“All of What I Could Teach You Provided Enough Time to Learn It"

There is so much I don’t know and even more that other people do know and wrongfully withhold. While reading David Foster Wallace’s essay, “Some Remarks on Kafka’s Funniness from Which Probably Not Enough Has Been Removed,”[1] it dawned on me that I was reading criticism on an author whose work I’ve barely read,[2] which is a ridiculous endeavor that is sort of like being inspired to build a house after hanging drywall once as a favor to a friend, and reading the directions[3] after tiling the roof and sealing all the windows. But this uselessness is nothing new to a guy who prides himself on his ability to name the authors of nearly every book he’s never opened.[4] I planned on giving a short list here, exampling this skill; however, my mind drew a definite blank while attempting to do…[5] Thus, I normally wouldn’t be disturbed by the scarcity of my own understanding of things,[6] but the whole Kafka incident reminded me of a day in one of my professor’s offices, surrounded by way too many books I’ve never read let alone heard of,[7] while he discussed Salinger’s Babe Gladwaller story, “A Boy in France.” I don’t remember what his exact argument was because I was distracted by two facts: 1) that he knew who Babe Gladwaller is, and 2) that there are three[8] stories concerning Babe Gladwaller.[9] What’s more is upon his mentioning of Babe’s full name, it dawned on me that I had spelled the character’s last name incorrectly while “analyzing” him in my comprehensive exam[10] essay. The books were no longer surrounding me. They were wiggling free, coming off the shelves and smacking me upside my head like that scene in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast in which all the possessions in the castle attack the intruders who have come for the beast’s hide. He’s read Salinger, I thought. Also, And not just any old Salinger, underpublished Salinger. He’s probably read Kafka, too. And David Foster Wallace. The part about Kafka and Wallace I didn’t ponder until la[11]ter that night. Walking out of his office though, down the loud, cement staircase, I stayed optimistic. Don’t be discouraged, I told myself. There are truths you can offer people, facts with which you can broaden the minds of others, knowledge you can bestow upon the ignorant. For example:

---

[1] For the record, this essay was above my comprehension in some ways. Take the title of the essay as an example. I know humor is in it, but I’m still searching out where and why the humor exactly is. I think I have an idea, but I’m not confident enough to share. Maybe the second footnote is – I don’t believe me one bit right now – an explanation of why the essay confuses me.  

[2] Outside of “The Metamorphosis” (a piece hazy in my mind, and I am, to add to this, not entirely sure if the title is quotation marked or italicized because I can’t remember if it’s a novella or a long short story) I’ve also read the first page of Amerika.

[3] If housebuilding directions even exist.

[4] Giving others the impression that he is well read, knowledgeable, intimidating, capable of working in a bookstore, worthy of sweeping at least one remarkably tailored category on Jeopardy! so long as he works the buzzer correctly, etc.

[5] THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MARK TWAIN WRITTEN BY MARK TWAIN!

[6] I define “things” here as anything capable of being thought of: words, history (American, world, or otherwise), technology, how to rebuild any kind of engine, 13 X 14, the mating habits of Loggerhead sea turtles, etc.

[7] Shamelessly, and without glasses, I squinted at the names on the spines and tried to commit each to memory for future reference.

[8] Not one.

[9] “The Last Day of the Last Furlough” and “The Stranger” being the other two (Wikipedia succeeds where memory falters).

[10] An exam I did not pass, not even close, and, as a result, must retake, thus keeping me in my MA program for one more semester only, pass or fail.

[11] As I finished writing the thought actually.

Memory Examination #1

Charles, as I recall him, was a nice kid. I didn't know him that well or for very long; we worked together for a little over a year almost a decade ago. But he used to tap on my truck's window to wake me up before our shifts started at 05:30 even though I drove a Ford and he drove a Chevy.

We'd walk toward the large building in the pre-dawn dim, not saying much, probably thinking about how tired we were, and about how that particular tired never compared to the tired we would feel once our jobs were finished. Our asses were kicked on a daily basis; but we also ate breakfast burritos in the cafeteria on our lunch breaks.

