The Catcher In The Rye First Edition Novels & Stories

’ He released my hands and reached up to grab the book, removing the protective sleeve he had covering it and placing it gently in my hands. My eyes rounded, and my head darted up to meet Everett’s eyes, ‘Please tell me this isn’t a joke.’ Shaking his head, still grinning from ear to ear, ‘It’s not.’ ‘I thought you didn’t have a first edition of it?’ A soft smirk grew from the corner of his mouth, ‘I never said that. I just hoped that I could get another one, just in case this one fell apart.’ I scoffed, ‘Ev, this one looks near perfect! There’s just a little fraying here and there, but it’s a small hardback book,’ turning it over slowly, I continued examining it, ‘It looks well made, and yo

Small, rectangular, wrapped in cream paper with a bronze ribbon. “Daniel…” “Just open it.” I unwrap carefully, my fingers trembling slightly. Beneath the paper is a book. Old leather binding. Gold lettering on the spine that catches the candlelight. Jane Eyre. First Edition. My breath catches. “This is…” “A 1847 first edition. Smith, Elder & Co. printing.” His voice is soft, almost vulnerable. “You told me that night, four years ago, that it was your favorite book. That your father used to read it to you before bed, doing all the voices. I’ve been looking for the right copy ever since.”

I can’t remember turning it on. I bend down to pick up the book. It was his favorite, ‘The Catcher in the Rye’ by J. D. Salinger. He took it everywhere he went. The day I had to collect his things at the hospital, it was just this and an old jacket that once belonged to my dad. The book, old and worn, has scribbled handwriting inside, like it was written in a hurry before the thought was lost. I close my eyes and open it on a random page. I read the first quote I can find:

The spine was faded but I could still read it, and when I read it I sat very still on the edge of the bed and read it again. It was my favorite novel. Not a new copy, not a nice edition. The original publication. A first edition, the year it was first printed, and I knew enough about books to understand what I was holding and roughly what it meant in terms of — everything. In terms of effort and intention and the specific kind of attention required to find something like this. My hands were not entirely steady.

I have a class to attend, he is in detention, his punishment can’t get any worse than that but mine can. Hurrying to the literature section, I pick out the first copy of The Great Gatsby I find on the rows of shelves with first edition novels. A crumpled note falls out as I am about to tuck it into my bag, I look around to see if anyone is here but there’s no one within walking distance. I open the note and frown. It is a letter. A handwritten letter.