salute to salinger

i wanted to post immediately upon hearing of his passing, but i had to pause and try to calm the warring thought-storm.

the thing about great art, great writing, is that it gives you a false sense of intimacy–as if the words were written for you alone. so, yeah, it feels like a good friend has been gone on a long trip, and i’m just now hearing that he’s decided not to come back; so i’m pouting. so goddam what?

although i’d waned in recent years, the catcher in the rye was one of those rare books i read annually. my friend cassandra summed it up best when she said, “the cather in the rye makes you want to be a boy.” yeah. i suppose it could have just been the miracle that is writing a character sympathetically, but for all of his failings, all of us were holden, in some way, perhaps for that very reason. you see yourself in the flaws and think, “if he can be that screwed up and still so lovely, perhaps there is hope for me.” perhaps: the very word itself a symbol of flickering hope. perhaps.

and something about the repetitive slang made it sexy. after reading it, everywhere i went, everything was goddam this and gorgeous that and crumby everything. it infected your soul and, therefore, your speech.

and who can judge for the need for solitude? despite all of the pitching and meetings and lunches that comprise the hollywood machine, what writers need most is solitude, time with their thoughts, their paper, their words. virginia knew. oscar knew. and so did salinger.

what else can i say? he passed peacefully with his wife by his side. perhaps there will be posthumous works, but, honestly, what can one expect after catcher? it is perfect. even if he spent the rest of his life playing tic tac toe, i’m good. i have catcher. free pass.

what else can i do but kick dirt, perform my best james dean forehead scrunch, and dig my hands deeper into my jean pockets? for crissakes, i feel gorgeously crumby, goddamit, okay?

then again, perhaps that friend isn’t so far, after all. perhaps i can visit him right now, and my side-smile will say it all. perhaps the real word for–and symbol of–hope isn’t “perhaps” at all but, quite simply: paperback; perhaps.