Goobye, Seymour

Of course I don't know what to say. J.D. Salinger is dead. He died today at 91 years old. Which, is of some if only little conciliation. I'm sad, but I think I would feel much sadder if the author hadn't been trying himself to be dead to the world for the past forty something years.

Salinger was the symbol of heartfelt cynicism as both an author and as a public figure of interest. In his work he represented the rebellion and upset of an age but still imbued it with a sense of moral right and wrong. His characters rejected society because they embraced ethics; because of their own highly sensitive moral codes and compasses.

So much of what Salinger became has been represented by so little. He is a pocket in american history and literary cannon, represented by only what he would allow out into the world. What Salinger accomplished rests on a very small library of books. His death solidifies this fact. His work is a very small pin in the hinge of a very large door. Now, it seems that many an rest assured that that pin has been forged to last and be unaltered. Anything which come now will not be Salinger's. He made his stand all that time ago and choose those parts of it he wanted preserved. I can not imagine a better way to rest in peace.

(Ray, you're really all I have left.)