I think it must, as ever, be the extremely high saccherine
content that puts my teeth on edge.
When writing about young children, it's almost impossible
to avoid, on the one hand, condescension; or, on the other,
sentimental idealisation. Only the greatest writers - ? Tolstoy,
Dickens? - have ever managed it. Salinger cloyingly embraces
both.
Most little boys at some time or other fantasise themselves
as secret agents, finger-pistoling teachers, mothers & sisters
& perhaps even accompanied by a canine partner. Nothing droll
or unusual about that. What little boys do NOT attribute
to their antagonists is 'mediocrity'. That's a concept that only
appears with the insecurities of adolescence.
Remember, the narrator is actually drooling affectionately over
the nine year old version of HIMSELF. He is dismissing what
he (now in his ?twenty-ninth? year) thinks of as the great mediocre
majority - the words put retrospectively into his own lisping, lovable,
ickle mouss. That's what makes its arrogance especially embarrassing.
Scottie B.
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Received on Sun Aug 3 09:07:44 2003
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