Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters & Seymour: An Intr… (2024)

In retrospect it's a great shame The Carpenters missed their golden opportunity to release a single called "Raise High the Roof Beam".

When a panoramic awareness of the real face of the world first hits you, it’s paralyzing.

If you manage to find your footing again, it’s - more and more bearably - only a hard struggle; though it gets worse before it gets better. And if you find real, solid happiness in your life after all that, it’s the beginning of your journey’s end, and a Real Blessing - “a crown upon your life’s work.”

For Nature made supreme happiness our natural human goal.

This little review is only about Seymour, and not the other bright Glass kids...

Seymour is trapped right at the outset of that first phase. Like Dante was, in a Dark Wood. For him, panoramic awareness is a curse. And that it in fact is - until you can turn it into a blessing.

But the blessing is stillborn in Seymour, because he buries the curse.

And the Curse - which happened right at the very beginning of things - is the lot of ALL of us whether we know it or not.

Seymour chooses to run away from it! Big mistake... For once the ghost is seen, it will haunt him forever. Until it has been blessed and laid to rest.

And the way it haunts him is all in one word:
Depression.

He says to a little kid playing nearby - Try not to see so clearly! Like he always disconnects his own heightened awareness. But real life is nothing if not a struggle, and that struggle begins with the heightening of awareness. Giving in to Depression, though, is wanting to curl up and die.

Even when God is calling our name!

It’s like it was for Roquentin in Sartre’s Nausea - resistance is futile, the mediocre Shadows say to him on that murky side of life. Or like the inscription says over Dante’s Hell. ‘Give up hope if you come here!’

The Shadows lie.

Hope is the only key to the lock, so use it before night falls - and keep on hoping ever afterwards!

As Paul says, we are saved by Hope. Which is not to say Seymour will not be saved, for hope springs Eternal in the reader who has faith to see such things.

But in the meantime...

Life hurts.

A lot.

Poor, poor Seymour.

If Seymour had a chance to have that hurt assuaged by Love, perhaps he could keep up the struggle.

But then - none of us knows What Dreams May Come.

Though that ignorance is itself partially a Blessing.

I think that with this book I finished reading about the Glass family, and I’m not going to lie, that knowledge makes me want to go outside, lay on the ground, and wait for the earth to take me.

Or at the very least reread Franny and Zooey, and then reread Nine Stories, and then reread this, in an unending loop until eventually I get sick of them and then can go on with my life unemotionally.

(I don’t think I could ever get sick of them but it’s an optimistic thought.)

I would have loved these stories of this family no matter what, I think - I mean, it’s hardly a unique trait to be an English major with a fondness for Franny and Zooey - it’s referenced in Caroline Kepnes’ You, for god’s sake - maybe I’ll just make this entire review a series of clauses bracketed by dashes until everyone unfollows me - but I was extra destined to love them, because I read them alongside one of my favorite people. I will always have affection for this family and these stories and Salinger, and more so because of the wonderful memories I have of reading them, and the time in my life when I was doing so.

AND THAT MAKES IT EXTRA SAD THAT NOW I’M DONE.

My heart actually hurts.

I love this family so much, and I love their stories, and these two additions are equally as lovely.

The first story, Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters, is a top to bottom delight. (Also, in the interest of full discretion: until I actually opened this book I did not realize that the title was two separate story titles. I have no excuse for this, considering Franny and Zooey is the exact same thing, but here we are.)

Seymour: An Introduction, counterintuitively, for me started out tiresome and got less and less so. Really in the end I caught myself thinking “oh, to be such a wonderful person that a story like this is written about you,” and the fact that Seymour is fictional seemed nearly beside the point.

The Glass family is very real to me.

Bottom line: What I wouldn’t give to go back to reading Franny and Zooey for the first time.

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there's not enough Salinger in the WORLD, honey!

review to come / between 4 and 4.5 stars

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i'm sad and i'm going to read Salinger until i feel better

Buddy Glass, el segundo de los hermanos de esa familia prodigiosa de la que Salinger escribió en varias de sus obras sin llegar a crear la gran novela americana que podrían haber protagonizado, es el narrador de estas dos historias, el alter ego del autor, el que, tal como se sugiere en el segundo de los relatos aquí incluidos, escribiera algo así como “El guardián entre el centeno” en el que un adolescente vive con dolor la muerte prematura de un hermano. Aquí también hay un hermano en el centro de ambos relatos, vivo y a punto de casarse en la primera de las historias y muerto por suicidio a los pocos años de matrimonio en la segunda (y de cuya muerte también escribió en uno de los maravillosos nueve cuentos que lleva por título “Un día perfecto para el pez plátano”).

En ambos relatos, Seymour, que así se llama el hermano, se haya ausente: en el de su boda porque no se presenta, con el consiguiente cabreo de los familiares y amigos de la novia, y por razones obvias en el segundo. En ambos es considerado por Buddy como el gran genio de una familia que se caracteriza por la singularidad de todos sus miembros, y no solo por su trabajo como poeta sino por su propia vida, por su calidad como ser humano, por su espiritualidad, muy zen.

