When I read Salinger in the late 50′s and early 60′s, I still had aspirations to be a writer, but did not have the courage to follow his magnificent dingaling go-for-it advice.

I remember being so damned hypnotized by Salinger’s voice, so absurdly identified with it, that I actually had the temerity to think: I can do this, I can write like this.

That was long before I realized that genius is not an effortless fountain inside us that simply gushes forth wonderful stuff. I think the incidence of genius is pretty small in the human race, and the rare birds–like Salinger–who qualify, all work really really hard, creating a lot of ho-hum things before they get to the good stuff. Even Mozart–contrary to popular mythology–worked his butt off to learn the craft of music and composing, and wrote a fair amount of yawners before he hit his stride. I’m sure this is true of Salinger, too. It has to be.

Seymour’s suicide is dismaying, as you say, as are all suicides by violent means. Although shooting oneself in the temple with a revolver is penny ante compared to what Hemingway actually did.

I wonder, as many people have in the past week, if Salinger left behind some fabulous body of writing, in that weird pillbox where he spent most of his last 45 years. But unlike Kafka, who trusted his editor to follow his request to burn his unpublished writing, I don’t think Salinger trusted anyone in that way. He may have written a lot and then destroyed it as he went along. But wouldn’t it be great if he left behind 5 or 6 novels and a bunch of short stories? I wonder, though, if even he could write well in complete isolation from the world of publishing, criticism, etc. Likely we’ll never know.

This is a beautiful post. Yours stars were out.