Yesterday my sister and I took a trip to the New York Public Library to see the wonderful exhibit on the letters and memorabilia of J.D. Salinger. If you are currently in NYC and can manage to catch that exhibit between now and this coming Sunday (the day it closes), I highly recommend it.
I think the great majority of Salinger’s readers discover him in childhood by reading The Catcher in the Rye. But I discovered him only in my twenties.
Consequently, I ended up loving everything he published except Catcher in the Rye. That book probably would have spoken to me when I was thirteen. Yet by my mid-twenties, I was no longer speaking the same language.
On the other hand, I was utterly enthralled by Nine Stories, Franny and Zooey, Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour, an Introduction. There was a time when I lived and breathed the travails of the Glass family.
So for me, as I imagine it is for many people, reading the letters of Salinger resonated on a deep emotional level. I felt as though I was searching for clues to an undefinable mystery.
Of course the man is not the work, and the work is not the man. Salinger himself wrote in his letters that the distinction must be respected.
But that’s ok. True genius casts a bright and beautiful light. For a few precious hours yesterday I felt myself bathed in the healing warmth of that light.