“… podría admitir probablemente que rara vez ha habido un momento en que no haya escrito sobre él, y si bajo amenaza de muerte tuviera que sentarme mañana a escribir un cuento sobre un dinosaurio, no me cabe duda de que sin quererlo daría a la gran bestia una o dos características que recordaran a Seymour…”

El segundo relato es muy diferente. Buddy, que está seleccionando poemas del hermano para su publicación, nos hace de él un retrato caótico a las maneras de un Thomas Bernhard amable, obsesionado y enamorado de su personaje. Seymour, como el protagonista más famoso de Salinger, Holden Caulfield, es un inadaptado que no soporta los convencionalismos, las hipocresías, los acuerdos a los que hay que llegar para una convivencia que acaba siendo deprimente por falsa. Un ser paradójico que parece no poder lidiar con la felicidad, que de chico descalabró a una niña por la simple razón de que verla le pareció hermosísimo, o que se creía una especie de paranoico al revés, “Sospecho que la gente conspira para hacerme feliz”.

“Seymour dijo en una oportunidad que todo lo que hacemos en la vida es ir de un pedazo de Tierra Santa a otro.”

Anyone who read my review of Salinger's "Nine Stories" knows I love this man's work to death. I've read and enjoyed "Catcher in the Rye" and "Franny and Zooey" a whole hell of a lot too. I picked this up with a heart filled with admiration and optimism. Well that optimism was dashed upon the rocks of Salinger's self-indulgence and apparent disregard for his readers.

This book compiles two short stories first published in the New Yorker and are the final two entries in Salinger's Glass family saga. "Raise High the Roofbeams, Carpenters" focuses on Buddy Glass and his trip to his brother Seymour's wedding. "Seymour: an Introduction" again finds Buddy downstage center and is his way of coming to terms with his brother's memory through literature.

Like "Franny and Zooey" we are served up first a good story followed by a not so good story. However where "Zooey" was rambling and a tad unfocused it was at least a short story. "Seymour" on the other hand is a goddamned mess. It reads like the notes an author would take down before actually starting the job of composition. For every sentence of quality and clarity there seem to be pages upon pages of self-indulgent masturbation. This makes for an interminable and ultimately frustrating read.

It's starts off promisingly though. "Raise High the Roofbeams..." is a delight. It is a comically poignant trip into the past. Buddy Glass getting over a bout of pleurisy in the camp hospital must get to New York and be the only family member at his brother Seymour's wedding. What follows is typical Seymour not to mention Salinger. As usual the characters are so well observed and vividly presented we can practically smell them. There is the usual masterful blending of the serious and the comic. Salinger doesn't so much write a story as create a world that he allows us to visit for a spell.

The greatest reward of course is getting to spend a few more moments with a member of the Glass family. In reading over all of Salinger's writing in the last few months I've become almost as obsessed with reading about them as Salinger is writing about them. That's why I thought despite warnings that I could indeed read and enjoy "Seymour." However it's total disregard for it's readers enjoyment almost dispelled the warm glow I felt after reading "Raise High the Roofbeams..."

So unless you have absolutely nothing better to read or do and you are a completist avoid "Seymour" like grim death.

Raise High the Roof Beam, J.D. Salinger

Like many of the other Glass family stories, Raise High is narrated by Buddy Glass, the second of the Glass brothers. It describes Buddy's visit on Army leave (during World War II, in 1942) to attend the wedding of his brother Seymour to Muriel and tells of the aftermath when Seymour fails to show. The events set the stage for Seymour's suicide in 1948.

Seymour is described through the eyes of Buddy and through those of the would-be wedding's attendants. Included is the Matron of Honor, a loud and burly woman whom Buddy meets in a car leaving the site of the wedding. The other passengers (who include the Matron of Honor's husband Robert; Muriel's father's deaf-mute uncle; and a middle-aged woman named Helen Silsburn) spend most of the car ride unaware of Buddy's family relation to the missing groom.

عنوانها: «بالا بلندتر از هر بلند بالایی»؛ «تیرهای سقف را بالا بگذارید، نجاران و سیمور»؛ نویسنده: جروم دیوید (جی. دی.) سالینجر؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش روز پانزدهم ماه ژوئن سال 2008میلادی

عنوان: بالا بلندتر از هر بلند بالایی؛ نویسنده: جروم دیوید (جی. دی.) سالینجر؛ مترجم: شیرین تعاونی (خالق)؛ تهران، نیلوفر، 1380، در 122ص؛ چاپ دوم 1381؛ چاپ سوم 1387؛ چاپ چهارم 1391؛ شابک 9644481739؛ موضوع: داستانهای نویسندگان امریکایی - سده 20م

عنوان: تیرهای سقف را بالا بگذارید، نجاران و سیمور؛ نویسنده: جروم دیوید (جی. دی.) سالینجر؛ مترجم: امید نیک فرجام؛ تهران، ققنوس، 1382؛ در 206ص؛ چاپ دوم 1382؛ چاپ سوم 1383؛ چاپ چهارم 1385؛ چاپ پنجم 1386؛ چاپ ششم 1388؛ چاپ هفتم 1390؛ چاپ هشتم 1393؛ شابک 9789643114206؛

تیرهای سقف را بالا بگذارید، نجاران و سیمور؛ عنوان کتابی از «جروم دیوید سلینجر» است؛ هر دو بخش از عنوان کتاب، اشاره به دو بخش متفاوت از شعری دارند، که در داستان نخست بیان می‌شود: «رفیع‌تر افرازید شاه‌ تیر سقف را، که می‌آید داماد، چونان آرشی افراشته‌ قد، بالابلندتر از هر بلندبالایی»؛ از برگردان بانو: شیرین تعاونی

