Subject: Review of Salinger: A Biography
From: Scout Thompson (one38@one38.org)
Date: Mon May 01 2000 - 01:21:08 EDT
Okay, I hope this is okay with everyone.
Here goes:
Salinger: A Biography by Paul Alexander.
A Book Review, and Personal Narrative.
By Scout Thompson.
Hardcover books, a frequent pleasure to the collector; have got nothing
on soft-cover when it concerns the downtrodden college students of the
day. If you're going to leap for a hardcover; its gotta be worth
something more than that library book aesthetic; more than a book you'll
want on some dreamed-of bookshelf in your suburban study. So it was rare
for me to view, with such excitement, the white, dust-jacketed hardcover
of "Salinger: An Autobiography" by Paul Alexander. Biographies be
damned, what got me is the large print maroon word; looking at me like a
challenge: SALINGER.
I dropped the obligatory $24.95 [US] and returned home, cracking open
its spine with all the lewd audacity of one child raised on tabloids and
Maury Povich. But perhaps; just perhaps, I should explain my curiosity
with Salingers personal life, as much as I'd like to believe I am a
separate being from those "unwashed masses" who read People magazine and
wonder what Nicole Kidman will be wearing to the next Academy Awards.
People talk like Catcher in the Rye is the greatest contribution to
American literature since
that god awful "Great Gatsby" garbage. I mean; I can take Fitzgerald as
much as anyone; and that scene, with the scarves, absolutely killer. But
to me; it was Franny and Zooey that said what nothing else in the cabal
of American Literature has had to say. And if you haven't read it; well,
you quite not ought to be reading this; if you'll excuse me; I haven't
got much desire to explain myself to every precocious 8th and 9th grader
in the country who read Catcher and wonders why "Mr. Salinger doesn't
write anymore." Okay, maybe that's too harsh. I mean I know it is. So
lets just get on with it.
I'm a writer, and as you can tell by my painfully veiled
colloquialisms, I have no unique style, whatsoever. Quite a tragedy, in
fact; to have this writing voice so similar to JD Salinger. I mean if
you write like Fitzgerald or Hemingway its all fine and good; but write
like Salinger and you're derivative. I mean look at that Updike guy. You
read A&P and wonder just what the hell he thought he was doing. And then
I write like this; a tragedy, I tell you, an absolute goddamned tragedy.
I mean lets not call this a parody. This is how I write and its how I
talk, thanks very much; but I suppose, like I said, I better just get on
with this.
Salinger lives in a town about a rocks throw from my house, and I've
been interested in some key aspects of his life for hundreds of years.
Reclusive, into Zen Buddhism, and living with a steady flow of 18 year
old girls. And my class read "Bananafish" my senior year in high school
and the general consensus was that our Seymour was a Pedophile. Yep. God
bless these American minds, I tell you. I ripped out of the classroom as
soon as the bell rang.
See I've got some problems myself. I write for my own sakes and have no
desire to go through the rituals of publishing. I am, almost
consistently, attracted to girls who are 17 years old. I mean I'm in
college so its not that bad. But there's a lot to be said about the age
of 17. I mean for one thing; its the last time you really think you
could die from this goddamned beauty. Sorry for throwing this at you
already. But at 17 you have got tap dancing red headed girls, and you
have got these blonde women reading bibles with cups of coffee, and
you've this job that you know is meaningless. You're in a place you know
for about 1 more year and then its off to college or the marines or, I
guess, home; but everything you know is gone. But I mean the other thing
about being 17 is you're able to be a child and an adult at the same
time by really, actually being neither of them. I mean lets look at my
other favorite Jewish guy with a weird obsession for young girls; if you
want to get what its all about go rent "Manhattan" by Woody Allen.
Lets not get into some psycho-sexual literary debate over this Lolita
crap, either, please.
I mean you can call it sick or whatever that some 68 year old man lives
with an 18 year old girl,
but I think Sonny has proven himself enough by this point to get the
credit he deserves. I mean, read "For Esme With Love and Squalor" and
then ask yourself if the guy is a pervert. He's not. He's absolutely in
love with innocence, and he absolutely despises the worlds crushing
mechanisms. And so the reporters say; "Why Does Jerry abandon fame? And
why does he live with this steady influx of 18 year old girls?" I mean
let me tell you something; the answers are in his books, for christs
sakes. I mean, that's how I found his house.
Yeah, you heard me right. I went to his house. Me and a girl; who, for
all extensive purposes, was Franny; went up to Cornish in black pea
coats and a 1997 Red Mercury Cougar. And we stopped in front of his
house. I know, because I've seen pictures. And we looked, and then we
drove off. We had been thinking of going in; but lets face it, he's made
it damn clear he's not into that sort of thing. And as we drove away, I
noticed an old man, with big, muddy boots and blue jeans. A
suede-looking jacket. And he looked at me; with eyes that looked like he
was just waiting for us to stop and say something stupid. I couldn't
bare it, so I drove off, pretending to be just lost in town.
Now, there's been this documentary done by the CBC or BBC or some
foreign agency and it showed his house and the convenience store and
finally, video tapes of JD himself. And it was him. I mean I knew it
then, but I knew it, I knew it when I saw the tape.
