hippocrates, they knew it all along with their hypocritical smiles.I snapped.
   "Villains!" I shrieked,"dissemble no more! I admit the deed!-- tear up planks-- here, here!-- it is the beating of his hideous heart!"
    Son now, Nobody, do you like having spice in you life? Talking to a murderer. Let me tell you I do not regret it. So do you still fancy me mad?