در سال 1386هجری خورشیدی نیز این کتاب با عنوان «تیرهای سقف را بالا بگذارید نجاران و سیمور: پیشگفتار»، توسط جناب: «امید نیک‌فرجام» به فارسی برگردان، و توسط نشر ققنوس، چاپ شده‌ است.؛ در سال 1380هجری خورشیدی، تنها داستان نخست مجموعه، با عنوان: «بالابلندتر از هر بلندبالایی»، با برگردان بانو «شیرین تعاونی»، توسط انتشارات نیلوفر منتشر شده‌ است، که روایت روز عروسی «سیمور و موریل»، و ماجرای غیبت داماد در مراسم، از زبان «بادی گلَس» است.؛ «سالینجر» در این کتاب، به شخصیت «سیمور»، پسر بزرگ خانواده ی «گلَس»؛ برادر بزرگ «زویی و فرانی» می‌پردازند.؛ روایت از زبان «بادی»، برادر کوچکتر «سیمور» است.؛ تنهایی و انزواطلبی «سیمور»، یادآور تنهایی «سالینجر» است، و در: «پیشگفتار» به روشنی «سالینجر» در اینباره سخن می‌گویند

تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 30/05/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی

when i find myself in times of trouble...i read another book by j.d. salinger😔😉

There were times when I was reading this book that I wondered whether or not I should reconsider Salinger as my favorite author. I mean, these stories are all over the place... but then I realized why I love him so much. Salinger does not write "skim-worthy" sentences. I really feel like the depth of his writing cannot be grasped if a person is not reading them with the utmost concentration. His short stories (Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and others I have read) seem, more or less, useless. In terms of a specific story, they are. But it's what a person gains from them, the thoughts that are provoked, that is crucial. Additionally, Seymour, an Introduction, was basically Salinger rambling on aimlessly about his brother. But it really made me consider the depth of his love, the tragedy of his death, the words and thoughts that Buddy Glass used years after the death... it was provoking and I found that I dog-eared a number of corners because a specific sentence or paragraph really called to me. I greatly admire Salinger's writing and am glad I completed this book.

"This is too grand to be said (so I’m just the man to say it), but I can’t be my brother’s brother for nothing, and I know – not always, but I know – there is no single thing I do that is more important than going into that awful Room 307. There isn’t one girl in there, including the Terrible Miss Zabel, who is not as much my sister as Boo Boo or Franny. They may shine with the misinformation of the ages, but they shine. This thought manages to stun me: There’s no place I’d really rather got right now than into Room 307. Seymour once said that all we do our whole lives is go from one little piece of Holy Ground to the next. Is he never wrong?
Just go to bed, now. Quickly. Quickly and slowly.”

Yesterday I went to the public library after work to read. I sometimes like to read there because it is a way to be around other people and not be around other people. When I'm too socially anxious but too sad to just give up and be alone this is a good and helpful thing for me to do. I wrote about this in another review but I can't remember if it was one I ended up posting to goodreads. It is my life anyway. Open the pages and hope this time I'll fit. Anyway, I read Salinger's Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters & Seymour: An Introduction that I hadn't read since I was a teenager (the first time I was probably locked in my room while listening to The Cure). That hadn't been the plan (I'm currently reading more than a few other books). Maybe my mind was doing something good for me because I think it helped.

Did anyone else ever get a sad out of place feeling from the Glass family? From The Catcher in the Rye, also? Now I don't care at all about the wedding party and their totally self unaware presumptions on the brother of the bridegroom they announce as a despicable human being. I am not worried that I would be as they are. I guess my library trick isn't too far away from Buddy's leaping into a car full of strangers headed to some place he doesn't belong (the apartment of his sister-in-law's parents) because he is lonely. I'm not worried about that, though. It's like when I vow to stop talking this time absolutely for good and when I forget how wretched I feel for talking I start talking again kind of impermanent damage. Those kinds of awkward experiences can be forgotten about if you go to the movies or manage to take a nap. It feels like a different day. Buddy will not be stuck in that car forever. The stage play of the wedding after party will change into another memory. I wouldn't worry about not being good enough for them, now. Muriel learned, to her fiance Seymour's dismay, to disuse her natural vocabulary of "cute". I feel closer to her estrangement when her husband cannot speak in her language, or rather she cannot trust that he does or doesn't hear her when she doesn't know what she wants. But I wasn't worried about that either. Muriel is a stranger to me and I'm not worried. I'm not worried about tanned faces and asking for your husband's mail in a vacation hotel and is that all there is to life, and if that's all they want out of life is that all there is going to be of my life. I'm not that bothered about it, anymore. Seymour knows his brother Buddy enough to know that he would despise of Muriel's reason to live. This is closer but also not it. You can't sleep away this disconnection. My anxiety and sadness about the Glass family is that there will never be another Seymour, Buddy, Boo Boo, Franny and Zooey. Buddy has Seymour always. He doesn't have Seymour any longer. Seymour killed himself. It was in another story. Seymour the genius and Seymour the best of them all. Seymour is the Glass sky ceiling. Seymour is the O-zone layer protection. I think about them like going into the world and you will never meet anyone you love as much. The last line in Seymour: An Introduction that I quote in the beginning of this review made me feel a lot better. I had forgotten all about that. If he meant it. I think he did. Will he continue to mean it? What if you don't have that family and you can never have that family because everyone else already has a Seymour, Buddy, Boo Boo, Franny and Zooey?

