They say "goddam" too much in this novel.
Bret Easton Ellis must have read this book obsessively in preparation for American Psycho. There are lots of superfluous lists of thing in the house, in the cabinets, in the bookshelves, the kinds of furniture they had, how many empty birdcages were present in the living room with the exact number of comfortable chairs AND uncomfortable chairs.
I wish I had read this when I was 15 and not 28. I don't think I "get" it like I'm supposed to. I don't dislike Salinger by any means, I just don't enjoy his stuff the same way my nihilistic younger self would have.
I think this is my 40th official book of the year.
Edit on 08/24/12:
Well, I've given myself a few months to "ruminate" on this book. I still don't get it. This puts me at odd with all my friends who LOVE Salinger. I just can't get into it. I also can't get into Bukowski, which is another thing I guess I'll just have to accept. If this makes me a terrible person, so be it.