Salinger Page #2

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it was ridiculous

that he was going to write,

'cause his father

very much wanted him

to join him

in the cheese business,

which he had

no intention to do,

and I think that caused

a lot of friction.

His mother, on the other hand,

approved of everything he did.

Salinger enrolled in

Whit Burnett's

short story class at Columbia.

It was a very important move

for Salinger.

Whit Burnett was also editor

of 'Story' magazine.

'Story' magazine

published the very first work

of an extraordinary number

of American writers -

John Cheever, Carson McCullers,

Tennessee Williams,

Erskine Caldwell,

Jean Stafford, Peter de Vries.

Whit Burnett

ended up being a father-figure.

And based on

Burnett's encouragement,

Salinger went home and wrote a

story called 'The Young Folks'.

And much to

Salinger's surprise,

Burnett accepted the story

for 'Story' magazine

and paid him $25.

It was the first money J.D.

Salinger ever made as a writer.

Salinger always had

one goal in mind -

he wanted to be

in the 'New Yorker'.

The 'New Yorker'

was considered the best place

for a writer to be published

in terms of prestige

for the simple reason that

it was hard to

get published there.

J.D. Salinger's entrance

into 'New Yorker' was not easy.

The response to

Salinger's early stuff

was one word - no.

- No.

- No.

You can go to the

'New Yorker' archives

in the New York Public Library

and read rejection

after rejection.

"It would have worked out

better for us

"if Mr Salinger had not

strained so for cleverness."

"We think Mr Salinger

is a very talented young man

"and wish to God you could

"get him to write

simply and naturally."

"If Mr Salinger is around town,

perhaps he'd like to come in

"and talk to us about

'New Yorker' stories."

His reaction

was, "They want me to write

"an O. Henry type

of short story,

"but I have to find

my own voice, and this is it,

"and they'll catch up to me."

He wrote a letter

to Wolcott Gibbs, the editor,

where he took

the 'New Yorker' to task

for not really publishing

major, big short stories.

He said they were too tiny.

I mean,

this was a kid lecturing

the editors of the 'New Yorker'

on what they should publish.

He was published

in other magazines.

It wasn't good enough.

He was determined -

"The 'New Yorker'

was going to publish me."

And, by George, they did.

He had a story accepted

in 1941, towards the end,

called

'Slight Rebellion Off Madison',

about a kid named

Holden Caulfield.

December 7, 1941.

A date which

will live in infamy.

Before they could get it

into the magazine,

World War II broke out,

and suddenly

this wonderful story

about a young man

named Holden Caulfield

and this personal rebellion

he was going through

seemed trivial

and beside the point

and, you know, it just

didn't seem appropriate

to put in the magazine,

and so they put it on the shelf.

And Jerry

was infuriated at this.

That was

his whole thrust in life,

was to be published

by the 'New Yorker'.

"A man is in Cornish.

"Amateur, perhaps,

but sentimentally connected.

"The saddest - a tragic figure

without a background.

"Needing a future

as much as your past.

"Let me."

I wrote this note

to J.D. Salinger

which I thought that

only he could understand,

practically begging him

for an audience.

Do I go left here?

'Cause I don't go left.

There's been

countless fans now for decades

who have done this.

They leave notes for him, they

go up to his house unannounced,

they knock on his front door.

They're showing up to try

to find out from Salinger

some answer

to something in their lives.

1978, I remember driving

on this road alone

feeling very lonely,

next to the Connecticut River,

hoping that J.D. Salinger,

my hero,

would give me

a few minutes of his time.

One day, I said to my wife,

"I've gotta try it.

"I've gotta go,"

and I kissed her goodbye

and drove 450 miles to the

Vermont/New Hampshire border

and tried to find him.

I knew this was a hard thing

because I found

the neighbourhood people

protected him,

and they wouldn't exactly

tell me where he lived.

He may be the only writer

in American history

who's created

such a story around himself

that just catching

a glimpse of him

becomes an important experience

in your own life.

I drove about six miles to where

I thought Salinger lived.

I wasn't 100% sure.

I knew that he lived

on top of this mountain,

this wise man living in this

cabin in the White Mountains.

So I waited below this long,

winding gravel driveway

where I thought he lived.

Sure enough,

probably in the midmorning,

two cars

came down the driveway.

One was his son,

Matt Salinger, a teenager.

And J.D. Salinger

stopped his car, his BMW,

got out, walked over

to the driver's side.

I said,

"Are you J.D. Salinger?"

Because I did not recognise him

from the photographs.

He says, "Yes.

What can I do for you?"

I said to him very dramatically,

"I was hoping

you could tell me."

And he said, "Oh, come on.

Don't start that kind of thing.

"Are you under

psychiatric care?"

And he got out of that BMW

in the middle of the forest -

to me, it was almost like

he stepped out of a dream.

He talked about my life as if

it was as important as his life.

He asked me

why I left my family,

why I drove 450 miles,

why I left my job,

and I said to him

it was his writing.

I thought he felt like I did

and I wanted to talk to him

about deep things.

Then he kind of got

very frustrated.

And then he stepped back

from my car.

It was almost like

he grew six inches.

"I'm a fiction writer.

"For all you know,

I'm just a father.

"You saw my son

go down the road.

"I'm not a teacher or seer.

"There's people come and see me

like you every year,

"from all over North America,

from Canada, from Europe.

"I've had to run

from people on the street.

"There's nothing

I can tell these people

"to help them

with their problems.

"I may present questions

in my writing in a certain way,

"but I don't pretend

to know the answers."

He was sick of it.

He'd had 25 years of this.

He said, "Do you have any other

income besides your writing?"

Because I told him I wanted

to become a published author.

I told him I was a reporter.

He got a little bit angry,

got into his car and drove off.

And as I sat there,

I felt that I blew it,

my chance to talk intimately

with J.D. Salinger.

I sat in my own car, writing him

another note, telling him

that I was

a little disappointed -

I'd driven all this way and he'd

only given me a few minutes.

And as I was finishing the note,

he came back in his car.

And he says,

"Haven't you left yet?"

And I said, "No,

I was just gonna actually

"pin this note up

by your door."

He says, "Well, come over here

and give it to me."

I gave him the note.

His face became long and drawn.

"Jerry, I'm sorry.

"It was probably a mistake

coming to Cornish.

"You're not as deep,

as sentimental as I had hoped,

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