It’s frosty in the air and on the ground, a dry frost that crackles and crunches under the feet and feels like the breaking of a stale communion wafer...
I wasn’t reading it as a student, forced to write some terrible essay about “themes” and “symbolism,” and I wasn’t reading it as an emo high-schooler, desperate for an angsty kid narrator with whom to identify. I was reading Salinger as an adult, a father...