So it was only decades later that I even tried to read that book again, after thoroughly enjoying Nine Stories by pure mistake. I had read “Teddy” in some anthology and found it horrifying and humorous. Then someone left Nine Stories at my apartment, probably a girl; it looked like an easy book to read, and you could take it in small bites, so I did. Then I read it again, and again. And, what? – now bananafish are part of my personal aquarium, and dogs pouring dogs into dogs, and the travails of the Glass family skirt my consciousness with similar ocassion as do those of fucked up old friends I can’t forget but never kept track of.
Anyway, all this time, any time I thought about it, or saw another reproduction of that stupid picture of his – always the same one - I knew he’d never show us anything else. I felt like he’d may as well be dead, anyway. He didn’t want to know us, why should I care? Joe fucking Mystery boy, sequestered in his concrete room, burning his masterpieces in the rubbish smolder - good for him! That’s what passes, I guess, for a principled ninety year life these days. “Leave me the fuck alone.” It was a common enough sentiment in the course of my relationships with people throughout life that I really didn’t need to learn it from a great writer, too.
I guess they’ll make a properly fucked up Hollywood movie of that fucking book now, and everyone will jabber about how it never could measure up to the life changing, coming of age epiphany that it was on paper, back when they read it, and how it changed their life, and how it’s just another product now. Good. I can’t wait to rip off the DVD and laugh about the whole ugly mess.
