happiness secret

image from here

“In the story The Little Prince, the fox was wiser than he knew when he said, “Now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye” (Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince, trans. Katherine Woods [1943], 70). The odyssey to happiness lies in the dimension of the heart. Such a journey is made on stepping-stones of selflessness, wisdom, contentment, and faith. The enemies of progress and fulfillment are such things as self-doubt, a poor self-image, self-pity, bitterness, and despair. By substituting simple faith and humility for these enemies, we can move rapidly in our search for happiness.”

~James E. Faust, “Our Search for Happiness”

read here


Tuesday Tunes: Sondheim’s “Being Alive” from Company

image from here

image from here

Singer: NPH

Song: Stephen Sondheim, “Being Alive”

From the musical Company

  • This song has been stuck in my head. The first time I heard it song, the flawless Sutton Foster was belting it out on stage. This version with Neil Patrick Harris is pretty amazing, too. The lyrics just make me want to cry. So many feelings. Does this song make you think of anyone? Share in the comments below.


the bbb blogger


Someone to hold you too close,
Someone to hurt you too deep,
Someone to sit in your chair,
To ruin your sleep.

Someone to need you too much,
Someone to know you too well,
Someone to pull you up short
And put you through hell.

Someone you have to let in,
Someone whose feelings you spare,
Someone who, like it or not,
Will want you to share
A little, a lot.

Someone to crowd you with love,
Someone to force you to care,
Someone to make you come through,
Who’ll always be there,
As frightened as you
Of being alive,
Being alive,
Being alive,
Being alive.

Somebody, hold me too close,
Somebody, hurt me too deep,
Somebody, sit in my chair
And ruin my sleep
And make me aware
Of being alive,
Being alive.

Somebody, need me too much,
Somebody, know me too well,
Somebody, pull me up short
And put me through hell
And give me support
For being alive,
Make me alive,
Make me alive,
Make me confused,
Mock me with praise,
Let me be used,
Vary my days.
But alone is alone, not alive.

Somebody, crowd me with love,
Somebody, force me to care,
Somebody, let me come through,
I’ll always be there,
As frightened as you,
To help us survive
Being alive,
Being alive,
Being alive!

How to Have Peace

In the constant, daily struggles of everyday life, it can be difficult to feel peace. Whether it’s an upcoming exam or worries about the future (family, career, etc.), feeling peace can seem impossible.

In Doctrine and Covenants 19:23, it tells us how we can individually have peace:

Learn of me, and listen to my words; walk in the meekness of my Spirit, and you shall have peace in me.

So how can we have peace?

  1. A person must learn of Christ.
  2. A person must listen to the words of Christ.
  3. A person must be meek.

This world is full of confusion and turmoil. There are wars; there are rumors of wars. There are murders and fighting, divorce and hatred, unkindness and theft. But the Gospel truly does offer peace to those willing to accept its teachings.

1. A person must learn of Christ.

Learning of Christ seems pretty straightforward. Sometimes actually learning of Christ is hard when we get busy with life. Studying the scriptures, the Word of God, will help all of us learn of Christ. Going to the temple brings us closer to him.

2. A person must listen to the words of Christ.

In Doctrine and Covenants 1:38, the Lord declares the following:

What I the Lord have spoken, I have spoken, and I excuse not myself; and though the heavens and the earth pass away, my word shall not pass away, but shall all be fulfilled, whether by mine own voice or by the voice of my servants, it is the same.

This scripture seems to prove that General Conference is extremely important. When apostles and prophets speak, it is what the Lord would have declared because they are his servants.

Last Sunday in sacrament meeting, my bishop talked about General Conference, which will be happening this weekend. He said that across the church, it is the least attended meeting by the members. I was shocked! General Conference is probably my favorite spiritual weekend every April and October.

Bishop Jackson told the members of my ward eight concepts that we would learn if we would listen to General Conference.

8 Concepts We Can Learn if We Listen to to General Conference

  1. The importance of remembering our covenants
  2. Our need to seek for eternal truth
  3. How we can avoid confusion/being misled
  4. Why we should resist evil
  5. The need to sustain one another
  6. The importance of attending church meetings
  7. The importance of guarding our virtue
  8. Why we should develop good qualities

President Monson

3. A person must be meek.

I know that as we listen to the words of the prophets, we must be meek. If we are meek, we will be more likely to accept what they have to say as truth. And if we accept the words of the prophets and apostles, then we will be more likely to implement their teachings into our lives. Being meek is not being weak—being meek will make us humble and stronger.