Charles was soft spoken and laughed genuinely. For a short time, he was my best friend. He knew someone who was important to me at the time (I want to say it was an ex-girlfriend), but I can't remember who that person was. I can barely remember Charles now, too; his name came back to me only two days ago. He was blonde, grew decent facial hair, and shaved when he wanted to be less unruly. He had a good smile.

I remember being affected by his presence. But I was selfish. Did I even say a proper goodbye after I quit? The word bastard should be reserved for the young and arrogant and neglectful and unseeing. I hope Charles is happy if he's still around. Sometimes I just miss people. If only I could hate myself more effectively for forgetting the people who proceed through my life.    

"From the southland and the droughtland"

I have been wanting to produce a new blog - one that resists discussing the death of yet another famous writer - for some time now; however, with my lifestyle being what it is these days (one that involves -- most importantly -- Netflix, a little reading, a little tennis, sporadic aerobic binges, drinking, and countless social functions) I just haven’t found the time or the desire. Lucky I am then that my good, albeit elusive, friend Roman Conrad recently returned from a short, on-assignment job in Damascus (Syria, not Virginia). Roman is a truly remarkable writer/observer/poet/widower, and I begged him to come up with anything for General Narrator, anything topical that would ultimately shed his brilliant light on American life. After several days of lengthy phone conversations laced with promises of alcohol and poorly-manufactured Mexican cuisine, he finally agreed, and rode his motorcycle down from Carpinteria, California, where he lives when he’s not traveling. I gave him time to roam the streets of Long Beach; he was in search not only of a topic, but of the right kind of people whose conversations and musings would help him broach whatever subject he decided to explore. After a week or so, Roman came back to my apartment -- I was out stalking the filming locales of the upcoming season of Dexter, but preemptively had an extra key made for him so he could come and go as he pleased -- and produced the following essay while holed up in the shower of my small bathroom. I have yet to read the piece due to quite a few late nights and later mornings, but knowing Roman, I’m sure it’s a great, insightful read, and I pray you enjoy his mind in the same envious way that I do.

“Americans Remain Resilient Amid Mid-Summer Swelter”
By: Roman Conrad
Special to General Narrator

Just as the Free Syrian Army -- despite problems among divided sects being opposed to one another in purpose and tactics -- continues to wage war for freedom against the Bashar al-Assad led regime hellbent on oppressing and/or murdering its impoverished citizens, so do farmers across the expanse of this great nation prepare themselves for a similar battle against an arguably less-vanquishable foe: inclement weather.

Reports from many credible sources are calling this the hottest and droughtiest dry season this side of the Dust Bowl of the 1930s. Enormous tractors with balers, binders, and planters in tow leave a wake of rising dust rather than fertile ground for future sowing. Crops of differing produce sit crumbly and lifeless, decimated by scorching heat. Cattle farmers are forced to send animals to an early slaughter and are left pondering the metaphorical parallels as they do so. In the vein of Studs Terkel -- the great American voice who documented the effects the Great Depression had on the American public -- these indeed are Hard Times.

The extent of the heat’s unrelenting oppression, however, reaches far beyond the world of agriculture. Here in Long Beach, the city I am currently visiting, the effects are just as damaging and worrisome. Margaret B. Thompson, a stay-at-home mother of four who I came upon while she was watering a dead patch of grass in her quaint front yard, recalls when her husband gave her some sobering news:

“It was August 7th, I think. My husband called me from his office and said, ‘We just had a rolling blackout at work. All the computers are down. The lights are off. Everyone’s pretty upset. I heard on the radio this morning that state officials declared a Flex Alert. I think it’s best if we stop using the air conditioner for a while.’”

I asked Margaret how she reacted:

“I panicked a little [chuckles nervously]. You know, without air conditioning our house can get pretty stuffy, and then the kids complain a little more. But they still have the Xbox 360 and that helps them forget about the heat at least for a little while. The first thing I did, you know, after my husband told me to keep the air off, was I went to Costco and stocked up on as much Gatorade and Diet Coke as I could. So that has been an added expense. But it’s nothing compared to the money we’ll save at the end of the month when the bill comes.”

