when we read that j.d. salinger was gone we looked at each other and knew exactly what we would do next. i stepped into the second bedroom that we facetiously call the library and pulled our combined sets of well-worn paperbacks from the classic literature shelf, divvied them up and we began to reread our respective copies. he opened franny and zooey first and i went straight for the comfort of the catcher in the rye.
the following weeks would find us laughing to ourselves behind the pages of our books, reading selected passages aloud while laughing out loud, marveling at the fact that we were allowed to read these in high school, recalling what we had forgotten since the last rereading and frequently consulting our dictionaries. we clipped this perfect obit to save and found our tongues tied when we attempted to explain who j.d. salinger was to our young friends from japan. it had never occurred to us that there was anyone in this world, anywhere in this world, who did not know who he was.
holden caulfield on reading and authors:
"What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though. I wouldn't mind calling this Isak Dinesen up. And Ring Lardner, except that D.B. told me he's dead. You take that book Of Human Bondage, by Somerset Maugham, though. I read it last summer. It's a pretty good book and all, but I wouldn't want to call Somerset Maugham up. I don't know. He just isn't the kind of guy I'd want to call up, that's all. I'd rather call old Thomas Hardy up. I like that Eustacia Vye."
he must have know precisely why we wished he would come out of hiding. and how cool we thought it was that he didn't give a damn.