"Do you love me? You didn't say once in your horrible letter. I hate you when your being hopelessly super-male and reticent. Not really hate you but am constitutionally against strong, silent men."

or:

"I do like him. I'm sick of just liking people. I wish to God I could meet somebody I could respect..."

and (last one):

"Just because I'm so horribly conditioned to accept everybody else's values, and just because I like applause and people to rave about me, doesn't make it right.  I'm ashamed of it. I'm sick of it.  I'm sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody.  I'm sick of myself and everybody else that wants to make some kind of splash."

That's whats up this summer. I'm borrowing books, burning cds, sharing clothes, riding bikes, and having picnics. It's just easier this way... oh yeah, and I'm still poor

-- J.D Salinger, Franny and Zooey

I thought that it would be particularly appropriate to write a post on literary celebrity considering that I'm in the middle of Salinger's Franny and Zooey. Salinger's withdrawal from public life in the early 1950's is right up there with Thomas Pynchon's avoidance of any sort of media scrutiny and extreme privacy for the last 40 years (but at least Pynchon has continued to publish and, therefore, kept up some sort of pubic life). And it's very interesting to note that two of America's most talented post-World War II authors shunned fame and celebrity so completely (though their turns away from public life have not diminished the focus placed on them). The stories of Salinger and Pynchon are emblematic of the rejection of celebrity by contemporary authors. But what, if anything, does this tell us about the current state of literary celebrity?

Looking at the contemporary literary world we can see that there has been a clear divergence between literature and literary celebrity. I'd be willing to wager that if you polled most Americans asking 'who are the most important writers publishing today?' you'd be much more likely to hear names like Steven King, John Grisham, and Tom Clancy than Denis Johnson, Annie Proulx, and Cormac McCathy. In the current book culture it seems undeniable that the American Public is unfamiliar with the authors who are producing the most critically acclaimed works. Currently, the American authors with the largest literary celebrities are not considered the best writers around (at least by the people who judge and criticize these things).

While I can't claim any direct knowledge of the world before 1985, this situation seems to stand in direct contrast to previous periods when writers like Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Steinbeck were simultaneously famous, and considered critical success stories. We can also contrast the current period in America to other nations, where the most critically acclaimed writers are also the most well known authors (Haruki Murakami in Japan comes to mind).

So what does the current dearth of quality celebrity authors mean? Is it like Wal Mart and Jerry Springer, just another indicator of the American Public's bad taste? Or is it a sign of a decline in the quality and accessibility of American writing? While I can't say for sure, I can say that, for several reasons, I look forward to a time when our best authors embrace celebrity again. Most of the reason why I hope our best writers return to fame is this: If good writers are well known, then the Public is going to be more likely to read good books. This would do several things for contemporary fiction and for the Public: 1.) it's likely to improve the Publics' taste in all things, including books, 2.) it's likely to encourage more people to write, and to encourage more writer's to write books that innovate and push the artistic limits of the novel, 3.) if more people are reading quality books, it will encourage publishers to print more good books, 4.) if more people are reading, it will bolster literature's position and help it compete for people's attention with other art forms (e.g. movies or music). All these things would help raise the literary discourse in this country and lead to more good books.

But there are obstacles. Getting back to my starting point, I think that the invasive nature of fame and the lack of private space afforded to celebrities is part of the reason that Salinger and Pynchon rejected celebrity in the ways that they did. While technology has improved communications and eliminated boundaries, bringing us all closer together, it has also created a world where one's private space is constantly shrinking. The superficial nature of modern celebrity is also troubling; while I hope that our best writers become famous again, I would rather see our authors forego fame than give into the shallow nature of its current form.

In the end though, writers are creative, clever people, and they can find ways to deal with these pitfalls tactfully. If writers want to bolster the popularity of their medium and increase the size of their audiences they're going to need to re-embrace celebrity, while avoiding the thorns that come with fame. So how about some creative book promotions? How about a poet that collaborates with a rock band, writing the lyrics to their new album? How about a quality author that does TV interviews with Larry King and shows up on the cover of "the Rolling Stone." All these things can be done with dignity if they're done right. Fame can be invasive, shallow and stupid, but, used in the right way, literary celebrity can draw readers (and it is every writer's goal to be read by someone, even if it is not their primary objective) while not detracting from the author's primary mission in life-to write, and to do so to the best of their ability.

What comes between the covers is as satisfying as the format itself. As of now I'm just starting on the section of the book titled "Zooey" (the book comes in two sections: "Franny," which goes from page 1-44, and "Zooey," which goes from page 45-202). "Franny," the opening section of the book, grabbed my attention from the start and didn't let me go until it had had its way with me. This is one of those pieces that reminds you why Salinger is Salinger-why, at such an early stage in his publishing career Salinger had achieved such a huge literary celebrity (both sections of the book appeared in the New Yorker before being published together as a book). The book starts with a very vivid scene on a train platform that creates a razor sharp image of 1950's America, and then Salinger goes about filling in that image. What had been a picture perfect image of the 1950's college boy transforms into a real character with his own ticks, motivations and desires. And Franny emerges from her 1950's college girl resemblance, to be a very unique character indeed. And these characters interact, do strange things, speak on outlandish subjects, and act above their age-all in an atmosphere of the highest realism. And the reader cannot help but believe in what is happening every step of the way. By the end, even the least appealing of the two characters acts in a way that forces the reader to sympathize with them.

