More than Bella Swan, more than Daisy Buchanan, more than pretty much any fictional character that people love to hate, people really, really hate Holden Caulfield.

In fact, Holden Caulfield is so hated among casual readers that, in some ways, it’s kind of hard to understand how the hell “The Catcher in the Rye” became an American classic. After all, most canonized books are fairly well-liked by nonacademic readers, even “Moby Dick” and “Jane Eyre.”

And while “The Catcher in the Rye” may not be as slow-paced as some earlier novels, the virtue of its readability is sort of undermined by the fact that Holden Caulfield is the only character in the novel with a significant speaking part, so reading the book is kind of like listening to the one kid in your high school English class who was a hardcore existentialist deliver a 3-hour-long soliloquy.

But, like lots of younger readers, “The Catcher in the Rye” was my favorite book in junior high, and I’d still say that it’s one of the more influential books in my life, even if I have a hard time stomaching Holden Caulfield’s angst now.

When I was 12 years old and just starting seventh grade, after every tough day I’d sit in my room with my copy of “The Catcher in the Rye” and read until I felt better.

After getting braces, after my first detention, after every fight with my friends or my family, I would pull out the book and thumb through the pages, rereading the passages that I liked best. I could probably recite entire chapters by heart. Eventually, the binding became so worn that the book fell apart in my hands — luckily, at this point, I had already fallen out of love with it.

Through my early teenage years, however, I loved that book. I thought that no one could understand me better than Holden Caulfield. And because I was at that transitory age somewhere between being a kid and a (young) adult, I felt uncomfortable and awkward all the time. I wanted to be an adult, before I knew that becoming an adult didn’t mean having answers and great self-esteem, and this is why I loved “The Catcher in the Rye.”

Because when you’re young, awkward and feeling alone, “The Catcher in the Rye” sort of takes you by the hand and proffers Holden Caulfield as the perfect avatar to project yourself upon. Unlike most YA fiction, “The Catcher in the Rye” ‘s protagonist isn’t a winner — Holden’s a misfit with failing grades, and he’s the exact kind of prickly and pretentious youth that I and lots of other kids in junior high tended to be.

I wanted to be Holden. I wanted to wander around Central Park, muttering to myself and calling everyone a “goddamn phony.” I wanted to be 17 and able to get around without my mom driving me in the family minivan. Holden was perfectly relatable to me, but also perfectly idealized; he felt everything that I felt, but he was also someone I liked and admired. And, even if it didn’t make me like myself, it at least made me feel better to know that it was possible for me to like someone so similar to myself.

So, while Holden Caulfield is the whiny, mopey, misanthropic, overly hostile and infuriating embodiment of teenage angst, he’s important, because not enough effort is put into validating a 13-year-old’s feelings. And that’s exactly what “The Catcher in the Rye” does.

Maybe it’s natural to outgrow Holden Caulfield. After junior high, I grew less angsty; I read other books and made better friends; I stopped feeling alone. Then, suddenly, one day during high school, I realized that I didn’t sympathize with Holden anymore.

So now, if “The Catcher in the Rye” has any life lesson for me, it’s how not to be an asshole. But only a few years ago, that book was one of the best things in my life — and I can’t deny that without being a “goddamn phony.

Lindsay Choi writes the arts column on literature. Contact her at [email protected]