This is what I had remembered about this book: Seymour the poet. Of all that stayed in my mind fingertips it was Seymour writing his haiku poems. I thought some times about how the Japanese masters didn't need to use italics. I remember thinking some low self esteem thing that I'd never be able to communicate without the visual stress. I wondered how it would feel to be happy when writing as Buddy was. I remember Buddy with his shield of defense against those who would argue against their authenticity, those haiku poems of Seymour's that were all double haikus. Since reading Nabokov's Speak, Memory I'm thinking a lot about his idea that it is all positional. "The arms of consciousness reach out and grope, and the longer they are the better. Tentacles, not wings, are Apollo's natural members." Buddy writes that we only have three or four truly indispensable poets. He doesn't say which they are so no one could argue that he left so and so off. Four? Only four? I remembered how he wanted to tell the wedding party in "Raise high" that his brother could never have written a word and he would meet you with himself as the poetry. That's the positional. He is positioned in his family. It was a place anywhere else that wasn't helped. I envy Buddy for his ceiling of Seymour but it also makes me sad. Was he going to reach for anything else or would it always be the first family corner? I'm relieved that it isn't the sadness that I was afraid of having of not being good enough. Whatever he says about only four. He is a man missing his brother and he wishes that he was a man who came at you as himself as poetry.

How could I have forgotten the nine stitches? One of the women (I don't have the book with me and I have already forgotten her name) mentions that Seymour (she overhears Muriel's mother saying this) that Seymour hit Muriel and she had to get nine stitches. When they were on their child genius radio show they were on the child genius radio show with another little girl, chosen by Seymour himself, who was not to Buddy's mind all that brilliant but a fine singer. Seymour threw a rock at Charlotte Mayhew the fine singer who was good looking. She had to have nine stitches. He threw himself in the rock, is my feeling, helpless to another reaction for what he was feeling. I imagine the foot stamping delight in being on the show together, to be "on" for her, ended with the rock.

Another thing I don't care about that I imagine I probably did when I was younger was that radio program genius thing. Something about people being smarter than they should be at an age when I didn't feel up to the task of where I already was. Now I don't care about Franny feeling like she could fly. I used to jump off the tops of dressers when I was a little girl, flapping my arms in flight. No light bulb dust on my fingers. I flew when I kept believing that I could. It was a lonely feeling when Boo Boo longs to see Franny when she hears her on the radio. Someone was moved by her dreams. What was it like to have someone care about your dreams that way? That's a foreign feeling. It's kind of sad and I wish I had a rock.

Seymour left a poem before he dies about a man on a plane and across the aisle is a little girl. This little girl has a friend who is a doll. The girl turns her friend's face to look at the man.
I have this fear of not being seen, of having no response... It is an unsettling image this girl with her doll who stares. It would be bad enough to be looked at by the girl, or just the doll. The girl pointing the doll to look is upsetting. I hope that never happens to me in a wrong kind of a mood. I would have to do something to make me feel like it had never happened or it would bother my mind too much. I can see that upsetting someone like Seymour to have to write about it, if it happened or not (Buddy thinks it didn't and Boo Boo believes it did). The writing about it is making it happen and if that's the response... I wouldn't want to be Buddy even when he is helplessly happy in a sitting room with his fiance and her mother. There's something about both Buddy and Seymour that unsettled me. It's the precocious aspect that is rooted in someone very young with a promise of something that is going to happen. In For Esme, with Love and Squalor collection they both make friends with these girls. I always wondered what would happen if the pleasure wasn't in the surprise of hearing what you didn't expect to hear out of someone you didn't expect to hear it from. Seymour could be kinder, such as finding Muriel's mother brave to live in her small world without imagination, and he doesn't even mean it condescendingly to pity her. I wonder what would have happened to them if they didn't have a ceiling to meet up against? No expectation of company to expect to hear from? I hope Buddy meant it that he wanted to see those girls in his class room and find someone else to hear from that wasn't his family. It would be sad to live life like someone who stopped enjoying music past the age of seventeen. Nothing ever sounded good again, and they keep playing the same hits and each time the newness gets less. Oh yeah, I felt better because I hoped that holy ground could be found again in new experiences. That you don't have to feel sad like you can't be like family with all new people because you aren't new anymore.

I'll try to remember Seymour coming at people as a poem and those nine stitches this time because I feel helpless for the right reaction and the right words when I see something that makes me feel small. Why do I feel small? I guess I'll probably think about Muriel and Seymour together because there's a small feeling between them too. I'm a little creeped out that they would need each other's grace that way. It wasn't that way within the Glass family. At least not in the untouchable past, where they would never stop loving each other.

I looked at other reviews of this book a minute ago. I guess other people on goodreads didn't think about Seymour's poetry as much as I did. I wonder if that means that others didn't feel like throwing rocks at beauty too. I always felt ugly. If it was a game of rock, paper, scissors I'd be missing the paper and my pen would have been less mighty than my knife. I wonder if Seymour would have felt differently if he had had a Seymour like Buddy had him. Someone to look up to, maybe, so you could feel like at least someone knew what to say.