Originally posted: http://stanceforthefamily.byu.edu/how-to-have-peace/

Written Wednesday: Alizabeth Leake

Alizabeth Leake—talented poet, wonderful tutor, caring friend. Her gifted writing skills are shown below in some of the poems she has allowed me to post here on this blog. Enjoy!  ❤

Love Story of a Dirt Road

I pulled at my mother’s sleeve

when I couldn’t match my feet to hers,

feeling pricks of scab at her elbows

that she always had

from clawing her goose bumps,


and asked if I could take a picture

of a shoreline of mud on an overturned rock,

a single soggy sock on the road.


The love story of a country road

is not a song

an essay

an attempt to say

the thin-wind thirst of the long, sun worn days


it does not speak through

the weeds

fence posts

layers of rock, or even

a single, dry feather.


It is as silent as the highest winter-limbs of the cedar.


We stayed until evening because to leave meant

to be alone again, as is a part of love,


and with the setting red sun all sank into

a prayer that hangs by the root tangles,

heavier than the tired eyelids

of the newborn.

To the Stairs from My Room in the Basement

At day, I’ll smell your climate of small

bodies shadow-legged and webbed and pay

my morning salutation so each vertebrae

in your bent back cracks under heel’s fall,

take the slanted staff that stems the wall—

forget the bed of my spent head you play

this night, my ribs and hips and face that lay

hard swollen in your crib, forget all.

Against your diagonal wilderness

this night I compass my angular soul,

though the weather of loneliness and soft yawn.

You are the chamber in which I undress

and arrange rigid limbs. Hold me whole,

old heart-closet, keep, bridge me to dawn.


Age 5. You looked for the chain of paper clips hooked

beneath the top drawer, felt for coins in the slots

of my cassette case and between picture book pages,

for beads dug through the seams of stuffed animals

and looked again because only if they weren’t there

would you remember checking for the things I’d stolen.


Age 7. You hid in a cupboard set between black marble floor

and black marble countertop when you skipped little league

cheer practice because you weren’t supposed to be home.

I stared at the pins of light that came through the hinges.


Age 13. In the after-vacation invasion, my brother found

a jar of pickles, the lid’s pressure button belly-up.

Everyone else had egg salad for lunch and lost it

for dinner. I declined, and for that I thank you.


Age 18.  My EMT workbook open on my desk: two wings

limp with fatigue. Check-offs in the margins like beaker marks,

a purple-capped phial of separated blood in my pencil mug.

I almost finished at the top of the class but you convinced me

not to take the exam so I would never risk mixing winged

with shielded IV catheters or counting CPR beats too quickly.


One day, you’ll shuffle over tile in padded orthopedics

so I wake in the morning and wonder what I heard,

knee jerk my way downstairs to check the furnace and jump

at an empty popcorn bag. Maybe, I’ll wonder just long enough

to forget whether or not I should latch the chimney at night.

Wooden Ducks

A pair of them, Korean, one of three decorations that I wasn’t willing to leave at home when I went to college. One of the beaks is painted green and the other red with the wood visible beneath. Each cups the length of my palm, a little skinnier, a little taller, the weight of an egg. After eleventh grade when my friend went back home to Seul after a year, she gave them to me in a silk sack. “Remember, this is wedding gift, for happy marriage.”

I keep one in each boot.

At Closing

Behind the refrigerator doors

hall of mirrors,

behind the metal racks under the light bulbs’

spread, there fallen


on dark cement: a gallon of skim milk,

handle split like an opened bean,

milk pours staccato out of the seam

the widening tundra-gray tide.


A grocer boy with hands in pockets

counts empty slots down the dairy aisle,

across the spill’s edge,

the milk prickling on rough cement.

In Motion

1. A smooth surface reflects light in a single, brilliant beam. It is on the harsh and fractured ground that light disperses, touching our dark corners.

2. Friction. 1) Static: The resistance to starting movement. 2) Kinetic: The resistance to continuing movement. Remember holding hands for the first time?

3. The principle of latent heat demonstrates that the temperature we feel is the transfer of heat or energy between two objects. We measure all things by measuring the change in ourselves.


brown rice spills

out of a blue tupperware

like yesterday’s minutes.

On Prayer

When you first learn a song, play with one hand at a time.

When you know the right and left, play with both hands together.

