Salinger Page #11

---

amoeba that kept splitting off,

each one lovable

and wise and simple,

and they're all

really one face,

and they reflect each other

back and forth.

There's no-one else who

enters this world of theirs.

She saw the entire work he had

done as being narcissistic.

It is one person reflecting

on his own image.

You can't get so engrossed

in your own image

without it being

a dangerous thing.

The fiction went over the edge

with 'Hapworth' in 1965.

It's long on tone

and absolutely devoid of plot.

It was just

the brilliant Seymour

writing as a brilliant

7-year-old from camp,

and it was just too much.

It was impossible to believe.

They were kind of saying,

"What happened with

J.D. Salinger?

"I think he's kind of done.

He's kind of a crackpot."

That was just a little bit too

much theology for most people.

In the very last piece

of published writing,

Seymour is telling us

that Buddy is gonna have

the perfect room to write in.

But we also notice that it's

sort of like

a solitary confinement.

That's what it takes

to focus that much -

that's what he needs.

Ultimately, Claire

couldn't stand it anymore.

The isolation, the emotional

distress that she felt

because her husband was

obsessively writing

in the bunker.

And Claire filed for divorce.

Claire was a lady,

and she deserved

to be treated like one.

But Jerry didn't

treat her like one.

So I was glad to hear

that she was free.

When I was 18,

I wrote a magazine article

that changed my life.

It was published in

the 'New York Times Magazine'

with a photograph of me

on the cover.

Within three days of

the publication of that article,

there were

three enormous sacks of mail

in front of my dormitory room.

And in among them

was this one letter

that... eclipsed all the rest.

It began, "Dear Miss Maynard,

"I bet you're sitting in

your college dormitory room

"surrounded by letters

from magazine editors

"and book editors

and TV people and radio people."

All of which was true.

And then he went on to say that

he knew a thing or two himself

about the dangers, the perils,

of early success.

He said, "People will

try to exploit you,

"and I urge you to be cautious."

And it was only when I got

to the bottom of the letter -

and by that time, you know,

I was already completely

connected to this person -

that I saw the signature

'J.D. Salinger'.

He knows

exactly what he's doing.

He knows exactly how powerful

the name J.D. Salinger is.

It's a name that

with the right girl

creates a spell

that they fall under.

Getting a letter

from J.D. Salinger

was like getting a letter

from Holden Caulfield

but written just to me.

Within three days,

there was a second letter

and then a third and a fourth.

There was never any question

that we would meet.

And for my mother,

it was as if J.D. Salinger

had recognised her,

because I was her product.

It was as if she had gotten

a letter from J.D. Salinger.

Both of my parents

were brilliant, gifted artists,

both of them sidelined

in this small New Hampshire town

with no acknowledgement

of their work.

I had been raised to believe

that I was going to do

big, important things

and that... this was a sign

that I was going to -

I was going to spend time

with this wonderful man.

My mother was a little unclear

of the boundaries.

She sewed me a dress

for our meeting.

It was an A-line dress with

very bright primary colours.

Very short dress.

My English teacher

from high school

drove me to the Hanover Inn

where we met.

Jerry was standing

out on the porch.

This tall, lanky person,

and he raised his hand,

and he was waving as if he was

somebody coming in off a boat.

He actually jumped

over the banister.

There was something

very boyish about him.

I threw my arms around him.

I hugged him.

He hugged me back.

And the very first thing he said

when he saw me was,

"You're wearing the watch."

Clearly, he'd really studied

my photograph.

In the story 'For Esm -

with Love and Squalor',

the character of Esm is wearing

a very large man's watch.

I jumped in the front seat

of his little BMW.

He liked to drive fast

along these

New Hampshire/Vermont roads.

Covered bridge...

...winding, winding, winding

up the hill.

His house.

It was just this very quiet,

simple place.

There were no personal items -

photographs, letters.

The living room had piles and

piles of 'New Yorker' magazines.

Books stacked everywhere.

Movies stacked everywhere.

Peggy's room - there were stacks

and stacks of movie reels.

'Maltese Falcon',

'Casablanca', 'The 39 Steps',

'The Lady vanishes' -

all these old movies.

He'd make a bowl of popcorn,

which he'd sprinkle with

brewer's yeast, as I recall,

and we snuggled up

on this really comfy couch

and he threaded the films

through the projector

and turned out the lights

and it was movie time.

He loved 'Lost Horizon'.

It's a movie about this place

where you never grow old.

And he said that the only person

who ever could have played

Holden Caulfield was himself.

The women in his lives

are really projections

of his own wishes

or characters he creates.

It's a series

of very young women,

because when you're young,

and particularly if you're

a rather lost and insecure

and ungrounded young person,

it's much easier to become

who somebody wishes you to be.

I was looking for a sage.

I was looking for

some sense of meaning to life.

And I found it with Salinger.

But from the moment I moved in,

I could do very little right.

We had a very set routine.

The first thing we did

was have a bowl

of Birds Eye

frozen tender tiny peas,

not cooked, but with warm water

poured over them.

So they defrost a little bit.

So they were just cool.

Then we'd meditate.

Or at least, he would meditate

and I would try to meditate.

But my mind kept on wandering

to things of the world,

which was a big problem.

And then we would

get to work writing.

He would put on

a canvas jumpsuit to write.

And he would put it on

like a uniform.

It was kind of like he was,

you know, a soldier,

only he was going off to

wage his war at the typewriter.

He sat on a high chair

at his high desk

in his writing room

and worked on his typewriter.

A very old typewriter

that clicked.

He cut himself off

from a great deal of the world

but maintained a huge interest

in observing it.

I drew Jerry a lot

back when I lived with him.

This is a picture of me

sitting on Jerry's lap,

listening to very old recordings

of the Andrews Sisters

and Glenn Miller

and an obscure German singer

whose name I don't remember

who was a singer

from World War II.

This is a picture of Jerry and

me dancing, television set on.

Lawrence Welk, no doubt.

The bubbles would come up

and we'd watch the show

and we would dance.

While all of my contemporaries

were off, you know,

in New Haven doing drugs

and listening to Led Zeppelin.

Every day, I heard typing.

A lot of typing-

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes