Entry #685691, added on 01-28-10 @ 11:37 pm EST Entry Access Restriction: None.
My love for the writing of J.D. Salinger is not original, but it's real. I was sad to learn he died, even though it hardly comes as a shock given his age, but I always loved knowing that he still existed somewhere, that he was holed up in a house because he chose to be, and I found that to be wonderfully romantic. We don't have enough eccentric hermits anymore. Now, we give them a label and prescribe them meds. J.D. simply withdrew, and I prefer to think it was nothing more than defiance, rather than a fear of never being able to achieve the same level of success he had with 'Catcher in the Rye'. Hide out and keep them guessing. I like that. He experimented, he loved, he searched. He was a great writer, and despite what we would like to think, he really was one of a very small group. My reaction to 'Catcher...' was genuine, and had nothing to do with me being a brooding teen when I read it, because I wasn't. I read it in my twenties and it had an immediate impact. I can't say many books, particularly books that were written years before my time, have had that kind of punch. It has been special to me ever since.
If you're a fan and would like to read some of his older works, here are some stories that have been previously published in the New Yorker:
http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/backissues/2010/01/postscript-j-d-salinger...
In a strange bit of weirdness, this morning, I got up and went to my bookcase where I picked up my paperback version of 'Catcher in the Rye' and considered taking it to school with me. The reason for this is because I am so far ahead in my courses that I am in danger of finishing three months early, and if that happens, my funding will be cut off. So, my facilitator advised me to move very, very slowly, to stretch out the two courses I have left, and I decided I'd start taking a book with me to school in order to eat some time. I chose this particular book because it's one of my true favourites, and I used to make an effort to read it yearly, but have since lost the routine. After staring at it and flipping through the pages, I opted to take a book of poetry with me, instead. Less of a commitment, I thought, and also, reading poetry makes me want to write poetry, which I'd like to do more often. So, I took the poems, and when I got to school, I snuck a quick look at the headlines on the computer, only to see that Salinger had passed. I was only mildly stunned because these kinds of coincidences are hardly foreign to me. I did wish I'd decided on the first book instead of the one I eventually selected, though. It would have been fitting, to say the least.
So many people I know are feeling low these days. I wish I knew how to fix things for them, or at least knew which words might provide a bit of peace, but I don't. So many cheating husbands and boyfriends. So many health problems and financial disasters. So many people wishing for a bit of reassurance that things are going to eventually be corrected and that some kind of order will be reinstated. What makes it all better?
I feel all kinds of tears inside but they don't seem to rise. If they did, I'm not sure I'd know what each one stood for. It seems like a lot of effort to conjure them when I'm not sure what they're about. Should I look for meaning in them or should I just let them wet my shirt?
I made banana bread just so that smell of it baking would distract me. It worked, but only so long as it was in the oven. Now it's on the counter, hacked apart by a dull knife that was held by greedy fingers, and it's almost cold.
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