It’s hard to say it’s not saddening when two great American artists and minds die in the same week, then again they were 87 and 91 respectively. And for one of them, it seems as though the majority of his work might still to be published–and I will be holding me breath. Here’s a great article about the two (mostly Salinger) from Dave Eggers, author of the acclaimed novel, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (and author of one of my favorite lines about childhood. Reminiscing his first reading of James and the Giant Peach: “It’s like the cement is still wet when you’re that age; every little mark can become permanent.”)

To me, the name Salinger is synonymous with all the romantic notions of the great American writer. He’s up there with Twain, Whitman, Hemmingway, Thoreau, Poe, Ginsberg…perhaps Zinn.  And I’m not measuring or comparing his or their talents as writers or even men, but simply comparing the concepts and myth capability surrounding their names.  There’s something wild and larger than the men themselves, something truly American in their ring; like Cowboys and Baseball and The White House. Salinger abounds his own realm, the realm of the recluse, the private right, the mastery of character and attractive psychology….  There is complete truth to atmosphere in his writing. It’s not even that he never veers from keeping it real, his stories simply read like a rolling ball obeying the psychology of their landscapes. I’m not trying to sound vague and clichéd but they’re just true.

A week before Salinger’s death I coincidently had just finished one of his short novels, Franny and Zooey. Honestly, I picked it up for no more than liking the binding and was feeling Americanly mythic. I was not disappointed – huge concepts moving through precisely written characters, and above all, real.

I was quite friendly with all his characters, but I took a liking to one in particular and relinquished myself to his corner, until he stated in the last ten pages:

“An artist’s only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else’s. You have no right to think about any of those things.”

This argument, of the artist/audience relationship is one I’ve had at great length for some time with friends and myself. Should the artist’s intent recognize its audience? Where’s the edge of allegory?  Is art that doesn’t connect with or ‘move’ its audience, of lesser value than art that does? I kinda think so. Art is a communication. But what does that say about pop music?

Either way, I kinda resented Salinger when I heard his protagonist (who I, perhaps presumably, thought was ‘Salinger’s voice’) utter such a thing with such conviction. “Easy to say from the heights of your already accredited genius and royalty checks old man. External validation is an easy vice to criticize when you got it.”

Anyway a week later when I found out he died, this old literally friend of mine whom I had just had a lover’s spat with, I felt guilty. Salinger was outspoken about his hatred of the critic and their work. And now little old me, as though in some karmic literary review, had finally laid the last straw on the camel’s critical back…and killed him.  Of course that’s just rubbish from my make-believe world.

Now go visit his.