I think Salinger is a prime example of my belief that an artist can both be a period artist, destined to seem less relevant or successful outside of his or her own time, while still deserving to be called great. Perhaps not great in the same way as an artist whose work is enduring, but great nonetheless. The difficulty lies in the fact that the people who are capable of appreciating that greatness are often contemporaries of the artist in question; that's the reality of writing perfectly of your time. The rest of use have to appreciate the work the best we can, to take its strengths and flaws through the prism of our own misunderstanding. That's good enough, though. I'll tell you the truth: Catcher in the Rye leaves me cold. It doesn't touch me because it doesn't speak to the truth of my time. But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate it as a piece of craft, or respect the craftsman. This is yet another virtue of looking beyond greatness or listmaking; when you abandon "better/worse" as meaningful distinctions, you are left with the space to simply consider what is before you.
Incidentally-- it remains as true as ever: if you want attention as an artist, become a recluse. Nothing piques the public's interest more.
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And now the unpublished stuff will finally come out (according to various things that I've read over the last 10 years); he wrote nonstop until at least 1997, so it'll be very interesting ...
How old were you when you read Catcher?
How old were you when you read Catcher?
I want to say 15. There or thereabouts, which seems like the perfect age. But maybe Salinger's death is a good excuse to give it another shot when I am done with a few things I am reading now.
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