I read Alain-Fournier’s Le Grand Meaulnes long before I read The Catcher in the Rye. The former is the only book I have ever read with a character — the narrator, François Seurel — whose outlook was so nearly identical to my own. The latter, when I read it in college, exerted no positive impression on me at all. Holden Caulfield struck me as a whining pain in the ass.
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