В этой повести показан самый счастливый день в жизни Симура – день его бракосочетания на горячо любимой им Мюриэль. Горячо настолько, что он счастья он не явился на собственную свадьбу. Казалось бы анекдотичный момент, и он, скорее всего быстро выветрился из памяти, ибо жених нашелся, бракосочетание состоялось, и родственники остались напиваться, в то время как жених с невестой уехали. Но брат Симура Бадди оговаривается, что в 1948 году Симур выстрелил себе в висок, и на нас ниспровергается прозрение, ах вот кто стрелялся в «Хорошо ловится рыбка-бананка»! Но почему же, мысленно восклицает читатель? Да, любовь была и есть. А дело, мне кажется, в большой разнице в ценностях, большой настолько, что люди становятся чужими. Глассы – умные ребята, их родители актеры, чтобы покрывать расходы на учебу все дети участвовали в шоу «Умный ребенок», приходилось соответствовать. Симур был самым успешным в этом шоу. Нельзя сказать, чтобы семья невесты была необразованна. Нет. Невестина подружка описала миссис Феддер, что та преподавала, работала в газете и прочла все книжки на свете. Она, разумеется утрирует, и мы не знаем, какие книги она читала. Но все же семья невесты же была самой обычной семьей, в которой ценятся, ка�� и везде, материальное благополучие в первую очередь (здесь так же показательна миссис Феддер, которая все делала сама, и платья шила, и готовила, «как Бог», и хозяйство вела, не говоря уж про привычку красть спички у знакомых, чтобы сократить расходы). Для нее было важно, чтобы все было, как у людей. Любовь тоже важна для Мюриэль, но через другую призму. Это словно бы смотреть на мир через разные линзы. И эта искажающая линза или призма, называйте, как хотите, – материальное благополучие. «То, что она ждет от брака, и нелепо и трогательно. Она хотела бы подойти к клерку в каком-нибудь роскошном отеле, вся загорелая, красивая, и спросить, взял ли ее супруг почту. Ей хочется покупать занавески. Ей хочется покупать себе платья «для дамы в интересном положении». Ей хочется, сознает она это или нет, уйти из родительского дома, несмотря на привязанность к матери. Ей хочется иметь много детей - красивых детей, похожих на нее, а не на меня» Вот как понимает любовь и семейное счастье Мюриэль. Бу-бу сразу определила, что невеста – «пустое место», так и назвав ее в своем письме к Бадди. Противоречия и неподходящесть жениха и невесты были видны невооруженным глазом, что будущая теща настояла на посещении Симуром психоаналитика, чтобы тот стал более похожим на нормальных людей.
Симор же совершенно не такой. Он летает в идеалистических пред��тавлениях. Накануне свадьбы, он заявляет, что слишком счастлив, потому венчаться не может и ему нужно успокоиться. Бадди рассказывает гостям со стороны невесты, что «с десяти лет Симора обсуждали все, от дипломированных Мыслителей и до Интеллектуальных служителей мужских уборных по всем штатам», что Симор «ненавидел выставляться» и «не задирал нос оттого, что у него способности выше среднего». Симор был поэт, «понимаете, настоящий поэт». И все же он был немного ненормальный. Станет ли нормальный человек, погрузившийся в глубины дзен-буддизма, говорить на полном серьезе с матерью будущей невесты концептами этого самого дзен-буддизма? Зачем говорить, что хочет стать «дохлой кошкой»? Не зная легенды, любой человек подумает что угодно. При том, что он сам же ставит ей диагноз: «Она человек, навекли лишенный всякого понимания, всякого вкуса к главному потому поэзии, который пронизывает все в мире. Неизвестно зачем такие живут на свете». Я отвечу, ради благ.
«Постигая сущность, он забывает несущественные черты; прозревая внутренние достоинства, он теряет представление о внешнем. Он умеет видеть то, что нужно видеть, и не замечать ненужного. Он смотрит туда, куда следует смотреть, и пренебрегает тем, что смотреть не стоит. Мудрость Гао столь велика, что он мог бы судить и о более важных вещах, чем достоинства лошадей.» Вот, кто был Симор. И ему досталось несчастье полюбить красивую, земную женщину Мюриэль. Он не мог убить ее, он убил себя.
Повесть "Симур:Введение" - это своего рода некролог, только очень личный. Это психологический и литературный портрет.

Αγαπώ τον Σάλιντζερ. Το ξέρετε γιατί το έχω γράψει τόσες φορές πια που πρέπει να σας έχω κουράσει. Στο τελευταίο του λοιπόν βιβλίο νιώθω οτι πλησίασε πραγματικά την τελειότητα (και ύστερα αποσύρθηκε). Και οι δύο νουβέλες αφορούν τον μεγάλο αδερφό της οικογένειας Γκλάς, τον Σέυμουρ (και υπόγεια, σχεδόν μυστικά αποκαλύπτουν πράγματα και για τον Μπάντυ). Στην πρώτη νουβέλα ο Σέυμουρ είναι απών στον ίδιο του το γάμο και χάρη στο μπέρδεμα που προκαλείται τέσσερα άτομα θα βρεθούν, μαζί και ο Μπάντυ να συζητούν και να προσπαθούν να καταλάβουν τι πήγε στραβά. Μονο που ο Μπάντυ δεν συζητά, παρατηρεί μονο γιατί ξέρει οτι κανείς δεν πρόκειται να καταλάβει τον αδερφό του.Υπεκφεύγει, κρύβεται και νιώθει οικειότητα με τον τέταρτο της παρέας ενα χαρούμενο κωφάλαλο γεράκο. Ισώς γιατί εκείνος δεν πρόκειται να κατακρίνει ή να σχολιάσει το παραμικρό για τον αδερφό του. Το οτι επιλέγει ένα κωφάλαλο δεν είναι τυχαίο. Ίσως με προφανή τρόπο ο Σάλιντζερ αναδεικνύει για άλλη μια φορά τις προβληματικές σχέσεις και την απώλεια ουσιαστικής επικοινωνίας.