When you know a song in your heart, forget how to play the one hand without the other.


Mimetic Criticism; or, Plato’s Influence Upon Theorists Then and Now

Mimetic Criticism; or, Plato’s Influence Upon Theorists Then and Now

From Plato to modern critics and theorists, the nature of literary mimesis varies, and modernity inevitably problematize mimesis; however, Plato becomes the inevitable commonality between the theorists from the ancient to the modern (Aristotle, Plotinus, Nietzsche, Wilde, Saussure, and Baudrillard). These theorists explicitly or implicitly enter into a dialogue with Plato, thus responding to or reacting against Plato’s position concerning art’s purpose and its representation. Of course, there are various schools of thought and organization. While Plato focuses on the objective purpose of art and questions its value, Aristotle focuses on the process of art and its seemingly natural place in life and the world.

Modern theorists problematize the method, working not in an integrative way but rather a dispersive way. Nietzsche and Wilde both suggest the expansive realm of lies, while Saussure suggests the arbitrariness of language. Finally, Baudrillard calls into question reality itself–reality and virtual reality become indistinguishable for us in the realm of hyperreality. Baudrillard, in a sense, swings full circle. Baudrillard, a Platonist who furiously waves his fists and claims that there is no way out of the cave, reveals his foundation in the scholastic tradition going all the back to Plato. Additionally, it is imperative to keep in mind how these theories concerning mimesis can shape our view of the purpose of literature and art and its interpretation.


In the Ion, Plato questions whether the rhapsode, a person who recites and discusses poetry, knows a skill or knowledge. In his dialectical method, Plato questions whether a poet who speaks about music knows more than the actual musician. Plato argues that those who study art have no knowledge, and the poet has no art, no knowledge but is merely inspired or possessed, acquiring a special kind of madness. Poetry is not knowledge because poetry is merely a copy of a copy. First removal: there is somewhere above humans in the heavens the realm of Ideas. Second removal: then there is the world or the Phenomenal. Finally, then there is art. Consequently, these removals result in “leading away from the truth rather than toward it,” which is why Plato has “a distrust of mimesis representation or imitation” because “all art–including poetry–is a mimesis of nature, a copy of objects in the physical world” (Leitch 41), as symbolized in Book 7 in The Allegory of the Cave.

Plato is esoteric in his theory on Forms. The Allegory of the Cave is an allegory of our perception of reality. Those who watched the images of images had a difficult time experience a paradigm shift, and when they returned back to the cave, they had a difficult time explaining their experience. Obtaining ideal forms are beyond us because we live in a world of fallen shadows. Everything people see is an illusion of their perceptions. Nietzsche comes along and claims a more scientific way to describe the same way. My view of the Cadbury hot chocolate on my desk is actually a light image on the retina and a nerve impulses optic nerve connecting back to the brain. This is the first metaphor. Then comes the concept or an image in the head. Nietzsche assigns this second occurrence as the second metaphor. Nietzsche turns Aristotle and Plato against themselves because these forms/essences that language names are not forms/essences but rather metaphors, not a thing itself but rather creations of our own intellect, which associate by convention with our sensory experiences. Therefore, perceptions become layers upon layers of metaphor.


While Plato believes that reality is not in the realm of phenomena, Nietzsche would claim that truth never really represents reality because the true metaphor for reality is what we come to accept. In fact, “because Nietzsche . . . robs this vision of its transcendental object, the Platonic Idea, it is bereft of any object whatever,” and as a result, “It is representative of the dominant poetic perception in nineteenth-century literature: ‘absolute’ or ‘pure’ poetry” (Heller 163). Truth equals illusion, for Nietzsche. Additionally, when defining truth, Nietzsche uses literary terms to define this abstract term: “A mobile army of metaphors, metonymies, anthropomorphisms, in short a sum of human relations which have been subjected to poetic and rhetorical intensification, translation, and decoration” (Leitch 768). Since truth is not reality, then literature, therefore, can never reach the ultimate truth because literature becomes yet another layer of lies—which humans also choose to accept—to look at the world. This idea mirrors Plato’s idea of separated realms. The separations for Nietzsche include reality, then the metaphor for reality, and then literature as another separation from truth.

Yet Plato would argue that we humans are trapped in our perception. Plato claims that poetry is also two times removed, and language is representative and is two times removed, as well; therefore, poetical limitations ruin human understanding, unless humans know the true nature of things. Art becomes a dysfunctional family: the mother, matter or being; the father, knowledge; and the child, the effect on the soul.


