Why I Read J.D. Salinger
In the fall time, on 7th grade bus rides home after Elieen and Laney got off at their stop, from my bag I would pull out J.D. Salinger’s Catcher In The Rye. I don’t remember how long it took me to read it front to back, and frankly I don’t want to remember. I was thirteen then. Looking back, however, it is blurry why I chose to pick up this particular novel at all. The cover had no special appeal to a thirteen year old, it was white with Catcher in the Rye written on the top and a rainbow stripe going across the top left corner. My copy specifically had a drawing of Paul Frank’s Julius the monkey, a basketball with a #5 written next to it, also clearly signed “Katie Steller,” obviously worn (read through 3? 5? Maybe 6 times.) So why had I read it at all? It’s a classic novel, and I just entered into my pretentious classic novel phase, so that might have been why I took it off the shelf. Regardless, quickly after reading through Salinger’s most famous novel, I moved on and read his other novels too (his Glass family novels): Franny and Zooey, Nine Stories and Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour an Introduction. And by the time I graduated from Yinghua Academy, J.D. Salinger was strictly my favorite author.
J.D. Salinger today is still one of my favorite authors, although my literary pursuits surpassed Salinger’s short repertoire. Salinger is an author whom I share very little with– a D-day WWII veteran suffering from PTSD, an eastern religion man, a recluse– but I still read Salinger when I’m sad or lonely or happy or excited. Why? What makes Salinger’s longevity?
Salinger’s writing moves you back to the 1950s. In fact, the new digital age doesn’t feel right to me (and frankly many of my peers alike). Modernity, technology, the age of information is exhausting. Novels well written take away the angst of access. I feel the thrall of Salinger’s novels lies in their space. Whether a New York City street, a bathtub, a hotel room or a carousel, Salinger’s settings feel genuine. In the modern age where authenticity feels hard to come by, spaces undiluted by technology even only through black ink in ten point type, feels better than reality. Feeling pulled into a space other than your own mind through art narrative feels like fresh water to the cloudy social media realm. But many good authors do the same– Twain, Dillard, Vonnegut, and Coupland. So again, why Salinger?
Maybe it’s Salinger’s writing. I imagine Salinger writing his novels, sitting at his desk, writing novels that do not directly touch on his own traumas (no direct mention of war, other than the tragic Seymour Glass), but rather reflect the nature of all mankind through unpretentious manners. Salinger uses language relatable, like Twain and Whitman before him, Salinger captures the voice, the life, of the common man. He connects himself to readers through language. Like in Franny and Zooey: “An artist’s only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else’s.” Or in Catcher in the Rye: “I don’t exactly know what I mean by that, but I mean it.”
Indeed, these are two quotes in isolation, but they illustrate the beauty of Salinger’s writing. Salinger puts feelings into small words, words that even 7th grade me could understand (presumably surfacely). As we struggle to articulate ourselves, Salinger is there to do it for us. Salinger makes us feel something. He connects us to something beautiful. Thematically profound, Salinger’s novels make my average-suburban-middle class life that feels a lack of profoundness, feel profound, feel meaningful. Even if that is through an archetypal angsty teen like Holden Caulfield– but at least he thinks something.
Salinger’s deep ability to make readers profound is getting closer to the truth of my love for J. D. Salinger’s writing. The real reason: Connection. Salinger’s writing connects me to a different time–a time that sparks authenticity (although I must view it gilded). Salinger’s writing connects me to others- to the border human struggle for meaningful lives. But my secret for loving Salinger– my dad.
I’ve taken after my dad’s love for reading, especially for his preferred novels. My dad was an english, psychology double major, perfect for Salinger. In many ways, after my oldest sister was born, my dad entered a new phase of life, (trading his dream to be a writer for corporate america.) There’s a lot I don’t know about my dad. He is naturally reserved about his past. I don’t know much about his life in Chicago or South Carolina, or even small town Minnesota. And if I’m being honest, so much I will never know about him.
However, through reading, I think I’ve come to understand my dad better. Reading his favorite novels or authors, or listening to his favorite bands and songs, allows me to understand a part of him otherwise lost in the unsaid. Because my dad loves these things, I learn about the unmentioned. Within Salinger’s honesty, angst, and style, I see a younger version of my dad.
I remember driving down East River Parkway parallel to the Mississippi river, when my dad told me about Franny and Zooey. He spoke about books with no reserve and the full enthusiasm of a child. I was little then. I didn’t understand the full scope of either his excitement or the novel itself. But each time I read Franny and Zooey, I feel deeply connected to a new side of my dad– and myself.
My copy of Franny and Zooey, is littered with my dad’s annotations. On page 68, he writes: “don’t draw attention to yourself, eric.” On 179, he quotes Bob Dylan. My dad is somewhere in that book, between Salinger’s words, between his own pen marks. Each time I read Franny and Zooey, I put together leftover pieces. In this book, I experience not only Salinger’s eye beauty, purpose, and meaning, but also my dad’s.
As I get older and reread Salinger’s classic novels, new meanings become exposed and new understandings of my dad become clear. The cloudy figure I see when I read Salinger novels is put more into focus. Through Salinger’s characters the image gets sharper. In Zooey, I see my dad’s solemnity; I see my dad reading letters to his family. In Franny, I see my dad’s religious fervor; I see my dad’s rejection of ego. From Salinger himself, I see my dad’s writing dreams, his artist dreams, his deep longing for beauty.
Catcher in the Rye and Franny and Zooey were never about J.D. Salinger at all. They were about connecting with my dad. I’ve always admired my dad’s knowledge, his tenacity, and breadth. I didn’t pick up Catcher in the Rye for its classic status, I picked it up because my dad liked it. I will never stop reading Salinger, and I will never stop thinking about my dad when reading them. The book never ended on the last page; it ended on the back cover where my dad’s annotations stopped.
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