Goodbye, Holden Caulfield
When I was 11 years old, I stood on my bed and looked at the books on the highest shelf of the bookcase that my parents had kept in my room. There were a lot of books there that my Dad had put there to relieve the overflow on the big bookcase in the living room, but most of them were "boring". Still, I had just finished my latest Hardy Boys book and wanted to keep reading (where has that feeling gone?) and picked a book that was about the same size. It had a maroon cover with simple yellow letters on it that spelled out the title and the author's name. I opened the book to page one and read this:
“If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.”
I gasped, laughed and reread it. Then I debated whether or not to read the passage out loud for my Dad in case he decided I was too young to be reading that sort of thing. Finally I did and he laughed with me, and smiled, probably remembering when he had first read the Catcher in the Rye. I read that book then, then again two years later, then again 2 years after that, then again when I got to college. It was simply written and brilliant and I loved it. Who was J.D. Salinger that he had so easily written a book that described everything and so perfectly?
It appears that he died yesterday, quietly. I hadn't ever read his other works, partly out of laziness and partly because there's no way anything could measure up to Catcher. Now I feel a bit foolish, as we say goodbye to him from beyond the fence. I guess I'd better start reading.