Το πρόβλημα εντείνεται στην δεύτερη νουβέλα συνειδησιακής ροής όπου όλα μοιάζουν αυθόρμητα και γνήσια και την ίδια στιγμή τοσο προσεκτικά τοποθετημένα. Ο Μπάντυ προσπαθεί να φτιάξει, να περιγράψει το πορτραίτο του αποθανόντος αδερφού του μα οι λέξεις μοιάζουν λίγες. Την ίδια στιγμή μαθαίνουμε πράγματα και γι τον ιδιο καθώς βλέπουμε τα πράγματα απο μια συγκριτική σκοπιά. Και παρόλο που προσπαθεί να ξεφύγει απο αυτό, ο ιδιος ο αδερφός του σε ένα παλιό γράμμα του λέει οτι η ατομικότητα του καθενός αρχίζει εκεί που ξεκινάει ο στενός σύνδεσμός που έχουν μεταξύ τους. Είναι τοσο γλυκό και τρυφερό να βλέπεις τον Μπάντυ να προσπαθεί να περιγράψει τον αγαπημένο του αδερφό που τοσο θαύμαζε. Άλλες φορές γίνεται γλυκόπικρο, γεμάτο χιούμορ και ειρωνεία απέναντι στα πάντα (κυρίως τους λογοτεχνικούς κύκλους, την ψυχανάλυση, την φιλοσοφία του Ζεν κλπ.). Η αναρχία που επικρατεί στο μυαλό και στην ψυχή του Μπάντυ είναι πολύ πιο αποκαλύπτικη απο ίσως ένα εθύγραμμο πορτραίτο γεμάτο τάξη. Γιατί θα έμοιαζε φτιαχτό και οχι γνήσιο και ειλικρινές. Και με αυτό που μένουμε είναι με αποσπασματικά μικρά θαύματα που αφορούν τη ζωή τους. Στον πυρήνα των παιδιών θαυμάτων δεν υπάρχουν βιβλία, μελέτες, ταλέντα ή οτι άλλο αλλα η ιδιαίτερη σχέση και η αγάπη που τους δένει. Είναι ίσως η πολυτιμότερη ιστορία για την αδερφική αγάπη και συντροφικότητα (πνευματική ή οτι άλλο) έχω διαβάσει.

خود داستان عالی بود. بی‌نقص بود. در جزییات و نشونه‌ها و پایان‌بندی و شخصیت‌پردازی و دیالوگ، آی چی کار نشی سلینجر. داستان برمی‌گرده به مراسم ازدواج سیمور و خانمش و فلش‌بک‌هایی راوی می‌زنه که هم شخصیت سیمور رو توجیه می‌کنه، همم خونواده‌شو معرفی می‌کنه. همه رو. اونقد بی‌نقص این کار رو می‌کنه که انگار داره داستان یکی از فامیل‌های خودشون رو تعریف می‌کنه. درین حد براش طبیعیه. درین حد شخصیت‌ها زنده‌ان، هرچند اصلاً عادی نیستن. ولی با چیزهایی قاطی‌شون کرده که ما رو قانع کنه. روابط بچه‌ها با هم اونقد جذابه که می‌خوای هی داستان ازشون بخونی.

یه ستاره کم می‌دم برا اون پیشگفتاره. این‌قد حرف می‌زد که نمی‌فهمیدم چی می‌گه! مثلاًَ از کلش شاید چار پنج پاراگراف رو فهمیدم چی می‌گه! ولی نگاه اونم جالب بود. اینکه اومده بود سیمور رو واکاوی و حتی یه جاهایی نقدش کرده بود. من فکر می‌کردم زویی خیلی پرت و پلاگوئه، بعد یادم افتاد توی فرنی و زویی، زویی هم پرت و پلاگوئه همم بدش نمی‌آد ادای بادی رو درآره. به‌خصوص جایی که واقعاًَ اداشو درمی‌آره. :دی و اینجا ما واقعاًَ بادی حراف رو داریم که می‌خوای یه وقتایی دستتو بذاری روی دهنش و بگی حاجی تو رو خدا اینقد آسمون ریسمون نباف. بعد درست لحظه‌ای که داری کلافه می‌شی، می‌فهمی داشته یه حرف مهم می‌زده و می‌شینی سرجات.

آقاسلینجر خیلی چاکریم. :))

yükseltin tavan kirişini ustalar için kurşun atar kurşun yerim. bakınız böyle kamyon arkası yazısı gibi değerlendirme yazacak kadar bayıldım. seymour: bir giriş’in hakkını tam olarak veremediğiminse farkındayım. birkaç yıl sonra tekrar dönmek üzere, sevgiler.

