by Annette Ferran
Books
for Boys and Other Humans
There are two novels on the Modern
Library’s list that are credited with turning generations of adolescent boys
into readers of literature. One is
Lord of the Flies (#41, William
Golding) and the other is Catcher in the
Rye (#64, J.D. Salinger).
To
be sure, the primary appeal is that the characters themselves are adolescent
boys, with their myriad confusing, angry, wild and joyful impulses, trying to
make their way through to adulthood, that boring, concession-filled state.
Both
of these novels are extremely well known.
Lord of the Flies is a
fantastical story of what would happen if a passel of boys were left to govern
themselves (spoiler alert: it doesn’t end well). Catcher in the Rye
is a realistic story of a boy more or less alone in New York City and in life,
or so he fears.
With
their being so well known, the question is, how did they achieve their status?
What qualities have made each not only reach successive new generations of
readers—or, more importantly, reluctant readers—but also endure as classics of
literature with the ability to touch adult readers as well? These novels do not
have a lot in common with one another on the surface. What they do have in common is something that is a pillar of
good storytelling: character.
Think
of Catcher in the Rye and you think
of Holden Caulfield. Holden could
be your little brother, and with trepidation you watch him as you watch your
brother struggle through his preternatural cynicism, knowing that he is
unreachable, hoping he’ll make it okay to the other side. You understand his
anger and confusion, his disgust with everything ordinary. You get a charge out
of his foul-mouthed mode of expression, though you are supposed to
disapprove. You feel the
undercurrent of his vulnerability.
If
you are the little brother, you see
in Holden a reflection of your own inner self. Holden articulates for you what you’ve always felt to be
impossible to articulate. You love
him, and thus love yourself.
Your
little brother could also go the way of the boys in Lord of the Flies. They are so ungovernable, yet longing for
governance. They are unformed creatures sorely in need of a firm adult hand,
that guidance that in this story is literally absent and in the lives of so
many young people lacking in essence if not in body.
Without
someone to teach them and control them, they create their own hierarchies. They play out the naturalness of the
human animal in society. Their approach is a mix of instinct—for self-preservation,
for dominance—and the inborn inclination to form a structure around themselves
in order to create meaning beyond mere basic need. Both instincts are equally human. You can see how easily your little brother might become one
of these archetypal members of society: the strong, the bullied, the wise, the
incapable. And again, if you are the little brother, here is a range of
characters you could mold yourself after, as well as those you secretly fear
you are.
Even
as adults we struggle with these fears and aspirations: Who can I become, and
what idiocies and unacceptable futures must I face down on my way?
Thus
both novels achieved something extraordinary. They speak directly to the adolescent sensibility,
particularly the male one (which is not so well served as the female). And they embed themselves in the
reader’s mind, so that the adult can read with a kind of duality,
simultaneously as a wild adolescent and as the person he did eventually become.
Annette Ferran
lives in Philadelphia where she works as an editor for a medical
publisher. She is also the
Associate Editor for 10,000 Tons ofBlack Ink, a Literary Writers Network publication. She has a degree of
dubious practical use, in German, and is a lifelong avid reader of fiction and
lover of lists. She has had a few short stories published, most recently in RE:AL.