Margaret and her family aren’t the only ones making sacrifices during these trying times. I talked to Wilhelmina Brown, a tax adjuster who works in Los Angeles, at a local coffee shop about the soaring temperatures just before she started her daily 45 minute commute into downtown:

“It has definitely been an adjustment. I come here every morning to get a cup of coffee to help start my day, and recently I had to switch to iced coffee to help keep me cool.”

Has that helped, I asked:

“Yeah, it really has. It’s a pain because the iced coffee is the same price as a regular cup of the hot stuff even though you’re getting less coffee because the ice takes up more space, but it definitely keeps me cool and still keeps me awake throughout the day.”

(In related events, coffee shops with eastern facing patios have seen a severe decrease in patronship between the hours of 6am & 12pm; the same has been reported at shops with western facing patios between 3 & 8pm, thus leaving a meager three hours for a tolerable coffee buying experience -- all of which fly by, by the way, during non-peak coffee buying hours.)

Bobby Fellows, who does PC repair from home, was also at the coffee shop when I spoke with Wilhelmina.

“Right now, in the morning, is about the best time to get anything done really; it’s not as excruciating. I just dropped my kid off at school, but I’m dreading having to pick him up later this afternoon.”

Why is that?:

“Well, he gets out of school around 2, and that’s really just about the worst time to be outside. I go outside to my truck, get in -- I got [sic] leather seats so I’m just sticking to them at first -- and am sweating almost immediately. My wife calls it ‘swamp back.’ The air conditioner cools everything down pretty quick [sic], but those first three minutes are really brutal.”

Forecasters haven’t been able to adequately explain why this recent heat wave sweeping across the country -- some point to global warming while others say it’s merely the weather being its usual, unpredictable, cyclical self -- nor have they been able to give any idea as to when it will let up. In the meantime, southern Californians continue to persevere, somehow managing to bear the unbearable. When the heat will subside? Only time will tell.

"All the carnival lights blinked out"

Had I met Ray Bradbury when my first opportunity arose, the result would have been more serendipitous than it was when I finally met him. I was 17, this was during the first chance you’ll see, and reading Fahrenheit 451 in my senior English class. Steinbeck had been my introduction to literature; my grandpa left a copy of Of Mice and Men on my bed when I was 11. I read it over the following summer and searched out all the Steinbeck I could immediately after finishing. But reading Steinbeck was a solitary, leisurely undertaking. I understood the general plot unprecociously, cried, “Why?” and, “He shouldn’t have done that! It’s not fair!” to my mother when George kills Lenny and left it at that. No tests. No essays. Just an unexplainable need for more.

Bradbury, then, marked my introduction to literary analysis. That’s not entirely true; what is true is that Bradbury marked the beginning of my understanding that there was more to books than simply reading them. That I could engage the text, write in its margins, learn and feel from it, alter its meaning, steal from it and covet what I’d stolen. Still, I was mediocre at these things, too. When my teacher informed the class that we were to each rewrite the part in 451 in which Montag fails to outrun the Hound, which then injects a tranquilizer into him before he destroys it with a flamethrower and manages to hobble out of reach of pyromaniacal authorities, I used the assignment to turn Montag’s getaway into a melodramatic death scene complete with a defiant speech aimed at his pursuers. The only problem was the speech consisted of the lyrics to the song, “Drive” by Incubus and was nothing of my own creation. Regretfully, this choice was not a case of trying to take the easy way out of schoolwork. I was elated by the prospect of revisioning part of the first book that made me feel literature mattered in the world for more than the fun (as I saw it) of reading(1). My other elation came once I realized how perfectly Brandon Boyd’s lyrics fit into my revision. It was the first time I remember my writing coming together in such a satisfying way.

A few days after we turned in the assignment my teacher asked me to see him after class. I had been half expecting something like this since I turned in my work; he wanted to praise me for the impeccable, and seemingly effortless, job I did on his normally daunting writing assignment.

“Matt, I was really taken with what you wrote.”

