The most dreaded, anticipated, thought about, scary, possibly fruitful day in my life as a reader of literature has finally come. Yesterday, January 27, 2010, J.D. Salinger passed away at the age of 91, and I would say I’m at a loss of words but, as this writing will prove, that is not the case. A more accurate description would be that I truthfully have too many words to describe how his death affects me at the moment.
I think I don’t really know where to start or how to say what I want to say because I have been counting down to this day for a long time. And yet, as cliché as it is, it is a major blow of sorts. My hands-down, favorite writer, for reasons I am happy that I cannot explain, gone. Some would argue that he has been gone for a long time; the most common response received when I used to tell people Sal was, in fact, still alive was always one of shock because in terms of publication he’s been dead since 1965. But as one of the many rebels of his unsolicited fan base, I found a great deal of solace in knowing he was still out there living and writing. With Salinger alive, I felt deeply connected to a writer, a time and place, a group of people, and a masterful imagination.
My introduction to Salinger was a delayed one, and I wonder how different my teenage years would have been had I read The Catcher in the Rye at fourteen or fifteen rather than at nineteen. No doubt I would have tapped into the rebellious side I was far too scared to embrace. I was the high school kid who craved the attention of my teachers rather than my peers. Not only that, I wanted their approval; I wanted them to accept me into their adult world. I never felt like I fit in with my own age group. I distinctly remember listening to the Sum 41 song, “Fat Lip,” and wondering why they had such a problem with authority because I believed in it wholeheartedly for most of the years that were intended for growth through uprising.
With that in mind, it makes sense that I didn’t read Catcher until I was nineteen. At twenty-five, I feel as though I’m finally coming to the end of my teenage years that started once I finished Sal’s novel. I bought the book at a Target store and didn’t expect much. I came in knowing nothing about the writer, his life, the immense popularity of Holden Caulfield, or what the story was about to do to me. And I believe that is the way in which Salinger intended Catcher to be read. To fully appreciate the story, you have come in blind and, after being shown the light, walk away with your eyes closed.
I think that’s how Salinger intended all of his work to be read. As he put it in the dedication to Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour An Introduction, “If there is an amateur reader still left in the world — or anybody who just reads and runs — I ask him or her, with untellable affection and gratitude, to split the dedication of this book four ways with my wife and children.” Salinger, after Catcher was published, fully understood the dangers of mass hysteria, popularity and idolatry, and his attempts from 1953 onward were to avoid such things, which finally culminated in his refusal to publish any writing after “Hapworth 16, 1924” was printed in The New Yorker in 1965.
There was definitely more to Salinger’s love for the reader “who just reads and runs” though. A dark side to Salinger exists that is uncovered once running readers stop running and start searching. Many authors, his daughter included, have lifted the veil on Salinger’s private life, and as a result, the public has seen why Salinger wanted us to just run. It kept us in the story and at a distance, and that distance was meant to constantly grow. Whenever we stopped, however, we got far too close, and Sal was then forced to do the running, which is no small task for a writer hellbent on detail and beautiful, slow progression. In Salinger’s perfect world, he was meant to be the farmer and us readers were the chickens he just beheaded – recklessly careening in every direction except in the one leading back to our beloved offender.
Only we didn’t run, and the irony of the entire situation is that Sal’s writing wouldn’t allow us to run. It stopped us dead in our tracks and left us begging for more. And now, in light of his death, the question remains: will there be more? For years, rumors of some crazy vault somwhere stuffed with unpublished Salinger work have been circulating in book circles. No one knows for sure if it’s true. It does make me wonder, however, if Salinger was really the kind of guy who wanted an ending like Charles Bukowski’s, in which book after book after book was written with the intention of being published posthumously. Part of me says yes. In fact, for Salinger’s needs as a writer that couldn’t be a more perfect way to go out. Leave the bastards with everything you’ve been writing for forty-five years and it doesn’t matter if they run through, sit down in, rip up, shit on, or dump holy water all over, each and every word because you’ll be long gone, having slipped away – just eluding their all-too-tight-grasp.
The other part of me, the part of me that has been dreading this day for selfish reasons, hopes this isn’t the case. Part of me hopes nothing else is published (save “Hapworth” maybe) and that I die before his work becomes public domain (fifty years from today), finally allowing Hollywood its opportunity to butcher Holden. Because as any reader who deeply loves something a writer has given them does, I covet Salinger’s work. More than that, I feel as if he wrote it specifically for me, and I would hate to live to see the day when literary critics, college students, and wannabe Salinger scholars pour over the work that would finally make him acceptable in literary discussion. This is where what I’m saying might seem confusing so I’ll try to explain myself.
I do believe Salinger was a writer who started too late. He was too young to be a modernist, too old to be a postmodernist, and his window of opportunity was violently shut once the Beat generation took over. Basically, he was in the right place at the wrong time. And because of this, he has transformed into one of those writers who is beloved by many, but not taken very seriously. If you want to dispute this, I first advise you to make your way to the 4th floor stacks in the Cal State University, Long Beach library and find the section containing scholarly work on Salinger; it doesn’t even take up half of a shelf, and at least three of the books are not literary criticism. Instead they are “essays” by authors who are doing what I’m doing now: retelling experiences with Sal’s work and the effects that work had.
A lot of people argue that he is important when it comes to literary contributions. Catcher is taught in high schools and English 100 classes across the world. But high school and English 100 is not where our lenses are fixed on anything of the critical nature. Moreover, I have yet to see anything but Catcher read in any English class (especially the upper division classes) at my own university. For whatever reason, Salinger is avoided like the plague. Professors (this actually occurred) smirk at the idea of teaching Franny and Zooey or Nine Stories, which is why I see the publishing of new Salinger work as a way for the literary world to finally embrace him as a writer who was truly important, and I’m sorry but that leaves a terrible taste in my mouth.
It is still weird saying it now. Salinger is dead. J.D. Salinger is dead. He embodied everything I love and hate and struggle with concerning life, writing, and everything else that just isn’t as noteworthy. On the one hand, I love him for what he has given me. On the other hand, as a writer, I hate him for his ability. And on yet another hand (arguably belonging to someone else), I struggle with him because he refused to acknowledge me.
Perhaps I’m too old for Salinger’s liking, just like Seymour was too old, realized it, and offed himself. Salinger was most comfortable with the Teddy’s and the Phoebe’s and the Esme’s and the Lionel’s of the world. He was most comfortable catching them, saving them from adulthood. The only problem, as is with anything in life, time is a relentless enemy. We all grow up at some point. And once we realize that, it’s basically over. At 91, Sal finally realized that, and leaped off “the edge of this crazy cliff.”
