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I was in the process of writing a different article when I learned that J.D. Salinger had died. It was a commentary on the so-called death of the short story—an idea that I don’t doubt Salinger could discuss, being primarily a writer of short fiction himself. But the moment I heard of his passing, I threw out the other article and began writing this one. If you’re so inclined, you’re free to smirk and make snide comments about what Holden Caulfield might think about yet another Salinger fan paying tribute to his memory. Believe me, I get it. But as a writer, I feel I would be remiss not to say a few words about a man whose work has been an inspiration to me.
 For most readers, J.D. Salinger’s place in the literary canon stems solely on his one novel, The Catcher in the Rye, a book so ubiquitous that I won’t insult your intelligence by summarizing the plot. I, too, have a special place in my heart for Catcher, but lately when I think of Salinger, the work I that comes to mind is Nine Stories. Specifically since his passing, I’ve been thinking about “De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period.” In the story, a 19-year-old boy fakes his age and credentials in order to secure a job as an art instructor at a correspondence school. He adopts the name De Daumier-Smith and scorns the crude, undisciplined work of his pupils until he is floored by a painting from a nun. Desperate to connect with this woman, the boy writes long, personal letters to her, asking to meet her in person. In his spare time, he fantasizes about what she’d be like, wishing her to be a beautiful teenager who has not yet taken orders.
De Daumier-Smith and I have a lot in common: educated, cynical, and subsequently snobbish to dilettantes, but essentially dreamers. Both of us tend to fantasize our way through life, though while he lies and daydreams, I write fiction. We are, as Holden might call us, phonies, but we’re phonies in the same way Holden himself is—the way everyone is. We are all, at times, arrogant and snobbish, superficial and cynical—and we all wish we weren’t. That is, perhaps, one of the biggest reasons why many of us love Salinger’s works: We see in his characters a little of ourselves.
A friend of mine once said, “I want to live life backwards, starting off jaded and becoming more loving and innocent”—a grand idea that seems to encapsulate one of Salinger’s biggest obsessions as a writer. In stories such as “A Perfect Day for Bananafish,” “Teddy,” and most famously in The Catcher in the Rye, materialism and book smarts serve as obstacles in the quest for happiness and inner peace—roles most often represented by corrupt adults and charming children.
 As a writer, I see many of my own obsessions in Salinger’s. I don’t write about innocence or materialism as often, but like Salinger I’m fascinated by the seemingly trivial moments that inspire deep connections. I love that little things like the painting in “De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period” or the proffered sandwich in “Just Before the War with the Eskimos” resonate so deeply. I love that a conversation or a turn of phrase, when spoken by a child, can even bring salvation. These are not necessarily stories with big literary themes about the destructiveness of war or the degradation of society. These are the simple, everyday moments that are heartbreakingly human—the kind of moments that have also inspired writers such as Raymond Carver, Stephen Chbosky, and Dave Eggers.
Of course, not everyone finds Salinger’s brand of vulnerability appealing. For every two people who have ever liked Holden Caulfield, I’ve heard one other call him an irritating whiner. It’s true, of course. Holden is no hero. He’s a rich kid from Manhattan whose biggest fear is growing up to become the gigantic phony he’s already becoming. But those who like him do so because we’ve all felt as lost and hypocritical as he does. We like him because even though he’s a little douchebag, it kills him to be one, and that knowledge means there’s hope for him yet.
Interestingly, it’s usually those who read Catcher as adults who are impatient with Holden’s self-absorption. Perhaps it’s because we tend to grow out of our feelings of alienation as we enter adulthood, finding ways to overcome them. It’s hard to tell, though, whether Salinger was ever able to do the same. In literature, reader interpretation overshadows authorial intent, but Salinger had difficulty letting go of these deeply personal characters. In a 1946 letter to Ernest Hemingway, he wrote that he was working on a play about Holden and wanted to perform the part himself. He never staged the play, of course, and after a terrible film adaptation of his story “Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut” (1949’s My Foolish Heart), Salinger never permitted any of his works to be performed. It seems just as well since, according to his ex-lover, Joyce Maynard, "The only person who might ever have played Holden Caulfield would have been J. D. Salinger."
The problem with keeping his stories so close to his chest, though, is that it becomes difficult to gain any perspective on them. Did Salinger ever understand Holden Caulfield’s role in the world at large, or was he too busy navel-gazing at the wrongs others have done him? If he thought for a minute that we didn’t get him or his characters, he equally did not understand us or perhaps even his own stories. Perhaps he failed to see that these struggles are universal, and we admire him for giving voice to those struggles. Like De Daumier-Smith to the nun, we’ve sought out his work because we felt a connection to him through his writing, and those connections are all we ever really want in life. After all, it’s in those connections that we feel, however briefly, a little less phony. (February,
2010)
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