“Thank you,” I said, trying hard not to care, unaware of the fact that if you’re trying hard not to care about anything, you must say, “Thanks” instead of, “Thank you” because the syllables in “Thank you” leave you vulnerable to placing telling emphasis on both words.

“Forgive me, but I have to ask this: Did you write Montag’s speech?”

“No,” (proudly and without hesitation). “I got the speech from one of my favorite songs.”

I sat back in my chair and politely waited for more praise.

He informed that I must immediately rewrite the assignment using only my own words. I was appalled, pleading my case of the lyrics being perfect and that anything I wrote in lieu of them would fail miserably by comparison(2). Like any good and patient teacher though, he quietly insisted.

It wasn’t until years later when I finally became aware of plagiarism and its rampant, (sometimes) intentional use and, as a result, the truth that a genuine love for reading and writing doesn’t exists in everyone. So I was angry with my teacher for not seeing how flawless my rewrite was, how poetic and sincere Montag became after speaking the lyrics. But I was a good student, always in want of my teachers’ acceptance, so I started work on the scene again.

Then something amazing happened. At the time, my grandma(3) lived in Lucerne Valley, a small(4) gathering of people (who staunchly oppose healthy, occasional migration) nestled deep within the dirt and cacti of the Mojave, and she had read in the local newspaper that Bradbury was going to make an appearance at the Lucerne Valley Library(5) the following Tuesday. The timing of Bradbury’s visit couldn’t have been planned any better. I knew what I had to do. The scenario was clear: I would go to Lucerne Valley, find the library, walk up to Mr. Bradbury, hand him my assignment, watch as he read it(6), and wait while he composed a damning letter to my teacher exempting me from the terrible redo. The more I thought about it the giddier I was. I begged my mom to let me skip school to go see the famous author of the book I was reading for class, but she refused. She was never an overly stern parent, but the subject of missing school, for any reason save a near-death illness like cancer, was out of the question. I think my mother’s odd subservience to the policies of a school district is an aspect of parenthood that is common ground trudged by most kids. Despite the excuse(7), there was no missing of school. Period. School was where we were sent to learn and to grow. It’s absurd and morally reprehensible to think a child’s development occurs anywhere else.

To be fair, my mother did make sure that my grandma, who was far removed from the oppressive confines of school district policies, remembered to get Bradbury to sign a book for me. And he did: the first page(8) of a sixth edition softcover copy of his short story collection, The Machines of Joy, once owned by a (thanks to an official looking stamp) Mr. Michael L. Herring, 7137 Fairfax Drive San Bernardino, CA. 924[the rest is blotted out by the all too inky edge of the stamp].

I felt closer to Bradbury after seeing his surprisingly legible signature in that book. I liked holding it and knowing he had held it. But for many years I also felt I had been shafted, especially since, my plan foiled, I still had to rewrite my teacher’s assignment. I’m not sure if I hold grudges, but I do know that if the memory of a specific event or person doesn’t settle well in my head, if its sediment is forever agitated, I remember it begrudgingly. And I remember being so angry with my mother for not letting me go to Lucerne Valley that Tuesday to see Bradbury. I remember being so angry with my grandma for getting to see him. I remember being even more angry with her, years later, when I found out all she’d ever read of Bradbury was the novel, Dandelion Wine, and she’d given it the lukewarm review of “fair.”

In 2008, all that anger dissipated, however, when I finally made it to the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, held at UCLA at the time, and procured two tickets to Bradbury’s lecture on writing, at which I found him surprisingly vibrant and youthful. Before the lecture, I stood in a long line with my then girlfriend for a chance to meet the author. I had brought with me the very same copy of Fahrenheit 451 that I had read in high school with hopes he would sign it and unknowingly put an end to my saga involving absence on both our parts. But when my turn came, I walked up to the 86-year-old man, bound to a wheelchair and suffering with the complications of a stroke, and saw how hard it was for him to lift his hand to meet mine for a polite shake, I couldn’t bring myself to ask him to sign my book. Instead I settled for a picture, which you can see below. Note the French Commandeur Ordre des Arts et des Lettres medal around his neck; it was bestowed upon him in 2007, and he was so proud that he wore it to every subsequent public function he attended.

