New Year's Day marked the birthday of literary legend, J.D. Salinger, now 91 years of age and author of the much beloved "The Catcher in the Rye" as well as other works that equal or excel its luster. Mr. Salinger is also a neighbor to Dartmouth, living in nearby Cornish, N.H., and although it is well known that he appreciates his privacy, students occasionally claim to spot him in Baker-Berry Library. I feel it necessary to joyously paste the opinion page of The D with an outburst of affection for both his work and the thoroughly admirable way in which he lives his life. I would also like to disperse what I feel are a few grave misconceptions surrounding him and his books.
In the manner of a great Indian composer of the 16th Century, Swami Haridas, who would sing and play only for God, Mr. Salinger ceased to publish in the early '60s and now evidently writes only for God or for himself the two are not strictly divided in the Vedantic philosophy which informed so much of what Salinger wrote (and with which I also share a strong affinity). To the untutoredor perhaps far too tutored and jaded literary sensibilitysuch a refusal of publicity would appear to be nothing more than a failure of nerve, a childish refusal to enjoy fame.
But by trying to eschew ego from his life's workrefusing to pepper the airwaves with talk show appearances and demand the love of the worldSalinger provides an example of the consummate artist, a man who said all he needed to say with great economy, and then immediately dropped from view when the task was completed. He did not wish to stick around and belabor the world with his ego's baggage, but drew more deeply into himself.
The literary critic Harold Bloom insists that Kafka and Beckett, respectively, authored the 20th Century's equivalents of the "Inferno" and "Purgatorio," but that the "Paradiso" could not be written, so grim was our time. But for me, Salinger has written it in his own quiet and subtle way. From the confusion of Holden Caulfield, an innocent trapped on an island of misfit toys, to the eventual illumination of such sublime stories as "Teddy," "Zooey" and "Hapworth 16, 1924," Salinger provides a lead out of the labyrinth. He grasps Vedanta and Christian Mysticism at their most profound level, and urges people to see what T.S. Eliot called "the infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing" lying behind the sickly faade of the ego, behind the perplexing bullying and wanton cruelty that defines so much of life.
In "Zooey" the second part of "Franny and Zooey" Salinger puts the matter quite succinctly, explaining himself in no uncertain terms. The character of Zooey, attempting to make his sister understand her professor's rather irritating quirks, says, "I'd lay almost any odds that this thing he's using, the thing you think is his ego, isn't his ego at all but some other, much dirtier, much less basic faculty." It is this "dirtier, much less basic faculty" (which I have somewhat unskillfully referred to as "ego" up until now) that Salinger struggled not to use because he wanted to write purely, using only his true self.
A vast contingent of people who have found solace in Mr. Salinger's writings exists in America and probably resonate abroad too. Unfortunately, he is frequently thought of as the writer who crazy people like, which obscures how great his accomplishments have been. I know that personally, "The Catcher in Rye" did not make me want to pick off any of the remaining Beatles. It actually had the opposite effectit made me want to become more sensitive to the world around me and to the people in it, to understand and sympathize with them, however flawed and damaged we all might be. Taken together, Salinger's books serve as a collection of insights for living in what, in many appearances, is a fallen universe.
Mr. Salinger may not be long for this mortal coil. I suppose the chances that he reads this rather exuberant appreciation of his stories is slim, but I hope the fact that he is appreciatedloved and cherished and probably prayed fordoes him some good. I am cheerful and optimistic. I wish him a belated happy birthday. I think, thanks to his selfless service, a good number of people stand a fair chance of getting through this life with all of their faculties intact.