The one misstep I've found in the book so far is the rather wordy introduction that takes place from page 47-50. While this little section is slightly amusing, it doesn't contain nearly enough humor to carry its own weight. This is the type of thing that is perfectly understandable for an author to do (it's natural for authors to want to outline their ideas and characters), but it's also the type of thing that some editor somewhere should have cleaned up. But despite this one minor gripe I'm looking forward to finishing up the novel.

Overall its been a great read so far and one I'd recommend, especially to any Salinger fans out there. Salinger is most frequently remembered for The Catcher in the Rye and the abrupt end to his literary career, and it's unfortunate that these things overshadow the rest of his works that actually are available to the public. Nine Stories is probably one of the best short story collections published by an American in the last 100 years, and I've also heard good things about Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction (I've heard it's a good book, but that title is probably also something that some editor should have fixed long ago). So get out there and read something other than The Cather in the Rye if you haven't yet.

Lastly, a bit of Dartmouth trivia, Salinger actually lives somewhere around Hanover, NH, and occasionally comes to the school. I've seen him reading a newspaper in the library before and he seems normal enough (though sections of his biography certainly suggest that he's a person given to extreme shifts). I'll post some of my meditations on literary celebrity later, and when I do I'm sure Salinger's name will make its way back into this blog. Until then, thanks for reading.

i simply had to make a post about my favorite book because last night j.d. salinger was in my dream!

Last week was a hard one for me. I have blogged before about the joys of travel writing, but there are many unjoys to it as well (and it goes without saying that being able to make up words goes under the joy column). Since I've been back in New York there have been many of both, and last week marked a period of frustration with the struggles of worming my way into the giant clique that is the editorial world.

I found out I had a connection to the Editor in Chief of my dream publication and immediately drafted an email to said editor, only to hear back the following day in a two line email that thanked me for my interest in the publication but unfortunately this editor was too busy for even the briefest of informational interviews. This was disheartening for many reasons, not the least of which being that part of the reason I love the publication so much is that the editor seems like such a cool person. Needless to say I ended the week feeling rather glum.

And so a list of things that are annoying and crappy:

• Editors who don't remember what it was like when they weren't editors and knock your favorite publication down a rung or two.
• Being a waitress with a Master's degree.
• Allergies.
• Sitting next to a man on the subway who is picking his nose.

And to balance it out, a list of things that helped me out of the weekend blues:

• An exceptionally warm and lovely Saturday with music, a saint bracelet, and the smells of spring.
• The nice man at Barnes and Noble that let me exchange my large photography book (which I bought online for my thesis much longer than 14 days ago) for the three very exciting books I got instead: Swann's Way, Up in the Old Hotel, and Poet in New York.
• A surprise encouragement email from a friend and one of the most inspiring women I know (who, it should be told, has had her share of travel adventures, and also has a fantastic sense of style).
• Lo Tengo Torrontes, the wine I brought to my own pity party. I bought it because it was $9 and from Argentina, but it turns out it was quite good, a little fruity without being too sweet. And it has a label with hologram tango dancers.
• Friday Night Lights. (I'm obsessed. I admit it.)
• My good buddy J.D.

This last is the book review part. Because, though I'm still in the middle of several other books, I dropped everything thing this weekend to return to Franny and Zooey. I've read it so many times there are parts I know by heart, but I keep going back to it. It's a once a year thing, I guess, and it's also what I do when I'm feeling really bad. And every time it helps, and every time I notice something new. This time, for example, I realized how ridiculously funny Zooey Glass is, and how much Mrs. Glass is my mother.

But mostly I just love it because it's a story about love, about a family supporting each other and about loving what you do. Because I could never say it any better than Salinger, I'm just going to go ahead and quote what Buddy Glass writes to his brother Zooey (who is, incidentally one of those characters I wish were real because I'd like to be friends with him): "Act, Zachary Martin Glass, when and where you want to, since you feel you must, but do it with all your might."

I have two fragmentary comments about this quote, the first being that only Salinger (or the Glasses) can over-italicize and pull it off, and the second is that if I replace "act" with "write" I have me some pretty strong inspiration, especially when you throw in the Fat Lady. (No, I won't explain the Fat Lady. Read the book and find out who she is.)

And in addition to all these things that have always made this book great, there is the additional fact now that it is about New York, or a New York family. And it may sound bizarre, but I think it might be one of the reasons I always wanted to come to New York. I simply had to see the city that made the Glasses. So reading it this time around not only provided the above inspriation. but filled me with the distinct and comforting instinct that I came here for good reasons, and that I am in the midst of greatness, even if it's fictional.

