"Naa."
"Well, you should. It's very interesting. They wrapped their faces up in these cloths that were treated with some secret chemical. That way they could be buried in their tombs for thousands of years and their faces wouldn't rot or anything. Nobody knows how to do it except the Egyptians. Even modern science."
Holden seems preoccupied with staying young in The Catcher in the Rye. The only thing he really knows about ancient Egyptians concerns their mummification techniques. Preserving youth and life. That's why he imagines catching kids in the rye fields, before they fall off the cliff into adulthood. It's also why he brings two young boys to the mummy room in the Museum of Natural History, as well. In some ways, he's looking for the fountain of youth through the whole book.
Today is Fairy Tale Friday. I really have no plot for the tale I'm about to relate to you. But, having taught the works of the brothers Grimm at the university before, I know many fairy tales concern a quest for eternal youth. I also know most of them begin like this...
Once upon a time, there lived in the kingdom of Guggenheim a part-time bard named Marty. All day long, Marty toiled in the king's fields, tilling, planting, and harvesting the royal crops. As he worked, Marty sang songs. Sometimes he sang songs about the sun or moon or love. Most of the time, however, he sang songs about wanting to be the royal bard and live at the palace and eat lobster pizza all day long. At night, Marty hit the pubs to do karaoke.
One day, as he was watering the royal summer squash, he accidentally stepped on a field mouse passing by, killing it instantly.
Another day, as he was tilling the royal string beans, he started singing this song, "Oooh, where in the world is my fairy godmother? Where in the world is she? The be-atch needs to get me out of these fields, and into the palace--eee." I didn't say he was a good bard.
Suddenly, as he pushed his hoe into the ground, a bubbling black oil started issuing from the dirt. Marty stood there, staring down at the liquid. "What is this I see?" he sang. "Is it the answer to my wish? It's black and thick, like Cuban espresso. Maybe I should drink it--ish." Again, not the greatest bard in the world.
Marty stooped down and scooped up a handful of the oil. He drank it in one big gulp. Immediately, he noticed a difference in himself. His left arm started aching. His chest felt as if a mastodon was sitting on it. The string bean field started swirling before his eyes. He dropped his hoe and fell to his knees.
"Oh, what is the matter with me?" he sang out. "I think there's something wrong. Perhaps I shouldn't have drank from that fountain. I want to play Donkey Kong." Hey, you try to rhyme something with "wrong"!
Marty fell over and died of a massive coronary. His body was discovered three days later, when the royal gardener came by to pick some string beans for the king's lunch.
The moral of this tale: Don't be a dumb ass, and there's no such thing as a fountain of youth. Oh, and I hate field mice.
And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.
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| There's no such thing as the fountain of youth, dumb ass |
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