A new book offers insights into J.D. Salinger
On D-Day in June 1944, J.D. Salinger landed at Utah Beach with 23,000 other Allied soldiers. They were the lucky ones, as the Germans only lightly defended that stretch of seafront. Some 197 of them were killed or wounded, far less than the 2,400 gunned down at Omaha Beach, five miles away. Still, the trauma of that battle – and gorier ones to come – left deep scars on the budding writer, then 25.
Salinger explored his wounds a bit in “The Magic Foxhole,” an unpublished short story in the archives at the Princeton University Library. In the piece, a chaplain wanders among the dead and wounded on that bloody beach, frantically searching for his eyeglasses. He is shot to death.
“Critics have pointed out the symbolism of God’s messenger finally being killed—the death of God—after searching for the clarity of battle that his eyeglasses might have provided,” Stephen B. Shepard writes in Salinger’s Soul: His Personal and Religious Odyssey.
In Shepard’s superb analysis of this enigmatic and much-read writer, Salinger comes across as something like that fictional chaplain. Spiritually lost and seeking relief amid the ugliness of the world, he wanders about, damaged and confused.
Salinger, for his part, abandoned the religion of his youth, trying to soothe his chronic depression in various Eastern creeds. He ran through a string of wives and lovers. He alienated or cut off friends and family.
It’s no wonder that he lived most of his life in hermitic seclusion on a mountaintop in New Hampshire.
“Passionate yet detached. Raised Jewish, but a practitioner of mystical Hinduism,” Shepard writes about Salinger’s many contradictions. “No sex in his books, but plenty in his life. A great believer in the power of love, but not so ready to give it. An adult with sophisticated views, but a man of arrested development in his romantic interests. A person with ‘a cast-iron ego’ who spent a lifetime seeking solace in God.”
Under Shepard’s unsparing eye in this short but absorbing work of literary analysis and journalism, Salinger emerges as self-centered and selfish, often disloyal, more than a bit creepy, and sometimes quite cruel.
Of course, he gave us memorable characters, most notably Holden Caulfield of The Catcher in the Rye and Franny and Zooey Glass and their family. Indeed, Catcher still sells 200,000 copies a year, totaling 65 million, making it one of the best-selling books of all time. Salinger made the cover of Time in 1961, when Franny and Zooey was published.
But the writer’s life was a mess. To take just one example, Salinger famously seduced an 18-year-old college freshman Joyce Maynard, when he was 53. Then, after living with her for 10 months, he callously dismissed her.
While vacationing with him in Florida, Maynard broached the idea of having children. “I can never have any more children,” the father of two told her. “You better go home now. You need to clear your things out of my house.” He gave her $100 the next morning and put her in a cab to the airport.
Maynard was one of many young women the thrice-married Salinger wooed and won. Each was “in the last minute of her girlhood,” a phrase he memorably wrote in one of his stories
Salinger couldn’t abide pregnancy, it seems, perhaps because it shattered his idealized vision of (or one might say his lechery for) girls on the cusp of adulthood. His marriage to Claire Douglas, whom he had met when she was a high school student and he was in his thirties, ended in 1967, a few years after she gave birth to their second child. Salinger’s sister told his daughter Peggy that Douglas had “a suicidal depression when she realized that her pregnancy only repulsed him.”
Claire couldn’t handle the isolation he imposed on them in their home in rural Cornish, New Hampshire. When their daughter was born, Claire was 22 and he was 37, and he seemed to leave her largely alone, abandoning her to spend his days in a cinderblock writing studio he had built.
“Up by 6:00 AM, he ate breakfast, packed his lunch, then went to his writing bunker, where he worked nonstop—draft after draft—until dinnertime, often returning to his bunker after dinner,” Shepard writes. “He had a phone installed in his bunker, along with an army cot, but made it clear to Claire that he didn’t want to be disturbed for anything less than a dire emergency.”
Salinger racked up a lot of broken relationships, often with people who had helped his career.
