Last night at the J.D. Salinger…memorial service, Iguess, at the 509 I wrote this in the journal that I send to Krista. It’s inspired loosely by someone that was there and the first time I read Catcher in the Rye which opened my eyes to first person narrative in a novel.
You know that guy? That horrible guy everyone knows? You know the one. The one that’s wonderful. Not to you, but to him. Certinaly not to anyone unless they don’t know about good things. But of course to himself. That guy. The one that always finds you as his ally, his seat partner, and you hope to God that you aren’t off being that guy to someone you love or respect. And you build yourself up a bit cause that guy probably loves and respects you. Then you fall because he doesn’t and you don’t want him to anyway. he only loves and respects himself.
Thinking about the “mighty I” and the power of the first person narrative. The value of a story told from the protagonist or even the antagonist or the main character’s best friend and how that makes it something to remember, but also loathe. Because that cocky son of a bitch wrote about himself and not just about himself. But about himself telling a story about himself.
Even if it’s just a book, written by some other guy about some made up character that damn character is still telling me a story about himself as himself, not even sneaky about it, ya know. Just like that guy.