I read this first when I was a sixteen year old adolescent who still thought he was a girl. I identified with the angst, the delirious anger, and a general preference to feel sorry for oneself instead of opting for vulnerability and opening up. 
Because I, too, thought that I was being rebuffed and ignored and I, too, was being rebuffed and ignored because I couldn't fully get out the thing that wanted to come out without giving myself away. 
Now that I've read it again as a twenty three year old trans guy I don't have much in common with Holden except for our mutual concern for the ducks' wellbeing in winter. 

Teeth-grindingly slow, messy, tangled, and tragic. I personally didn't find the book very engaging or immersive, but it was apt for my Contemporary Literature course in college when discussing postcolonial neocolonialism. 

Don't read this book. Unless you suck as a person in which case you will love it. 

This was the first Casey McQuiston book I read out of their four and it took me a second read to fully fall in love with the story. I have yet to read more of their work — I think I'll aim for One Last Stop next — but I know that this helium light, airy feeling in my chest will undoubtedly be back when I do. There's an undeniably happy quality to their prose; it's almost like the words themselves float above their inky counterparts. I just feel light and happy and inspired. A new comfort author. 

I finished this book off in less time than it took for Giovanni to pour someone a drink — a cognac most probably. It took me less than twelve hours to devour it and it took less than a couple of pages for it to become one of my favorite books. 
The way James Baldwin took to describe certain things makes this book exist in an impenetrable space like the tip of a needle as it disappears into flesh. A narrow, liminal space that only James Baldwin can find a way to. 
The resistance and reluctance and reservation of the main character is reflected in the way the story is told by him as if even what transpired in the story wasn't enough to make him face himself completely. He is still reserved. He is still stilted by his own presumed “vileness,” but perhaps now he knows that it has more to do with his person than his “goût particulier.” 
I could say so much about this book, but I'll refrain until what I have to say is more coherent. 
For now I can only see a gray sky, sticky mist, and a bus running late.