And on that note, a 1961 review I found from the New York Times—by John Updike, no less. It's "cool factor" was slightly diminished by the fact that it's a bit infuriating, but I still think it's a fun find. Also interesting is that I never even dreamed that Franny might be pregnant. Those who haven't read the book, I warn you not to think too much about what Updike says, because, frankly (and in my expert opinion), he's way off. I have always liked "Zooey" better, and it's because of, rather than in spite of, the great Glass world. And with that, I close my rant. In the words of Buddy (from my other favorite novel Seymour, an Introduction): "Go to bed. Quickly. Quickly and slowly."

The one (if only) enjoyable aspect of Eileen Favorite's novel The Heroines is that it prodded me to finally pick up J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey. The Catcher in the Rye was a one time bang and amazing read for me in high school (as well as an unassigned reading), but I always shied away from picking up the novel again. As far as reading any other novels from Salinger's oeuvre, I consistently avoided them as it had been mashed into my high school brain The Cather in the Rye was the only Salinger novel worth reading. Roughly a decade later I waded through that pulpy mash of logic and spent quite a wonderful afternoon with Franny and Zooey.

Franny and Zooey Glass are two children from a rather large NYC intellectual brood that spent most of their childhood on a "Wise Child" radio show. The novel begins with Franny on a date with her boyfriend. Through their luncheon the reader witnesses Franny's growing agitation with everything: food, smoking, her boyfriend, the conversation etc. This twists into some self-loathing, a lot of apologizing, and finally physical signs that something is not quite right: fidgeting, sweating, and finally fainting.

The second part of the novel picks up with Franny's brother Zooey in the bath. Franny has returned home to go through her nervous breakdown, as it is put, and the reader gets a front row seat of the Glass family's interactions and development. Like Catcher in the Rye, at least for me, there is that one shiny, jewel-like moment in the novel where as a reader I hold my breath, and I was thrilled with it. Throughout the entire novel Franny has been carrying a book The Way of A Pilgrim and has been chanting to herself the Jesus Prayer.

Franny and Zooey dives seriously into the complexities of religion and spirituality and what this means to the character as well as the meaning for the readers. There is the unveiling moment at the end of the novel (and I completely misconstrued the "fat lady" as an "Everyman" in the small lapse where she shows up and before Zooey explains his interpretation), which I was so fascinated with I have picked up a copy of The Way of A Pilgrim. I loved Franny and Zooey and once I have finished The Way of A Pilgrim I hopefully will return to it.

My arrogance had done very well for itself by all accounts, but when the semester, and lectures themsleves started proper I knew my arrogance didn't have what it takes to make me a success, to get me through it alone.

For a year I relied on this dominant aspect of my personality, allowing it to stand up and justify my drink and drug fuelled nonchalance. I mention the booze and drugs not as an excuse, just for context. But during that time of ego driven audacity, focused on doing nothing of effort and worth, another personality trait built itself up slowly, quietly, until it had completely overtaken the running of the show.

Subservience. Spinelessness, the inability to believe anything my own mind concocted that contradicted another person, because surely they knew better than me right? I mean they could say words that had meaning behind them, emotion behind them. They must know better than me.

And I kept hiding for a long time, reacting in ways I know people would want me to, appeasing everyone, being phonier than I ever could've believed I would. Just so others would think me likable because of my overwhelming urge to be agreeable.

Reacting, not interacting.

And it still goes on to this day. Even though I've gained confidence and pieced together bits of what I think I believe, which is still very little, I still betray these thoughts, myself.

At work I refuse to stand up for them, I choose to denounce them and instead find reasons to fortify the bullshit of others which permeates around the bar. It's why I'm the best barman in town, why I'm the best barman in a backwards community.

I started having these personal revelations because I've been trying to figure why I hate my writing beyond the usual necessary tortured artist routine. And I've sussed it.

It's not honest, it's guarded and during the earliest moments of the writing process it's convoluted by pandering to what I think will be considered clever, to what I wat the big boys to think of me. And whilst bits may sound original and clever, every piece is speeding off to a false start, flying out the gates with a brace strapped to it's leg by being written in the wrong manner for the wrong reasons.

Today I started reading Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger, someone once told me it was their favourite book and as I write this I've already nearly finished it, which is non small accomplishment for a slow reader as I am. It slammed home that my realisations about my writing are inseperable from realisations I have to make about myself, they go hand in hand and skip happily down the road towards a sunset with a subheading titled wisdom.

I find myself wishing I'd read the book when I was told about it, but reading it any earlier would've negated any effects it had on me. Except maybe to inflict this same American twang I've inflicted on the poor buggers who've read this far.

Conclusion? Getting back into reading has done me the world of good, I'm enjoying catching up on the 8 or so years of emotional growth that they missed out on helping to foster. But really seriously, as in I'd kick your arse if you dared interupt the next part of this sentence, no longer does my arrogance prevent me from listening and no longer does my subservience defy me from answering.

Stop trying to be seen as clever, be honest and don't pander to those you seek approval from.

That goes for writing words, but it will go for my actions as well.

- J.D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey: 29