Like Steinbeck (and later, Salinger), Bradbury stays with me. Despite the innumerable throng of authors I’ve come in contact with since that blip in time as a naive high school senior, his voice remains one of the few that continues to sound true, clear, and warm in my mind. He was one of that rare breed of writer in search of answers to questions that were bigger than his generation’s capacity to comprehend them. He sought by way of an endless imagination that sparked with the electricity of youth and rebellion, an imagination that continues to mesmerize even after his vanishing.


Footnotes

1. In the summer after I graduated high school, I was in Switzerland - because of a friendship with a foreign exchange student that developed on the decayed tennis courts of our high school where he was the standout singles player and I was lucky enough to have a decent doubles partner - preparing to get drunk for the first time in my life. Because it was my first exposure to hard alcohol and language barriers, I was naturally nervous, mainly about overdrinking myself into an irrevocable stupor, so to calm myself before we started, I kept repeating to myself, "You're going to be okay. Just remember that Fahrenheit 451 is one of the greatest books ever written and you'll be okay." The first shots of kirsch were downed not long and somehow I relaxed a bit. My reminder to myself even worked later in the evening when, 12 or 13 shots into it, I was riding a bicycle over cobblestone streets yelling, "Yes, you're drunk at the moment, Matt, but you're in Swisserlin and you're be okay! Hey! What's the greatest book you've ever written? Fahrenheit 4. 5. 1. That's right! And who is the greatest writer ever written? Ray Bradbury. That's right, too!" And all was right with the world until I woke up the next morning, arms wrapped around the bottom of a wastebasket that I'll bet never weighed more than it did after I was through with it.

2. I often wonder how K-12 teachers, or K-12 teachers who haven't already, get through their workdays without laughing insanely in the face of at least one student.

3. No direct relation to the grandpa who introduced me to Of Mice and Men.

4. The Geographic Names Information System (GNIS), which is operated by the United States Geological Survey (USGS), lists Lucerne Valley as a "census designated place" rather than a city.

5. I've searched extensively for a reason as to why Bradbury would lecture, let alone know about a census designated place like Lucerne Valley, and the only plausible answer I can find involves his writing contributions to the 1953 film, It Came from Outer Space, which was partly filmed at Dead Man's Point in Lucerne Valley. I have no idea whether or not Bradbury was on set during filming.

6. I'd never been to an author's lecture before and had no notion of the goings on. I assumed he was just there to be gawked at so he'd have nothing better to do than read my work in the interim.

7. I still think I had a pretty damn good one.

8. In this particular book the first page is the "Praise" page, on which you will learn the strangely-worded fact that Bradbury "with Hemingway, is one of the very few writers whose fiction has ever been published in Life."

  

Titanics Were Built to Sink

In the Round of 16 at the BNP Paribas Open in Indian Wells, California today, Novak Djokovic, the third best tennis player in the world, dispatched his fellow countryman, Viktor Troicki (ranked 18 in the world) in just one hour and six minutes. The score was 6-0, 6-1, but Djokovic had two break points in the first game of the second set that would have, as the final score indicates, led him to a 6-0, 6-0 victory.

In general, love sets are rare in professional tennis. The players are so talented, and the Top 100 so deep, that to not win at least one game against any opponent is almost unheard of, which is why the record for consecutive love sets won is so remarkable.

The 1920s belonged to “Big” Bill Tilden; his statistics, records, and achievements are too vast to mention here in their entirety, but one – given Djokovic’s win today – is worth mentioning. In 1925, starting at a tournament in Glen Cove, New York and ending at another in Providence, Rhode Island, Tilden won 57 games in a row. That's 6-0, 6-0, 6-0, 6-0, 6-0, 6-0, 6-0, 6-0, 6-0, 3-0. If you play tennis, think back to the last time you won one set at love; if you don’t play tennis, imagine performing any endeavor at such a ridiculously high level that you realize perfection nearly ten times in a row. The mere notion, of course, is baffling; however, it showcases the mastery that was Tilden’s play and the brilliance that was his competitiveness.

