Currently Reading Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction By J. D. Salinger see related

Seymour

No, not Seymour as in "Suddenly Seymour is standing beside you", but Seymour as in the poet-brother of the Salinger who has found a happy home in so may of our hearts. After reading Raise High the Roofbeam, Carpenters and most of Seymour: an introduction (which were penned at different times, hence their separation here), I can't help but feeling like all of this time my long lost writing mentor has been no other but the latter-mentioned Salinger. His longwinded, witty sentences with so many parenthetical asides as to drive one to distraction (and self-pleasing humor that he both mocks and revels in) give me more comfort in both my writing style (and my personal state of being) than any book I've read. Granted, Nabokov works great wonders of the like I could only hope to poorly imitate, and Pierce (yes, I'm discussing my favorite fairy stories in the same sentence as arguably two of the best literary geniuses of all times) weaves tales so delightfully defiant of reality that they've become a part of mine, but J.D. Salinger hits the nail on the head with his admittedly pseudo-rambling style. I've always enjoyed his narrative, especially in the bananafish story and in that one that every one has read with some grain in its title. I feel a connection to his brother as he describes him. I might be his brother, except I feel I am not as intelligent as that young man. I wish I could have met him. I feel that the younger Salinger discussed in this paragraph is more of his brother than he lets on, and would love to be one of those in the number of the three groups that appear at his house. I feel innately connected to him like his commanding officer no doubt did when they found they had the same favorite author or I did when Marci told me on the facebook before we knew each other that she loved Pierce. Perhaps my love of theatre is what attracts me to him, but even if that is the case it only furthers my argument (which I have yet to hint at). Read as much Salinger as you can. There is more truth in what I've read today than in all of the truth surrounding me. Truth, what is truth? Well, Pilot, I only know it when I see it. I cannot define truth anymore than you can truly absolve yourself in the eyes of history.