Of course, Plotinus both draws from but diverts from Plato. Platonius’s On the Intellectual Beauty explains, “[O]ne who has attained to the vision of the Intellectual Beauty and the grasped the beauty of the Authentic Intellect will be able also to come to understand the Father and the Transcendent of that divine Being” (Richter 111). Richter explains, “For Plotinus as for Plato, the artist imitates but does not necessarily copy the things of this world. The artist may represent his grasp of an Idea with the medium of his art” (109).

Therefore, Plotinus claims that art draws directly from the of the Muses or the divine. Art tells people how to know god. Art skips the middle part, or the world, and is able to intuit truth to human relationships. He claims that art is a privilege step, suggesting a Neo-platonic idea.


In contrast, Saussure highlights the ambiguity of language. Saussure claims that “The sign . . . designate[s] the whole and . . . replace[s] concept and sound-image respectively by signified . . . and signifier” (Leitch 853). The signified is not reality but rather a concept in our heads constructed by language. This concept could be reflective of the Platonic ideas of an imitation of imitation. Before language, there were no clear thoughts because words dictate our thoughts. Thought cannot really exist without words, since there would be no way to organize thoughts without words.

This interconnectedness of words and thought could be reflected in literature. We have stories in our head and understand in a certain way, which is reflected in our ability to identify beginning, middle, and end. The narrative structure is based on the words in literature. While Nietzsche suggests that society creates constructs of truth that they accept (those truths are actually all lies), for Saussure, no thought would suggest no reality. Without thoughts, a writer could not create or form thoughts into action, and there would be no reality for art to ever exist. But for structuralists, such as Levi-Strauss, everything is a language organized, like Saussure suggests, in binary codes and value; however, this would be in opposition to Plato, since there would be no universal value because everything would be relative to local systems.


Wilde’s conclusion ultimately ends with “the argument that there are many kinds of lie—white lies, black lies, lies told to save face or to gain advantage—but that the highest for is for its own sake,” and “the highest form of lying was art” (Kibred 287). For Wilde, the reality of stories are the structures already had; art creates that structure, creation uses that structure again. Ultimately, “[i]n an age when Marxians preached that ownership of the means of production was the key to progress, Wilde correctly sensed that ownership and understanding of the means of expression would be the question of real consequence in the century to come” (Kibred 292), which has proved to be true. Wilde’s claim that “Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life” suggests that art, or words, impact life, or the structure.

Therefore, Wilde would claim that there is no way to imitate reality because, in fact, our truth is imitation of literature we create, while Nietzsche could claim that literature is several times removed, and there is no way to imitate reality, since it is all socially-accepted-constructed lies. Although Nietzsche would claim that false truths shape literature (which is in itself a false truth, thus entangling the lies even further), Wilde would argue that literature is false truths that shape our reality, which is apparent even in Wilde’s own writings, because even within Wilde’s own writing, he contradicts himself. The underlying irony is that Wilde, who is an artist himself, claims that “All art is quite useless” (790). Wilde’s entanglement of lies upon further lies makes it nigh impossible to ever reach the Plato’s Ideal of Forms. Yet Wilde’s character Gilbert argues the following:

[C]reative art is that it is just a little less vulgar than reality, and so the critic, with his fine sense of distinction and sure instinct of delicate refinement, will prefer to look into the silver mirror or through the woven veil, and will turn his eyes away from the chaos and clamour of actual existence, though the mirror be tarnished and the veil be torn. His sole aim is to chronicles his own impressions. It is for him that pictures are painted, books written, marble hewn into form. (Leitch 800)

Basically, for Wilde, there is reality, and then there is art, which is not quite as awful as reality, and; finally, then there is the criticism. Once again, we experience a two-times-removed experience, paralleling Plato’s original critique of poetry. Here, Wilde sets the highest form of criticism upon the pedestal: “[Wilde] did not again use the form Plato had found a necessity of the expression of his sense of how the human mind seeks enlightenment–what is called Plato’s ‘theory of ideas.’ Wilde expressed great faith in the indispensable function of form in the creative process: as language was the parent of thought, form was the parent of artist creation” (Buckler 279).

Nonetheless, both Wilde and Plato suggest an unrealizable Ideal: “But the inherent weakness of Gilbert’s position is that he tries to make a practical matter of an unrealizable idea. No example of his ‘most perfect form’ of criticism actually exists. He conceptualizes it admirably, but he never exhibits it. Like Plato’s Ideal Forms, it is an imaginative idea realizable only in his imagination” (Buckler 285).


