Remembering J.D. Salinger: Part 1
by Justine Tal Goldberg • 01.30.2010
We lost one of the American literary greats this past week. Fringe celebrates J.D. Salinger’s ineffable legacy with posts from writers who have been affected by his work.
Fringe contributor Justine Tal Goldberg writes:
J.D. Salinger was my first love. He came to me in high school, between assigned readings of Shakespeare, Hemingway and Camus, and long before those other literary giants of college—Joyce, Faulkner and Yeats. These authors stole my heart, passing my affections between them like the college boys I dated, but Salinger stayed by my side. He was a good friend among acquaintances, a relationship among flings, and the voice of reason when my own characters threatened to lie.
As a teenager, I appreciated Salinger’s honesty, his self-deluded characters who through seamless narrative are revealed for the phonies they are. (Can you blame me? It was high school after all.) As a young woman, I was deeply moved by his faith in childhood, his authorial finger trained on the grown-ups, those poor folks utterly devoid of magic. Now, I’m sorry to say that I hadn’t thought about Salinger much until yesterday, of course, when I learned of his death and sat down to reflect upon his life.
Is it trite to say that I feel like I’ve lost a loved one, an ex with whom I’ve fallen out of touch but still care for in a familiar if forgotten way? Probably, but I’ve said it anyway in the spirit of truth and childish sentiments.
I was 22 years old when Catcher in the Rye was published, so while I was smitten by Salinger’s teenage hero, it didn’t change my life. On the other hand, Seymour affected me deeply when I read the stories and thoughts of him returned vividly when I read the obituary. Both Seymour and his creator left the world on their own volition.
I tried to read “Catcher in the Rye” in my teens because my father liked the book so much. But the book was too icky-boy-like for me, and I put it aside.
But then, in my early 20s, I became obsessed with the Glass family. My friend Madeleine and I, both aspiring actresses, would endlessly adapt scenes from “Franny and Zooey” and “Nine Stories” for scene study in our acting classes. I remember one time we actually spent a full afternoon poring through the NYC White Pages inpecting each “Glass” entry to see if it might be THE family. That’s how real they were to us.
As I read and reread the books over the years, a sneaking, not to mention heretical, suspicion began to dawn on me: Seymour -perhaps – was a bit of a self-righteous prig.
Holden, on the other hand, grew on me. His over-the-top crusade against phonies was patently, if hysterically, absurd. No one can – or should – sustain that level of judgemental indignation against all that’s impure in the world.
Except sometimes, when we should.
I hope Salinger’s attic is piled high with unpublished manuscripts. I miss those guys and I long to meet them again.