Okay, I'll never be able to be partial when it comes to Salinger - merely stopping myself from raving is hard enough. However, these two novellas constitute for me (and I'm sure I'm far from alone in this) a mystical experience: they're part of what, to me, defines holiness. It's not easy, this sort of writing, no matter how deceptively it mimics a stream-of-consciousness rant: I am convinced Salinger toiled over every single word, so as to create this rambling sort of mantra. Schubert can be like that as well - he can throw so much beauty at you, he can meander endlessly all over the stave just because he can't let go, not yet, and that's why his String Quintet (also a religious experience for me, a sort of Horcrux) isn't as popular as it ought to be: many people just find him tiresome. But just as poor Schubert composed for no one at all, just to make his life a tiny bit more bearable, so did, in all likelihood, Salinger plunge into this often unbearable stream of words and saved himself another day. (And here comes the embarrassing part, which I cannot avoid: I spent nearly eighteen months translating this book into Greek; in the midst of working on the first novella, I suffered a psychotic attack and had to be hospitalized - and then I returned to the text almost a broken man, or one barely holding his brokenness together. I could never do it justice, of course, perhaps no one could, but still, this lovely, painfully lovely book, was a big part of the restorative process. You the man, Jerry, you the man.)

October 2009

So basically, I’m waiting for Salinger to die.

I don’t mean that maliciously. Really. I bear no ill will towards the man, and I’d wish him a long and pleasant life as a hermit, full of good health and completely lacking in the company of stupid humans--except, well, he’s already had his. The old man is ninety, slowly doddering his way to ninety-one. Hasn’t published in decades. No one’s seen him in years; he doesn’t even yell at those durn kids to get off his lawn because then people would know where he lives. Heck, he might have another ten years in him. Or he could die tomorrow, in which case this whole review would be really tasteless. So let me make this clear: I don’t want Salinger to die. I’m just waiting for him to do so.

But I digress. Thing is, I never read Salinger before this year. Although I went through my own Angsty Teenager Phase back in high school, I somehow missed reading

This brings me back to Salinger’s eventual death. Why do I bring this up? Simple: in my curiosity about Salinger and my interest in his reclusive, hermit-like, hasn’t-published-anything-since-the-Sixties existence, the reason I’m thinking about his completely natural and far-future demise is this: all of Salinger’s other stories will get published. Simple as that. Soon as the old man goes up to that big field of rye in the sky, his family will descend like vultures on his cell/cave/underground bunker, tear through every safe, and publish every scrap of work the man has written, but not published, since 1965. And the paranoid in me, the conspiracy theorist, believes that J. D. Salinger really does have a dozen or so safes full of sequels to

Of course, this is the part of me that also suspects Harper Lee of having written a dozen other novels, locked away, never to be published with

And let’s face it: it would be interesting to see them. It would be nice to see

But I digress, again--and I probably sound a bit pretentious there, thinking I can judge Salinger’s existing work. I don’t even like his work; I’m clearly a crude and unsophisticated little turd, so who am I to say anything about the man? What a phoney. But whatever. When Salinger dies, in 2024, at the ripe old age of 105, perhaps I’ll have repented and learned to love his work like I clearly should. When that happens, I’ll be the first to read

Edit--1/28/2010: Salinger died last night. I wrote this review three months ago. You can't prove anything!

نکته ای که من درک نمیکنم تلاش نویسنده های امروز بر اسرار امیز و مبهم نشان دادن زندگی فردی خود است, یکی در کلبه ای خود را حبس میکند,گویی ارتعاشات انسان های عادی مثل ما الهاماتی که به وی می رسد را در نوشتن رمان هایی با شخصیت های مقوا مختل میکند,دیگری چیز هایی راجب خود میگوید که حقیقت ندارد..
ندیدیم که مثلا چخوف یا داستایوفسکی به این موش و گربه بازی ها بپردازند یا که سعی کنند رابینسون کروزو ی ادبی باشند ,به اصطلاح شهرت گریز و زاهد بنظر بیایند(در حقیقت اما سطحی و متظاهر) تا که در نهایت از جزیره شان هر ده پانزده سال یک کتاب عمیقا معمولی بیرون دهند..
صرفا میتوان گفت که چخوف و داستایوفسکی ها مشکلات واقعی داشته اند و نویسندگان واقعی بوده اند...اینها اما پوشالی اند چه در نوشته چه در سبک زندگی...

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به سلینجر احترام میذارن و اسرار امیز میدوننش چرا که در انزوا زندگی میکنه
''برای من این موضوع بی اهمیته
به اثار سلینجر به عنوان دغدغه انسان مدرن,به عنوان ترکیبی از فلسفه و عرفان نگاه میکنند
''برای من تنها نوشتن انگاره های یک ذهن نه چندان خلاقه..
به شخصیت پردازی سلینجر..سیمور,فرنی,زویی وسایر افراد خانواده ساختگی گلس اشاره میکنن..شاهکار و جاویدان میدونن
''برای من جز شخصیت ها مقوایی و بیش از حد self involvedیی بیش نیستن..که هرگز قلم هیچکدوم من رو نگرفت..حتی لحظه ای..
برای من دلیل محبوبیت سلینجر,امریکا س,رمان منطبق بر رویای امریکایی و پروپاگاندای همراه هر چیزیه که دو حرف UوSرو یدک میکشه..
هیچ دغدغه واقعی,حتی هیچ سیر تفکر قدرتمندی رو ندیدم در قلم سلینجر..شخصیت ها میخوان بزور استفراغ کنن که پیچیده یا باهوشن..
برای من نیستند.
.
پ.ن:قبل از اینکه دوستانی تذکر بدن من این رو درک نکردم,باید بگم که قوای درک من در همه شرایط یکسانه,همانطور که در لذت بردن من از اثار عمیق و استخوان دار دنیا شکی نیست,در این مورد هم شکی نیس که انتقاد من دانسته و از ذهن برامده وارد شده.