Yet Plato, who believed philosophy and poetry was at war, was ultimately a dogmatist, believing in one truth. Aristotle, perhaps the first pluralist, established a problematic theory of truth. Consequently, Plato focuses on the practical when speaking of art questioning the purpose of art: ideally, if art is to be used at all, art ought to be in the doing with the goal of educating the children who will later become rulers of the ideal republic. However, poets lie, therefore, they must be banished from the society because the better the poetry, “the more they are to be kept form the ears of children and men who are to be autonomous and to be more afraid of losing this freedom than of death” (Leitch 53). Plato’s conflict emerges from his problem with mimesis again: first, “At the simplest level of [mimesis], Plato raises the questions about literature’s content,” which fails to live up to the high expectations of Socrates’s examples; second, “mimesis presents us with an inferior copy of a copy, poetry—performed rather than read in Plato’s—takes its listeners away from rather than toward the idea Forms” (Leitch 43).

In contrast, Aristotle focuses on the productive disciplines of poetics, aesthetics, or manufacturing, for the purpose of the study of making, with the end goal of beauty. In other words, for Aristotle, humans look in to see or intuit the form or essence, while for Plato, we look in, then up because form is not just a concept, but concept is a reality that exists in a realm of forms.

Plato argues that art is inadequate representation, yet Aristotle presents a different argument. Nehamas argues, “The problem, then, whether or not Aristotle has met Plato’s criticism successfully has not yet, to my knowledge, received a satisfactory answer. The issue of the nature, the status, and the ethical character of … fiction remains disturbingly unresolved. Plato’s questions, like most of the other questions he asked, are still our own” (281-2). Plato argues that a poet is not a maker but a copier–not of reality but of another copy. Aristotle also says that art is imitation, or imitation of human action or attitudes. Plato’s dialogue suggests that with the nature of imitation, poetry, thus, becomes inferior knowledge; however, Aristotle seems to feel that imitation is great.

Aristotle argues that tragedy is imitation of action, complete with certain magnitude. The audience watches, and the catharsis effects the purgation of emotions. Because of this imitation action, it actually has a power to make the audience feel things, even though the audience is not performing the action themselves. This can be a real experience even if it is vicarious. Consequently, the poet does not merely copy reality but copies human action, although that may not be ideal human action. The emphasis becomes imitation as crafting not on the copy. The poet becomes a copier, and when artfully done, a craftsman. In the end, Plato (in the search for reality in the essence) attempts to locate the essence outside, Aristotle argues that reality is in the form/idea/essence of the thing—in the objects of the world—so we look inside.


The postmodernist Jean Baudrillard brings the argument full circle in his belief of the hyperreal, which is “more real than any reality could be, and thus suck the life out of actual events” (Richter 1926). Modern societies are organized around production as well as “simulacrum, a word that denotes representation but also carries the sense of a counterfeit, sham, or fake” because “Simulacra seem to have referents (real phenomena they refer to), but they are merely pretend representations that mark the absence, not the existence of the objects they purport to represent” (Leitch 1554). However, “[humans] are so precoded, so filled from the very start with the images of what we desire, that we process our relation to the world completely through those images” (1554), as evident in the Iconoclasts, who were not “able to believe that images only occulted or masked the Platonic Idea of God” and realized that art were “not images, such as the original model would have made them, but actually perfect simulacra” (1559). In a very Neitzschean way, Baudrillard states, “One can live with the idea of a distorted truth” (1559). Yet for the Iconoclasts, the icon was substituted “for the pure and intelligible Idea of God” (1559).

Similarly, Disneyland is “a perfect model of all the entangled orders of simulation” (1564), becoming “an elaborately artificial land created precisely to convince us that our ‘real’ lives are real” (1555). Yet one could wonder where to find what is real. One can only find reality on the very fringes of hyperreality. This is why the parking lot at Disneyland becomes so important. For Baudrillard, when people leave Disneyland and arrive at the parking lot, they realize their collective illusion. Their reality is that they are utterly alone, abandoned, and isolated from each other. The nostalgia for reality is evident. The Platonic idea becomes better, still holding out reality for us, although we still live in realm of images. Baudrillard even lists “the successive phases of the image: (1) the reflection of a basic reality; (2) it masks and perverts a basic reality; (3) it masks the absence of a basic reality, and; (4) it bears no reality to any reality whatever: it is its own pure simulacrum” (1560).


