hush, hush, whisper who dares? Kwistofer Wobbin is saying his prayers


Subject: hush, hush, whisper who dares? Kwistofer Wobbin is saying his prayers
From: Scottie Bowman (rbowman@indigo.ie)
Date: Tue Jul 17 2001 - 14:22:00 GMT


    '... that's even more of a reason,' writes Will, 'not to post
    directions on how to personally hurt someone ...'

    His daughter has, of course, already written witheringly
    about the self-appointed Salinger protectors who suffer
    so delicately on his behalf, forever reproaching all those
    unfeeling critics & diving forward like kamikaze heroes
    to bar the path into his hilltop fastness.

    Yet can there ever have been a more efficiently advertised
    recluse in the history of American letters? I can't count
    the number of times I've been given instructions how
    to find his place - always up to the second last crossroads,
    whereupon the prick-teasing informant wags his finger
    & gives me a solemn lecture on my prurience in even thinking
    of intruding on the great man's privacy.

    I need hardly say I'd no more be caught skulking around
    Cornish than walking up the hundred yards to our local
    chapel here where, last week, the bones of St Therèse
    were on display. (Indeed, there might be a certain similarity
    of experience.) But it's not from any lack of hospitability
    on Jerry's part. I wonder sometimes he doesn't issue excursion
    tickets in Grand Central - or wherever it is one takes
    the puffer to New Hampshire. So far as I've read, there
    used be no great crowds of mooners around Ketchum
    during Hemingway's last days, & most of your other
    illustrious writers seem to get on with the work without
    this endless, blaring publicity that anyone truly committed
    to obscurity could have dispersed long ago with nothing
    more than a few unobstrusive murmurs.

    I must say I'm turning into Sarah Morril's latest fan.
    What a pleasant & bracing change from the more
    familiar, tactful sighings of adoration that Salinger's
    admirers have made their specialty. Vigah of opinion
    & vigah of expression. That's the stuff to give the troops.

    In the words of that grand old Scots song, : 'She's the maid
    for me ....'

    Scottie B.

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