Taking back "The Catcher in the Rye"

From Wikipedia:

“Mark David Chapman (born May 10, 1955) is an American prison inmate who was convicted for murdering John Lennon on December 8, 1980. Chapman shot Lennon outside The Dakota apartment building in New York City. Chapman fired at Lennon five times, hitting him four times in his back. Chapman later remained at the scene reading J. D. Salinger's novel The Catcher in the Rye until the police arrived and arrested him. Chapman repeatedly said that the novel was his statement.”

The bastard.

Chapman didn't just murder Lennon. In a strange way, for me at least, he murdered “The Catcher in the Rye” as well. I have loved that book since I was a teenager, but up until a few days ago, I just couldn't bring myself to touch it again. Not since December 8, 1980. I just couldn't get the image out of my head of Lennon, sprawled on the ground in front of the Dakota bleeding to death, Yoko screaming, and Chapman, smiling in his madness, reading “The Catcher in the Rye” quietly while the approaching sirens got louder and louder.

The book was “his statement”.

Damn him. Damn his madness. Damn his pretentious irrational statement. 

Chapman completely co-opted one of the most meaningful books of my youth. A book that touched me deeply like few others did, before or since. A book of a sad, confused, sometimes angry, sometimes heartbroken, overly empathetic, overly critical young man whose only way of dealing with the “phoniness” of the society he lived in was to shut down, seize upon absurd self-made fantasies, and passively aggressively refuse to participate.

It was a book that I related to on so many levels. Especially in my youth. Even now it affects me, in a toned-down, beaten-down-but-not-out sorta way.

A few minutes ago, I finished reading “The Catcher in the Rye” again. It took me 33 years.

Lennon is dead. There’s nothing that can be done about that. But I decided that it was past time for me to take my copy of the book away from Mark David Chapman and call it my own again.

The character of Holden Caulfield might have been beyond screwed up, but in his heart was an innate goodness that prevailed over everything. I refuse to believe that he had the capacity to cause harm to anyone. Ever. The character seems that real to me.

Chapman, I knew Holden Caulfield. Holden Caulfield was a friend of mine. Mr. Chapman, you’re no Holden Caulfield.

Or at least you aren't the only one.

There are millions of us.

If you want to know the truth.