The postmodernists, such as Baudrillard, dissolved the basis of what was considered to be literary versus non-literary. Everything and anything becomes literary—just as Disneyland becomes fair game for analysis in Baudrillard’s argument. Baudrillard’s perception of humanity leaves little room for hope of escaping the hyperreal; however, Dr. David H. Richter of the University of Chicago asks how “Baudrillard is about his own implicit position outside the world of make-believe he describes” because “If Baudrillard had gotten outside, and seen through . . ., then isn’t it a nightmare from which we can all wake up?” (Richter 1927). Perhaps we, the readers, could wake up from the nightmare of hyperrealities or mimesis.

Works Cited

Baudrillard, Jean. “The Precession of Simulacra.” The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism. 2nd ed. Ed. Vincent B. Leitch. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2010. Print.

Buckler, William E. “Building a Bulwark Against Despair ‘The Critic as Artist’.” English Literature in Transition, 1880–1920 32.3 (1989): 278–89. EBSCO Academic Search Premier. Web. 15 Jan. 2014.

Heller, Erich. The Importance of Nietzsche: Ten Essays. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1988. Print.

Kilbred, Declan. “Oscar Wilde; the resurgence of lying.” The Cambridge Companion to Oscar Wilde. Ed. Peter Raby. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. Print.

Leitch, Vincent B. The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism. 2nd ed. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2010. Print.

Nehamas, Alexander. “Pity and Fear in the Rhetoric and the Poetics.” Aristotle’s Rhetoric. Eds. David J. Furley and Alexander Nehamas. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994, Print.

Richter, David H. The Critical Tradition: Classic Texts and Contemporary Trends. 3rd ed. New York: St. Martin’s, 2007. Print.

The Catcher in the Rye, Chapters 22-23

The Catcher in the Rye, Chapters 22-23

Here are the yay/nay/gray thoughts of the day:


Although it’s kinda creepy that Holden sits in his sister’s room watching her sleeping, Holden seems to connect with Phoebe, who enables him to open up more. Holden describes Phoebe like a school teacher (167), and Phoebe tells him not to swear so much (168) and says that Holden doesn’t like anything (169). Holden explains that he likes Allie.

Holden says, “I know he’s dead. Don’t you think I know that? I can still like him, though, can’t I? Just because somebody’s dead, you don’t just stop liking them, for God’s sake – especially if they were about a thousand times nicer than the people you know that’re alive and all” (171).


At the close of chapter 23, while Holden was sneaking out with his parents still in, Holden explains, “For one thing, I didn’t give much of a damn any more if they caught me. I really didn’t. If figured if they caught me, they caught me. I almost wished they did, in a way” (180).

Most of this book is such a push and pull. The reader seems to make some progress into understanding Holden when he will open up and share something. Then he says things like this. He doesn’t care if he gets caught. But he really does want to get caught. Most of the book doesn’t feel like progress at all, though.


In chapter 22, we learn when Holden was showering one time at school, a boy named James Castle committed suicide by jumping out the window: “I was in the shower and all, and even I could hear him land outside. But I just thought something fell out the window, a radio or a desk or something, not a boy or anything” (170). Holden describes the gruesome scene and how the James was wearing Holden’s turtle neck sweater that he had lent to him previously.

Holden explains, “The funny part is, I hardly even know James Castle, if you want to know the truth. He was one of these very quiet guys” (171).

This moment in the book is terribly sad and gruesome. However, it is poignant, as well, by giving the reader a deeper connection with Holden’s inner psychology.

More (silly) Questions:

What is a Yogi guy (175) that Holden mentions in chapter 23?

In “A Reader’s Companion to J. D. Salinger’s the Catcher in the Rye” by Peter G. Beidler, it explains that “A Yogi is a person who practices Yoga, a method of breathing, movement, and meditation” (188).

We learn that Robert Burns wrote the poem “Comin’ Thro’ the Rye” (173). Here is some interesting information about this poem: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Comin’_Thro’_the_Rye

Salinger, J. D. The Catcher in the Rye. New York City: Bantam Book, 1951. Print



How do I learn?

I read. Then I read some more. And then I read some more.

Learning via experience is vital. I love going to museums and walking and walking and taking it all in visually.

Learning by discussion is important. I love talking out ideas. I love listening to other people’s ideas.