He used to be just a regular writer, when he was home
J.D. Salinger has finally gone where nobody can bother him.
“Catcher in the Rye” may have been the first real book to capture my attention. I had read a ton of crap — both my parents were fiends for education, never having had much themselves, and I had a library card about 30 seconds after exiting the womb. But “Catcher” really spoke to me, as it did to about a jillion other teen-agers who thought they were the only people alive who knew the world was full of phonies, morons, bastards and slobs.
Salinger sent me shambling down the dark alleys of American literature, where I made more strange friends — Jack Kerouac, Ed Abbey, Hunter S. Thompson, Thomas McGuane, Jim Harrison, Jim Dodge and Charles Bukowski. I never really made it back to Main Street.