✳️ Saludos cordiales, hivers de 
«Lo que más me gustaba de aquel museo era que todo estaba siempre en el mismo sitio. No cambiaba nada.»
Holden Caulfield se pudre de soledad en Nueva York. Y uno lo lee de adolescente y asiente con esa estupidez tierna de quien aún no sabe que la permanencia no es un consuelo sino una condena. Volver a lo que no cambia, cuando uno sí ha cambiado, es peor que perderlo todo. Es encontrarlo todo intacto y descubrir que ya no te pertenece.
He vuelto muchas veces a mis propios museos. A las calles donde fui niño y que ahora me miran como a un extranjero. A las manos que quise y que siguen teniendo la misma forma mientras yo ya no sé agarrarlas. A las páginas que escribí creyéndome eterno y que ahora leo como si fueran de otro. Todo sigue en su sitio. Las vitrinas no se mueven. El problema soy yo.
«Nada cambiaba. Lo único que cambiaba era uno mismo.»
Esa es la frase que debería acompañarnos para no olvidarla cuando nos dé la nostalgia. Gracias a Salinger por haberla escrito. Gracias por haberse sentado frente a una máquina de escribir y haber parido a este muchacho que no soporta a los falsos, que odia Hollywood, que se pasa la vida diciendo «no me gusta» y que aún así nos enseñó más sobre la fragilidad humana que muchos manuales de psicología. Holden Caufield no cambia. Y nosotros, al leerlo, vamos cambiando a su alrededor.
No hay crecimiento personal, si no somos capaces de entender los permanentes desajustes entre lo que fuimos y lo que ya no podemos volver a ser. Madurar es aprender a convivir con esa diferencia sin querer taparla con nostalgia. Es aceptar que el esquimal seguirá pescando para siempre en el museo de ciencias de Nueva York, pero que nosotros ya no somos quienes mirábamos aquel diorama con los ojos.
Los narradores sabemos algo de esto. Toda historia si es genuina nace de una ruptura. Porque si todo cambiara al mismo ritmo, si el mundo se moviera sincronizado con nosotros, no habría nada que contar. El conflicto, la herida, el motor de cualquier relato decente, es esa asincronía. El personaje ya no es el mismo, pero el escenario no se ha enterado.
Así que uno vuelve al barrio, vuelve al amor, vuelve al libro, vuelve al álbum de fotos de la abuela. Y todo está igual. Uno ya no es igual. No es que seamos mucho mayores (la edad es un truco de la biología para no hablar de lo que realmente importa), es que somos diferentes. Hemos acumulado pérdidas que no están en ninguna vitrina. Hemos aprendido a desconfiar de lo que antes nos parecía seguro. Hemos cambiado, y cambiar es más difícil que perder, perder es un evento y cambiar es un proceso inacabable.
Salinger hizo que Holden lo entendiera antes de enloquecer del todo. El museo de ciencias de Nueva York no cambia. Los ciervos siguen bebiendo. La india sigue tejiendo. Y nosotros, pobres de nosotros, seguimos siendo esa cosa rara que no puede quedarse quieta. Hemos sido él. Holden. De cierta manera lo hemos sido.
Crecer, (digámoslo de una vez) es desajustarse. Y aprender a vivir en ese desajuste. Sin cursilerías ni consuelos. Solo con la verdad. Y con la gratitud eterna a quien nos regaló a Holden para que, al menos él, no cambiara nunca.
© Marabuzal, 2026. Contenido Original. Todos los derechos reservados.
Change
✳️ Warm greetings, hivers of
“What I liked most about that museum was that everything was always in the same place. Nothing changed.”
Holden Caulfield rots away in loneliness in New York. And you read it as a teenager and nod with that tender stupidity of someone who doesn't yet know that permanence is not a comfort but a curse. Returning to what doesn't change, when you have changed, is worse than losing everything. It's finding everything intact and discovering that it no longer belongs to you.
I have returned many times to my own museums. To the streets where I was a child and that now look at me as if I were a stranger. To the hands I loved and that still have the same shape while I no longer know how to hold them. To the pages I wrote believing myself eternal and that I now read as if they were written by someone else. Everything is still in its place. The display cases don't move. The problem is me.
“Nothing changed. The only thing that changed was myself.”
That's the phrase that should stay with us so we don't forget it when nostalgia strikes. Thank you, Salinger, for writing it. Thank you for sitting down at a typewriter and giving birth to this boy who can't stand fakes, who hates Hollywood, who spends his life saying "I don't like it," and yet still taught us more about human fragility than many psychology textbooks. Holden Caulfield doesn't change. And we, as we read him, change around him.
There is no personal growth if we are unable to understand the constant discrepancies between what we were and what we can no longer be. Maturing is learning to live with that difference without trying to mask it with nostalgia. It's accepting that the Eskimo will continue fishing forever in the New York science museum, but that we are no longer the ones who gazed at that diorama with our own eyes.
We storytellers know something about this. Every genuine story is born from a rupture. Because if everything changed at the same pace, if the world moved in sync with us, there would be nothing to tell. The conflict, the wound, the driving force of any decent story, is that asynchrony. The character is no longer the same, but the setting hasn't noticed.
So we return to the neighborhood, we return to love, we return to the book, we return to Grandma's photo album. And everything is the same. We are no longer the same. It's not that we are much older (age is a trick of biology to avoid talking about what really matters), it's that we are different. We have accumulated losses that aren't on display. We have learned to distrust what once seemed safe. We have changed, and change is harder than losing; losing is an event, and changing is an endless process.
Salinger made Holden understand before he completely lost his mind. The science museum in New York doesn't change. The deer keep drinking. The Indian woman keeps weaving. And we, poor us, remain that strange thing that can't stay still. We have been him. Holden. In a way, we have.
Growing up (let's say it once and for all) is about becoming out of sorts. And learning to live with that instability. Without sentimentality or consolation. Only with the truth. And with eternal gratitude to the one who gave us Holden so that, at least he, would never change.
(Google Translation)
© Marabuzal, 2026. Original Content. All rights reserved.
