The worst thing that being an artist could do to you would be that it would make you slightly unhappy constantly. However, this is not a tragic situation, in my opinion. The happiest day of my life was many years ago when I was seventeen.
Salinger in”De Daumer-Smith’s Blue Period.”
Let me tell you a shitty story. I was seventeen, alright. Or eighteen–I barely remember–who remembers age when you feel like an alien inside a human body anyway. I was living and shit. Long story short
life was dumb and I was–
OK. OK. So I read somewhere some quote about Holden Caulfield. I believe it had something to do with acting mature and stuffs, something very relatable to me. It really was. Although now I’m ashamed to admit that. And that he thought everyone was phony. I was like, “Shizz man, this Holden Caulfield is me!” Nevertheless I was a phony too. The phoniest of the phoniests. I read The Catcher in the Rye when I was eighteen–and I was so proud with the fact that I read a classic literature that people of my age barely got their hands on. But it made you feel good, didn’t it? I thought, “Oh I am relatable to Caulfield. I have depression and I think he does too. Why are we so bitter and why do we think that people are phony?”
(As a matter of fact, I didn’t resemble Caulfield at all–I refuse to call him Holden because I have broken up this parasocial relationship ever since, he no longer is my pal–I read The Catcher in the Rye in the morning and evening at the time I commuted. Caulfield wouldn’t have done that–he would’ve observed people and said they were phony. I couldn’t care less about observing people.)
(I would flaunt to everybody that I had read The Catcher in the Rye and that I loved it so much.)
Our desire to be rescued is ridiculous, more so when we wish we were rescued by strangers and overromanticize this entirety of asymmetrical adoration. Two years later, I almost finished Sonny’s ouevre by getting my hands on Franny & Zoeey also Nine Stories. As a matter of fact, I have just finished Nine Stories right now. It was not a cataclysmic magnum opus, but it was perpendicular enough rendering me having an unfathomable desire to call him as I felt he was my friend already. But he’s dead. I think he’s the type of person who didn’t want his grave to be filled with flowers. I no longer felt the sentimentality I had felt when I was reading The Catcher but I was in RANCOR enough to write a letter to him–more like a litany. Wait, an anathema, I suppose:
January 21st 2015
Dear Mr. Salinger,
You may not know me ‘coz you’re dead and I’m still unluckily alive. I just want you to know that I have been your fan for the last two years and I’ve read three of your books that I could get my hands on in my country. They are The Catcher in the Rye, Franny & Zooey, also Nine Stories. I admire your works. They’re effortlessly magnificent. By saying effortless I didn’t intend to overlook your hard work that may not come to my knowledge. It must have been a magnificent affair. Kudos to your success in obfuscating them ‘coz they look so utterly effortless to me.
Upon admiring your works, however, I aspire to inform you that I regret that you drank so much alcohol when you wrote them that you killed the characters off. It made me so mad I wouldn’t mind courtesy in the next paragraph.
How dare you piece of shit play with my feelings. How dare you numb nut build up such tension, make me comfortable with the wordplay, relatable to the characters, and suddenly end the story in such a way that is very shocking and heartbreaking and you CASUALLY jump on to the next piece?!?! How dare you hide beneath the curtain of “short stories” to justify this kind of storytelling. You sonuvabitch are NOT responsible of the feelings invoked inside us. Why were you sack of fart famous, again? Oh, yeah, The Catcher in the Rye where you didn’t end the story responsibly too and you got AWAY with it. Mudafucka was a fucked up writer.
I love this fucked-up writer.
Pardon me and my profanity. I wouldn’t have done so if only you finished the stories responsibly.
However if you did, I wouldn’t have loved you.
There goes the dilemma.
P.S. I wish you all the best in your afterlife affair. P.P.S. No need to reply this letter I’ll just crumble the paper and then post the content on the internet k. P.P.P.S. Do you think there is a slight possibility that Caulfield was a phony too? I mean, phony phony. A phony who is so phony he could distinguish phonies from the sinceres. Also, would you tell if Caulfield would’ve liked me? Platonically, I mean. As a friend. I wanna have a camaraderie with him however he might tell that I am a phony. That kinda intimidates me.