Friday, January 29, 2010

J.D. Salinger (1919-2010)

J.D. Salinger, author of "The Catcher in the Rye", "Nine Stories", and "Franny and Zooey" is shown in a 1951 file photo. Author Joyce Maynard is selling love letters she received from the reclusive Salinger, Sotheby's auction house said Wednesday, May 12, 1999. Salinger wrote 14 letters between April 1972 and August 1973 to Maynard, whom he romanced for nine months.

Few teenagers escape high school without reading (or being forced to read) J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye, the classic coming-of-age novel that personifies the tension between youth and elders. From a psychiatric facility, narrator Holden Caulfield recounts his troubled childhood, his apathy towards the future and his desire to escape New York.

"I mean, how do you know what you're going to do till you do it?" Holden asks. "The answer is, you don't. I think I am, but how do I know? I swear it's a stupid question."

Jerome David Salinger died Wednesday at the age of 91. He led a long life and became an incredibly successful writer though he intensely rejected fame; he refused interviews, threw out fan mail and repeatedly turned down movie deals. "I love to write and I assure you I write regularly," he said. "But I write for myself, for my own pleasure. And I want to be left alone to do it."

Though he wrote other novels and short stories, Catcher is undoubtedly Salinger's most famous work; it has sold more than 60 million copies and a first edition goes for around $200,000.
Bookseller Photo
But would Salinger care? Would he feel guilty that Mark Chapman, who assassinated John Lennon, cited Catcher as an inspiration? Probably not. The world may mourn Salinger's death but the author would certainly disdain any fuss. In the words of the iconic Holden Caulfield:

"Boy, when you're dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody."

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