Is it possible to read “Catcher in the Rye” without being a pretentious dick?

Let’s find out.

As soul-crushingly cliche as it sounds, however — and I will most likely hate myself for saying this — I find myself really liking Holden Caulfield: he’s a cynical bastard who basically loathes everybody around him, and that’s the sort of thing I look for in a protagonist.

There are people who will suspect that I’m only reading it because the author recently died. Which I am, so there. It’s too enjoyable a book to waste on apathetic high school dipshits. Just don’t expect any essays from me on how he represents a generation of disillusioned youths exemplifying the themes of punk rock and Fight Club anytime soon — mostly because that theme’s been beaten to death already. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.