When J. D. Salinger died two weeks ago, I decided not to write an obit for him, mostly because—I'm sorry; I'm a philistine—I've never felt like
Catcher in the Rye or his Glass family stories were all that great. (Actually, I've always thought his mannered, self-conscious characters were... well, phony.) But I finally got around to reading some of the coverage of his death, and dude, who knew the man was such a skeeze? His
relationships with women were insane, ranging from his
crappy parenting to his deeply messed-up marriage to his ten-month-long affair with Joyce Maynard in 1972 when she was eighteen (and
looked twelve) and he was
fifty-three. (Seriously. She was a teen author for
Seventeen. Where were her parents?)
Anyway, I hope they
do make a
movie of
Catcher in the Rye, and I hope Brett Ratner (ooh, no, Michael Bay!) directs it. Suck on that, ghost of Salinger!
Labels: J.D. Salinger
