The Catcher In The Rye First Edition 소설 & 이야기

the letter read. “I spent four hours today arguing with a man who smelled like old goat cheese and gunpowder. I found myself wondering if you were still reading about the Medicis, or if you’d moved on to something less bloody. I found a bookstore in a small village today. It was tucked between a bakery and a butcher shop. I saw a first edition of 'The Shining' and thought of you. Stay in the sun, Little Bird.” I laughed again, a sound that I had not genuinely made in a while .

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:

If he can see every move I make, how will I ever make a move against him? During my rampage of a small bookshelf on the wall next to the bed, I find classic books such as, The Catcher in the Rye, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and so on. Spotting amongst the classics a leather bound book with no title or author. I slowly open it and inside handwritten pages are revealed. May 12th 1998

’ 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

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.

You're fired. Fired. It was the worst news in a long time. I remembered an old book, ‘The Catcher in the Rye'. The protagonist is at some point left alone in the middle of the city, penniless and heartbroken, just as I was at that moment. I dicreetly waved goodbye to Jack, who seemed to be trying to tell me something I simply chose to ignore.

I turn the phone back off and return it to the desk. Finally, I turn back to the bookshelf. I pick up a book I found titled The Catcher in the Rye . I recognized the title as a classic piece of American literature, but I've never read it myself. His copy looks distinctly different from the rest of his books. The others look either new or almost new, but this one looks as though it has been read several times. I settle on the couch, open the book, and begin to read. ~~~ I freeze when I hear thumping outside on the porch. The doorknob rattles. I stare at the door in terror. A loud knock sounds. It's probably Ryan. It's got to be him. Definitely.

The key fonts were crisp, the glow promising pages I’d only dared to dream of. The largest box held rare first editions of The Great Gatsby, Lolita, 1984—books I’d read in borrowed copies, from uninspiring editions or library dogs and mildew. Now they lay before me, pristine: rich mahogany leather, gold leafing on the spines. My breath caught in my chest; owning even one would’ve been impossible. Now I had three. I traced Gatsby’s title with trembling fingers, it felt like a betrayal or a blessing. Last came the envelope, heavy, thick lines beneath my name. I opened it, life slowing. Ink flowed in clear handwriting:

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.