Marilyn Smith

We can’t find our copies of “The Catcher in the Rye.”

I’ve looked throughout the mountain cabin, everywhere that we have books, and that’s every room but the bath and a half. Stan remembers buying the hardback with the red and gold dustcover that’s been showing up on the evening news most of this week since J.D. Salinger died. The hard cover of the book was black. The book is proving to be as elusive as its brilliant author was reclusive. Now, both are gone.

I had a paperback at one time, maroon with gold lettering. Can’t recall if I read it in high school or in Twentieth Century Literature or Major American Writers when I was as Oregon. I do still have Salinger’s three other masterworks in paperback, and under my name in each is the year 1975. Must have been the latter class.

Every year or so, I cull our astounding home library to make room for new books but my Salinger collection always gets to stay. “Franny and Zooey,” “Nine Stories,” and “Raise High the Roofbeam, Carpenters!” are among my life’s treasured possessions. Checking for them tonight, I noted that I paid 75 cents for one, $1.50 for each of the other two.

Why have I kept these tiny slim paperbacks all these years, treating them with such reverence? They are perfect. Their characters — the Glass family, whose children, burdened with genius, were stars of the fictional mid-20th century radio show “It’s a Wise Child” — are unforgettable. I still mourn for sensitive, loving and broken Seymour Glass. Can anyone who has ever read “A Perfect Day for Bananafish” ever forget the story, or Seymour?

Everyone interested in American letters knows that Salinger was a recluse for most of his life and that he was reportedly still writing during those years. What he published during the few years before he closed the door to the world enlightens, enlivens, and haunts us still.

Tweet This Post