To be a recluse is not to be known, not to be known of the face or of the mind, of thought, family and belief. To have fame as a recluse surely leads to your enigmatic status. To be famous for being a genius, adored for your writing (not millions of books, but a few select iconic tales) surely leads to public knowledge of your life and world.
To create a literary character that could stand next to Huckleberry Finn or Peter Pan in the fictional hall of fame would lead to global fame and 'cult status'. To identify with generations, to recognise and point out their ales and fears though Holden Caulfield however, enables a quiet voice to be heard from this recluse. It was not that such a man denies his ability or his inspirational thoughts, he simply became sick of seing his own photograph and the banalities associated with such living and reversed slowly out of the limelight and reverred in the murkiness.
To live life with an ironic cynicism eventually leads to an individual life quest that revels in such cynicism. Even to his death, he was more than cynical.
“I hope to hell that when I do die somebody has the sense to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetary. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.”
In truth, J.D. Salinger was what he was, he was himself, judged for it and labled as something else. Whoever he was, he was a literary genius. I may respect his writing but not respect him in fear that its truly not what he wanted.
"Who the hell knows, not me"
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