As a 20-year-old taking night courses at Columbia University’s School of General Studies, he was mentored by an adjunct professor, Whit Burnett, who cofounded Story magazine and published a few Salinger stories. But, when Burnett ‘s partner in a book imprint, the Lippincott Company, vetoed the idea of publishing a collection of Salinger’s pieces in a book, Salinger blamed the late Burnett and didn’t speak to him for years.
Salinger in 1948 told A.E. Hotchner, an editor at Cosmopolitan, that he planned to submit a story he called “Scratchy Needle on a Phonograph Record” about the death of blues singer Bessie Smith. Sounding much like a prima donna, Salinger said not one word could be changed.
Unbeknownst to Hotchner, however, the title was changed to “Blue Melody.” When Hotchner shared the magazine with him, Salinger blew up, accused the editor of deceit. The late Hotchner never saw him again.
Salinger even became estranged from his only daughter, who described him in a memoir as cold, manipulative and abusive, as Shepard tells us. The father Peggy describes is weird, drinking his own urine and sitting in an “orgone box,” a closet-sized cabinet for storing psychic energy.
Perhaps his driven self-absorption was necessary for Salinger to give us such fascinating and enduring characters. Despite his many successes, he endured a lot of rejections in the competitive post-war publishing world, one dominated by such figures as Ernest Hemingway, whom Salinger befriended in wartime Paris, and Norman Mailer (who dismissed him as “no more than the greatest mind ever to stay in prep school”).
The wartime experiences of both the latter writers – and many others — did much to shape their work. With Salinger, only a modest bit of his combat experiences appears in his fiction. Indeed, as he focused on young fictional characters, he seems to have tried to suppress the ugliness he saw in Europe. Instead, he seemed to immerse himself in imagined youthful innocence, perhaps taking refuge in it.
But the psychic ravages of the war may well be the key to understanding this peculiar man.
After landing on D-Day, Salinger’s regiment fought its way toward a French port city, Cherbourg, Shepard tells us. As the men moved street by street, under German fire the whole way, many were slaughtered. Of some 3,000 of Salinger’s fellow soldiers, only 1,100 remained by the end of June 1944; the rest were killed, wounded or missing. The regiment suffered the highest rate of casualties of any in the war.
Soon after, in January 1945, Salinger fought in the especially ghastly Battle of the Bulge. Then, in April, came what Shepard calls the author’s most devastating wartime experience. He saw the horrors that fleeing Nazis left at a slave labor camp that was a satellite of Dachau. Bodies of Jews, starved or shot, lay about the camp. Others, too sick to leave, were burned to death in their barracks.
“You never really get the smell of burning flesh out of your nose entirely, no matter how long you live,” Salinger told his daughter. He was hospitalized for a time in Germany for combat stress,
Salinger did draw on such wartime experiences in crafting a few of his stories, including one of his most famous, “A Perfect Day for Bananafish.” In it, the fictional Seymour Glass, an ex-sergeant like Salinger, suffers a nervous breakdown and commits suicide.
Of course, Salinger didn’t kill himself. He died in 2010 at 91. At the time, he was married to Colleen O’Neill, whom he had met when she was 22 and he was in his early 60s. They married in 1988, and that marriage endured.
Whether Salinger ever found the personal peace that he thought his Eastern religion, Vedanta, promised is unclear. His son Matt, in a family statement upon his death, said: “Salinger had remarked he was in this world but not of it,” evoking that philosophy.
Matt, a successful actor, has been combing through his father’s unpublished work with an eye toward releasing it in the next couple years. Though he wrote constantly, Salinger didn’t publish anything after 1965, so we may soon see a wealth of material emerge.
Shepard’s work is well-timed to anticipate the flood.
The former longtime editor of BusinessWeek (full disclosure: I worked for him for about 20 years) and the founding dean emeritus of the graduate journalism school at City University, Shepard draws on biographies of Salinger. He also alludes to most of the author’s work, using it to flesh out his personality.
Much about the man still puzzles Shepard. But this reclusive figure who made an enduring mark on American literature has given us all much to puzzle over.