Yeah, so I’m sick today, but at least I’m doing better than my beloved J.D. Salinger, who passed away yesterday at age 91. In my reading about it, I came across someone who remarked that they would prefer to think that Salinger had merely become more reclusive. Holden probably would have liked that comment. I know I did.
Anyhow, what do you say? All my heroes are truly dead or dying now. Oh, Salinger. I really have to give some thought to his notion that anonymity may be a writer’s best friend during his or her working years. Easier said, I guess, when the roof over one’s head is paid for.
And, yeah, this is true of all my literary heroes, to some degree, when unmasked. I remember a couple of years back being at a bar, playing darts with this group of guys, all of them writers or students of writing or lovers of writing, I can’t remember which. And this guy asks me, who is my favorite author?
Of course, I hate that question. It’s dumb and I never know how to answer it. And every time I do so honestly, the same damn thing happens:
J.D. Salinger, I answered this time.
J.D. Salinger? the guy repeats, a bit credulous and while guffawing. You must know J.D. Salinger isn’t a serious writer. Not like, say, Melville.
Well, I can tell you this, asshole. It took my nine months to wade through the seaweed of Moby Dick. This opposed to the fact that I used to read Catcher In The Rye every December, around Christmas time of course, out loud. You can suck on your Moby Dicks.
And no scene pops up in my head more often than that of Zooey, pretending to be Seymour, on the phone with Franny. I may bungle the particulars, but the gist is that one of the brothers chastised another who was getting ready to go on a radio show for not shining his shoes for The Fat Lady. That’s what I try to do daily, here in this realm in particular: shine my shoes for The Fat Lady. It’s never said verbatim, but for some reason this is what I always took away from Franny and Zooey, and probably what I will always think of when I think of Salinger: Just because something can’t be done, don’t mean you shouldn’t try.
That, or I will remember being in Florida for Spring Break, sophomore or junior year of high school. I was reading on the beach. Earlier that year, we were issued Catcher as part of our curriculum and, despite enjoying the first handful of chapters, I got discouraged when I couldn’t answer correctly the teacher’s first question: Where does the novel take place?
I had missed the fact that it began at an institution, and thus became discouraged.
Well, at the end of the school year the teacher was giving away surplus books, one of which was Nine Stories. So, there I was with my copy reading “A Perfect Day for Bananafish” when bam!—what just happened?—my very being was shaken to the core. Up to then, I had been largely a mediocre jock, but reading “Esme” and “Teddy” and these stories, I was reminded just how much more important it was that I write.
I started, sadly, by writing a sequel to “Bananafish.” I know, Salinger would have sued me. I don’t remember much about it, but there was a guy who built a carousel in his house, and somehow “The Perfect Goldfish” came into play.
Anyhow, I will leave you with one last note. Cleaning out my recently deceased mother’s room, I saw a brand new copy of Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour an Introduction sitting on top of her shelf, as if next in line. The book, unfortunately, hadn’t been opened yet. My mother died somewhat suddenly, without our having any conversation of worth in the preceding days or weeks.
I am almost saddened more by the fact that this book went unread than I am by not having a chance to have a proper goodbye. Enough said.
Excuse me, but I gotta go shine my shoes now….