But lets talk a bit about this book now, shall we? Lets start off with
some background on the author, Paul Alexander. Ol' Paul tells us from
the start that Catcher was his favorite book. Now let me say something
and lets not get mistaken about it. Catcher is a masterpiece. I mean it,
a full grown masterpiece. But we've got enough masterpieces. F&Z isn't a
masterpiece; its a goddamned ritual. Its a guideline. Its a course in
Zen for the disenchanted American. And it seems to me that if someone is
going to write a book on JD Salinger, it had better- I mean absolutely
better, be someone with a healthy love of F&Z. Someone who has actually
spent a sleepless night with Seymour: An Introduction and not skipped a
single footnote. And someone, I should assume, with a healthy, working
knowledge of Rilke, Issa, Bassho, and Lao Tzu. Paul Alexander is not
that man.
He ends the book in typical "More questions than answers" style, a
convenient enigmatic ending for a biography where the biographer gets
inside of no ones head whatsoever. The conclusion of the book? Salinger
stopped writing because he lost touch with his talent; went reclusive
because he couldn't stand bad reviews, and has an unnatural thing for
young girls. Paul Alexander would have done well in my senior year short
story class.
I mean lets think about how much money our friend Paul has made off of
this massacre. A printed massacre. I suppose he's done as good a job as
he could. I mean I am probably being harsh to this very pure man with
all the innocence of someone who really loves "Catcher in the Rye" and
missed Franny and Zooey completely. I mean I've got to feel a bit sad
for the manner in which havoc is wreaked by the innocents of this world
on those of us, like JD, who have got the vision to remain sensitive to
every trampled dandelion, as certain as we are that it pops up somewhere
else.
This is getting atrociously long, and so I am going to start in on the
biography of Salinger which aired on Bravo here in the states a few
weeks ago [as of this writing.] Lets start with on thing; it, also,
focused on Salinger as the "writer of Catcher in the Rye." I mean I
don't want to be fascist about it; I understand that many, many people
get a great deal out of Catcher and that, missing Seymour or F&Z's point
makes them not terrible people; it just makes them people that shouldn't
attempt to capture a guy on film or in print. They have no idea what
sort of damage they are doing; however pretty that damage may be
inflicted. I mean its quite touching and heart breaking in that way that
drives you absolutely goddamned crazy to be alive. I'm certain if I met
any of these people I would smile and say to them that I, also, am an
avid reader of JD Salinger.
So maybe I should cool off for a bit; get a sip of water, or something,
before I sink my teeth into that film. Before I go, let me just say
this: There is no reason whatsoever that Dixieland Jazz, played by a
MIDI Synthesis thing off a computer, is appropriate music for a
biography of a Jewish New Yorker. I mean I'd have to check my sources,
but I'm quite sure Woody Allen would be the only exception. I'm off for
a drink.
Water, filtered, no ice; from a coca-cola glass. The sort of drink you
say "amen" to afterward. Lets start, then, on that holiest of notes; and
hopefully I can remember just how clear that water is.
JD Salinger was born January 1st, 1919. That is the same day my
grandfather, James, was born. Vincenzo, actually. Later he changed it to
James. Both served during WW2. That makes Salinger 81 years old. If he
is anything like my grandfather, he's quite content to go for long walks
on occasion and live an otherwise quiet life, as the war has made many
people want to lead, especially those who saw battles as fierce as the
ones Salinger, and my Grandfather, saw. Thats the safe analysis.
Meanwhile, in WW2, Salinger meets a girl in Vienna and they go ice
skating. I mean this has happened, its in letters and whatnot. And
Salinger goes nuts about her. He doesn't forget her for ages. I mean
that's just how it is; you find a girl and you do something like tie her
shoelaces on ice skates and that's it, you're done for life. That image
is ingrained into your soul like it was communion. And you know, I
think it is.
I mean what's a mystic to do these days? God has been a bit more
discrete lately than in those days of parting seas and turning women
into pillars of salt. I mean God has started getting a bit subtler. You
want god? Get some lemonade, a beach chair, and go out on a green lawn
and listen to "How Much is That Doggy in the Window." And if your hairs
stand on end, and your eyes water, just for a second, and at the same
time you feel like glowing with light; like you're going to be okay and
that beauty is absolutely surrounding you; well, then, you can start to
do a biography on Salinger that hits on what needs to be hit upon.
Because when you do a biography that hopes to understand the writing of
JD Salinger; or Rilke, or Issa, or Bassho, or Lao Tzu, and commit it to
film; you've gotta understand that you're being quite redundant to start
with. I mean if you want to get to the heart of it, maybe just an hour
and a half of shots of thirsty people drinking cold water would be
appropriate. Anything besides that is just redundant, it seems to me.
I'm looking this over and it seems terribly snide and sideways; and I
kind of understand why it is that JD pretends Buddy wrote all his
stories. I mean its less ego, that way. I mean you don;t have to worry
about sounding terrible for criticising John Updikes A&P. I mean thats
just as bad as what I'm saying is bad; to go and be like "Oh, Updike?
He's so derivative." I mean I bet you wouldn't even think I love that
story. But I do love that story. I mean that's the problem, is you love
something and criticize it anyway. Or accidentally. I mean you end up
accidentally trampling them; the dandelions and the people who pick
them, both. But we're all doing it, all the time; we're picking
dandelions when we get so mad at the ones who pick them, you know.
And it seems like, there's just nothing you can do- but stop writing.
-scout
PS: [to the list] All apologies for anyone who I may offend with the
thing about Catcher fans.
I mean I love the book to death and all. I just don't think its the
right thing to head into a biography with, you know? Thats all I mean.
-
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