Just a poor deaf mute bastard

[…]Finally, what I decided I’d do, I decided I’d go away. I decided I’d never go home again and I’d never go away to another school again. I decided I’d just see old Phoebe and sort say goodbye to her and all, and give her back her Christmas dough, and then I’d start hitch-hiking my way out west. What I’d do, I figured, I’d go to the Holland Tunnel and bum a ride, and then I’d bum another one, and another one, and another one, and in a few days I’d be somewhere out west where it was very pretty and sunny and where nobody’d know me and I’d get a job. I figured I could get a job at a filling station somewhere, putting gas and oil in people’s cars. I didn’t care what kind of job it was, though. Just so people didn’t know me and I didn’t know anybody. I thought what I’d do was, I’d pretend I was one of those deaf mutes. That way I wouldn’t have to have any goddam stupid useless conversations with anybody. If anybody wanted to tell me something, they’d have to write it on a piece of paper and shove it over to me. They’d get bored as hell doing that after a while, and then I’d be through with having conversations for the rest of my life. Everybody’d think I was just a poor deaf mute bastard and they’d leave me alone. They’d let me put gas and oil in their stupid cars, and they’d pay me a salary and all for it, and I’d build me a little cabin somewhere with the dough I made and live there for the rest of my life. I’d build it right near the woods, but not right in them, because I’d want it to be sunny as hell all the time. I’d cook all my own food, and later on, if I wanted to get married or something, I’d meet this beautiful girl that was also a deaf mute and wed get married. She’d come and live in my cabin with me, and if she wanted to say anything to me she’d have to write it on a goddam piece of paper, like everybody else. If we had any children, we’d hide them somewhere. We could buy them a lot of books and teach them how to read and write by ourselves.[…]

Fragmento extraído del capítulo 25 de The Cather in the Rye, by J. D. Salinger

Leí este libro – en español – cuando iba al instituto. Un profesor al que apodábamos muy cruelmente Gollum, nos lo mandó como lectura obligatoria y me gustó mucho. No estoy segura de que mi opinión fuera compartida por mis compañeros. Recuerdo no hace demasiado haber discutido precisamente de este libro con otro profesor – de lengua también – y me decía que antiguamente El guardián entre el centeno era un éxito asegurado en las lecturas obligatorias. Y luego ya no. Un amigo mío lo achacaba probablemente a la traducción, que se había quedado desfasada. Tal vez.

Anyway, no recuerdo mucho más de lo que hicimos ese curso en Lengua (o como lo llaman ahora, Castellano: lengua y literatura), pero me acuerdo de este libro. Por eso, cuando el otro día lo vi en una tienda de cosas de segunda mano, lo cogí sin dudar. Después de haberlo leído de nuevo – esta vez en inglés – afirmo que me ha gustado mucho de nuevo. Probablemente más. Incluso diría que creo que puedo entender un poco el revuelo que causó durante mucho tiempo.

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