When I was younger I wanted to be a socialist. Like all grammar school kids growing up in a leafy suburb of south Manchester I was really feeling the sting of working class oppression, so I bought myself a beret and went around drawing the hammer and sickle onto school desks and being provocative in front of my elderly relatives. All was well.
As I got older I began to distance myself from the label. Partly to distinguish myself from the hardcore Marxists who seemed too angry ever to have any fun or to form meaningful relationships with anyone who didn't completely agree with them, but partly...well, something had changed. Whereas before I'd taken an immediate shine to anyone pronouncing themselves a lefty, now they'd begin to irritate me. I myself wasn't any less committed to left wing values (moderate as they might have been). But if I saw someone walking down the street in a Che Guevara t-shirt I wouldn't think, 'good on you comrade', I'd think, 'clueless dickhead'.
I was never able to explain this until, a couple of weeks ago I mentioned it to a friend.
"I know what you mean," he said, "It's the Catcher in the Rye of politics." And I knew exactly what he meant. I liked it so much I nicked it, and shamelessly recycled it for blog material. Which is what you're reading now.
The problem with socialism is that too many people support it purely for image reasons. Due to its reputation for being a radical, fringe ideology its been adopted by those people who want to appear radical and fringe themselves but are too bland and ordinary to achieve such labels by merit of any personality trait or reputation. So like limpets they throw themselves to the left. They buy t-shirts for £40 from Topman with Lenin's face on them, wrap themselves in scarves and those fingerless gloves, smoke effeminate Russian cigarettes and denounce everything they come across as hopelessly bourgeoisie.
This must be intensely annoying for the hardcore revolutionaries, but its just as annoying for those who are forced into the realms of the centre, the moderate, the white-bread, and the establishment, just because where they'd like to be is so fettered with morons. You could argue its a classic case of being jealous when something you like becomes popular, but I'm more annoyed that people support it for the wrong reasons. Hence the Catcher in the Rye analogy.
Now I'm a big fan of The Catcher in the Rye. But so are a lot of other people. I can't classify myself as a fan because I don't want to be grouped in with the majority of people who claim fanship because they like it for the wrong reasons. The Catcher in the Rye is a great example of a book which is both hilarious and at the same time profound. J.D. Salinger ruthlessly rips the piss out of Holden - his self importance, his victim complex, his self-conscious angst - without ever being unkind or scathing, and thus we treat him seriously. That's why I like it. Idiots like it because they treat what Holden says with a kind of slavish profundity - "Man, I know what he means? Everyone's so phoney! And I'M doomed to be a catcher! Jesus, I AM Holden Caulfield!". So they carry copies around with them and quote it sporadically to the blissful rapture of their twazzock mates. In order to prevent myself ever being lumped in with such people, I have to give up my attachment to the book altogether. Which is so unfair I feel like chewing glass.
And its not the only example. My life is littered with things - On the Road, The Smiths, Bob Dylan, and the film Withnail and I - I can no longer love. They have all become catchers in the rye, and I am left listless and bereft.
About a week after the discussion I found myself at the student protest in Westminster - you know, the one where Camilla got poked with a stick. After two hours spent crammed in with a bunch of public school kids clammering about fascist oppression I forced my way to the sidelines, and saw, sitting in a deckchair and wearing a CCCP shirt, sat a girl. Reading The Catcher in the Rye.
"Are you serious?" I asked her, after scanning the area to check there weren't any rock-stars who'd been shot.
She looked up at me and my 'Impeach Clegg' banner.
"Don't you think he's such a phoney?" she asked.
I got out of there as fast as I could. I was keen it wouldn't become the second time that book had inspired murder.
1 comment:
This friend you mentioned, is it Charlie Brooker? Or at the very least David Mitchell? I can imagine no one else with the ability to make such a profound point but in such accessible terms. Where's his blog? I'd much rather be reading that than the preceding plagiarised drivel!
Post a Comment