J.D. Salinger is dead. Age 91, he died, according to reports, of natural causes, at home, away from the media.
I confess—I never read him. Catcher In The Rye is one of those touchstone books everyone had read, but not I. For whatever reason, it never crossed my path. I remember those bright red covers in high school, sort of wondered about it, but…
We can’t read everything, and some books, if you don’t get to them at a certain period in your life, you might as well not bother. I doubt Holden Caulfield’s adventures would mean to me now what they would have back then. Besides, I have a lot of other stuff to read and I know I’ll never get to it all.
Not long ago, the screenwriter Josh Olson (A History Of Violence) did an essay about the problem of time and professionalism. I Will Not Read Your Fucking Script nails on the head certain issues all professionals face, that of giving time to those seeking validation, unwarranted assistance, or just some kind of reason to feel put upon. I’ve been guilty myself of violating some of these strictures—wholly unknowing, naively—but, once I realized the mistake, never repeated it. Some authors get downright strident about this issue and occasionally sound like screaming paranoid misanthropes when they finally come back at someone for not getting it. See, it’s a no-win situation. You take the piece and read it and it’s awful, you have a choice—tell the truth or lie. Either one will get you into trouble and you end up looking like an ass. But what if it’s good? You still have a problem. There is a lot of “good” work out there that will simply never find a publisher or producer. It ain’t fair, it just is what it is. There’s not enough room in the world for every piece of work. So what do you do? Recommend this person to your agent or publisher? And what if it continues to be unsalable for any of a hundred reasons that have little or nothing to do with the work in hand? You don’t run the universe, but if your acquaintance still can’t sell it, you look like either a moron or obviously someone who didn’t sincerely go to bat for the work.
But in my case, this seldom comes up. I’m one of those who doesn’t sell well most of the time. It hurts, but there are reasons, and I’m not going to take advantage of people who have no stake in my career to either vent my frustration or climb over other people who may be just or more deserving. (Maybe I’m a sap for doing that, but you have to live with yourself and shouldn’t do things that might make that difficult.) But it does apply to reading in general—there just ain’t enough time for all the great books in the world.
Salinger is not likely to be on my shelf anytime before my own demise.
What I don’t get in people like Salinger is the recluse stuff. I admit, to me it looks like a pose. He’s never been out-of-print. Nor has he ever had to write another novel. I sometimes wonder if he engineered it so that he could just stop when he was on top. Not a bad strategy, especially if you subsequently can’t finish another book. But I admit, one of the reasons I’ve always done the work I’ve done has been a secret desire to be in the limelight. Art of any kind has a bit of performance about it and artists who shun the stage always struck me as insincere. I’m probably wrong about that and that’s okay. I just don’t get it myself.
But J.D. Salinger, who published his three volumes way back when and took the accolades to the bank ever since, who eschewed publicity and thereby generated mountains of it, has died, and has done so quite publicly even though he was at home, out of the limelight, with family and friends, apparently getting what he wanted. Famous for rejecting fame.
In the meantime, another writer, of considerable talent and certainly more productivity, is in the process of dying on the other side of the country, and except for the community of people who love her books will likely die largely ignored by the media and the public at large. Kage Baker writes science fiction. Her series of novels and stories of The Company are fine pieces, the first few exquisite disquisitions on history. She writes fun yarns about characters who are both fully realized and compelling. No, it’s doubtful any of them would ever become iconic in the way that Salinger’s relatively meager output has, but then I bet Kage’s, page for page, are a lot more fun.
I’m not suggesting that there is any cosmic unfairness going on here. The Universe doesn’t give a damn about fair. The very idea is absurd. I’m just saying that the perverse manner in which our attention gets manipulated often results in overlooking wonderful things. Such is the case with my own indifference at age 15 or 16 when I should have read Catcher In The Rye, but instead…let me see, that was 1970 or 71, so I would have been reading Heinlein and Clarke, Bradbury and Zelazny, Henderson and Asimov. (I read both The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged about that time as well, not to mention a goodly dollop of Dickens, Hugo, Twain, and Hemingway.) I had my sites set on what I thought were loftier planes of literary territory and this one just…slipped by.
My point? Only that it makes no sense to regret what you haven’t gotten to, especially if what you have discovered has enlivened your existence and widened your vistas. If you haven’t read certain books because your were busy reading others, well, good for you. The only sad thing would be is if you didn’t read certain books because you couldn’t make up your mind which and didn’t read any. Or, worse, if you didn’t read any because you had no idea there was anything worth while inside them.
But I would urge anyone reading this to go find a Kage Baker novel right now and indulge some wonder.
