So J.D. Salinger has died after a half century of silence. I wasn't a fan, being late to the game -- he was in retirement before I was born -- but I was once engaged to an acolyte. She wasn't as nearly fetishistic as the stalkers ("Salingerologists” in the Times obit, a nice coinage), desperate for another Word -- will fuck for a book -- but even under her tutelage I didn't get it. Smart-assed Holden was mildly amusing to this smart-ass adolescent, but it was all so Cold War, prep-school, and Fifties, pretty distant and passe. Very cover of Time magazine and all. I couldn't finish Nine Stories when I tried it later. Not my scene and all. Not phony, not at all, just so not me. Far more interesting was the silence. At least now he can rest in peace.
1 comment:
Best part is the title and the anecdote it drew from, I believe that's all I took away from Catcher in the Rye, but it was enough. I loved it. Lying low in the field waiting to catch people who are falling, this is very Avoloketishvara. Thanks for reminding me.
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