Today we are almost 90 years removed from Tilden’s remarkable feat, and have been gawking at Roger Federer’s Grand Slam supremacy (16 titles) for nearly a decade now. Many believe Federer to be the greatest player of all time. But not long ago, the gaze was on Pete Sampras, who ended his career with 14 major titles, and at the time everyone claimed he was, without question, the greatest. What will we say about Federer when the unthinkable happens and someone wins 17 or 18 or 19 major titles? The truth is that superiority is relative; competitors in any sport can only be perceived as great when compared to those who came before them.

Sampras won his last major title in 2002 at the U.S. Open. Seven years later, in the same decade no less, Roger Federer defeated Andy Roddick 16-14 in the fifth set of one of the most heartbreaking finals in Wimbledon history, surpassing Sampras’s seemingly unattainable accomplishment at the same time. And someday some phenom from somewhere will break that record. Then it will be Federer’s inevitable turn to sit helplessly sweating in the front row, shielding his eyes while staring at the scoreboard as if to make sure the sun isn’t playing a dirty, yet all too familiar trick on him. Everything is eventual. Records, as they say, were made to be broken. Yet, 86 years later, Bill Tilden’s record still stands - forcing us to wonder.

"Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes"

Somehow, over a year has gone by since the last blog I wrote (concerning the death of J.D. Salinger). So, here is a list of 25 occurrences that have taken place (in no particular order) since then:

1. Frank Buckles, the last surviving veteran of World War I, passed away at 110.

2. Chevy Chase (somehow) got his groove back.

3. Soundgarden reunited to release an album of songs they recorded before they broke up.

...wha? No! Not Savage Garden. Soundgarden!

4. Justin Bieber...

5. I moved from one apartment in Long Beach to another apartment in Long Beach to pay more money for a smaller space further from school.

6. I gave blood four times.

7. My friend Jason also gave blood; however, the needle struck a nerve rendering his left arm (and his friendship) utterly useless.

...this is not actually Jason.

8. Arcade Fire released The Suburbs, and I cannot stop listening.

9. I read Steve Martin’s Born Standing Up: A Comic’s Life in two days, which is the fastest I have ever read any book.

10. I became a pescetarian because it was easy to give up cheeseburgers and not easy to give up sushi. My rationale? Fish are not sentient beings (so I've heard) and, therefore, do not care one way or the other if they live or die.

11. The White Stripes (i.e. The Greatest Band of the 00s) disbanded.

12. My literary crush, Nicole Krauss (a.k.a. Jonathan Safran Foer's wife) published her latest novel, Great House, which I have yet to finish.

13. Unrest in the Middle East has sparked revolution.

...on a related note, the identity of Banksy remains unknown despite the release of his "doc"umentary, Exit Through the Gift Shop.

14. I started counseling sessions to become a better human being.

15. I filed for graduation while Borders filed for bankruptcy - large sums of money were lost during the process of both.

16. I spent a summer coaching tennis at Raquette Lake Boys Camp in New York.

...me with a few of the other counselors at the Tap Room where we... read books and drank milk, kids.

17. My Poppa John passed away (no picture necessary).

18. The New Orleans Saints won Super Bowl XLIV.

...Reggie Bush training for the big game.

19. Lebron James took his talents to South Beach, yet remains ringless.

20. The Green Bay Packers proved practice makes perfect by winning Super Bowl XLV.

... and The Black Eyed Peas showed a nation what happens when you forget to practice.

21. Dexter got frisky with the stuck up sister from 10 Things I Hate About You.

22. The Hurt Locker won Best Picture at the 82nd annual Academy Awards.

...proving a compelling plot is still necessary in storytelling.

23. The King's Speech won B-B-B-BB-Bestt-ttt-t Pi-i-ic-ccc-c-ct-t-ttt-t-ure at the 83rd annual Academy Awards.

24. I saw Dick Dale (i.e. Pulp Ficiton "theme") in concert.

25. I got in touch with my inner child...

...and made a big fucking mess.

"I'm Traveling Incognito"

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.”