این ریویو به مناسب سومین باری که این کتاب را از قفسه انتخاب می‌کنم، مشغول خواندن‌اش می‌شوم و بعد از بستن‌اش احساس می‌کنم هیچ کتاب بهتری را نمی‌توانستم انتخاب کنم. تصویر تکه‌تکه و مخدوش سیمور که در این کتاب و از نگاه بهترین راوی خانواده‌ی گلس یعنی بادی، کامل می‌شود، یکی از بهترین کارهای سلینجر است. البته من کمی برایم سخت است که فکر کنم این کتاب را سلینجر نوشته. خیلی به بادی جان بخشیده‌ام و گاهی حتی وقتی کتاب را می‌بندم از اینکه روی جلد کتاب اسم بادی نیامده تعجب می‌کنم. برای چند لحظه. بعد یادم می‌آید شت، همه‌ی این‌ها مخلوق سلینجر هستند و یک حالی می‌شوم. به قول هولدن کافیلد (مخلوق دیگری از همین آقای سلینجر) این کتاب از آن کتاب‌هایی است که وقتی تمام می‌شود، دوست داری گوشی را برداری، به نویسنده‌اش زنگ بزنی و بگویی یک سر بیاید خانه‌ات تا باهم اختلاط کنید.

3,5*

Carpinteiros, levantem alto o pau de fileira – 4,5*

“Então, depois de lhe ter explicado tudo isto, ele diz-lhe que lamenta imenso, mas que não se pode casar até se sentir menos feliz, ou qualquer idiotice do género! Se não se importa, ponha a sua cabeça a trabalhar. Isso parece-lhe de pessoa normal? Acha que é de alguém que esteja no seu perfeito juízo?”

A ironia que Salinger usa nas situações mais delicadas ou tensas é desconcertante nesta novela. Depois de Seymour ter cancelado o casamento à última da hora, o seu irmão Buddy vê-se num automóvel, rodeado pelos convidados da noiva, com todas as conversas descabidas e confrontos constrangedores que daí naturalmente podem surgir.

Seymour: Uma Introdução - 2*

Um tédio, uma enxaqueca, um contraste gritante com a primeira parte tão estimulante. Uma dissertação demasiado “meta” de Buddy Glass sobre o irmão Seymour que, variando entre o tom filosófico, familiar, pretensioso e estapafúrdio, se torna esquizofrénica.

“Mas na maioria dos casos direi que se o genuíno forte de um poeta chinês ou japonês não for o de conhecer um bom diospiro, ou bom caranguejo, ou uma boa picada de mosquito num bom braço, então pouco importa quão longas ou estranhas ou fascinantes as suas entranhas intelectuais ou semânticas possam ser, ou quão enganadoras possam soar quando tangidas, porque ninguém no Misterioso Oriente falará seriamente dele como um poeta, ou o que quer que seja.”

I'd give the first part 5 stars, but the second part didn't really do it for me. The neverending stream of consciousness which seems to go nowhere, the constant 'meta-text' (always very self-deprecating) and the long descriptions of mundane events (and the not-thorough-enough descriptions of actual 'juicy' bits) made it a tough read for me. After reading "franny", "zooey" and "raise high the roofbeam, carpenters" I fell in love with the Glass family (and especially with Seymour, through the eyes of his siblings), but when it came to actually reading about him through Buddy's account in "Seymour, an introduction" all my admiration died a painful death as I turned each page.

Salinger is very, very high on the sentimental favorites list, which makes this difficult to assess objectively - so let's start with the easy half of this two-novella collection.

Raise High The Roof Beam, Carpenters is wonderful, and while it occasionally dips a little too deeply into the preciousness well (the same well that Salinger comes oh-so-close to drowning in in Franny and Zooey), it works, and, if you've read A Perfect Day for Bananafish, serves as a pretty chilling prequel to the entire Glass family saga. (And if you haven't read APDFB, what are you waiting for? It's only one of the best short stories ever, and Nine Stories as a whole is indispensable.)

As for Seymour: An Introduction, well... I'm not quite sure what to say. (A well-placed "hoo, boy..." might be appropriate here.) I feel like Salinger had this point gotten himself into a holding pattern where he only knows how to end stories with sudden epiphanies, and he gives us three, all somewhat bargain-basem*nt: 1. Seymour is, for Buddy, something to be given away to the world, to those who never had him. Well, alright. 2. That a Zen approach to writing, where one merely writes without aiming, is the only true way of hitting a target. (In some ways this story, with its tiring constant appeals for our astonished approval at Salinger's erudition, could be seen as a direct example of this theory, but I won't bite.) 3. A re-warmed-over repackaging of the essential lesson of Zooey, that the students that Buddy despises are no less his siblings than Seymour, Boo Boo, Walt, et al. Reading this story, one entirely understands the arguments that Hapworth 16, 1924 was proof of a teetering mind finally gone mad.

But if Salinger's work is as embedded into your DNA as it's become for me, you forgive these flaws for much the same reason it'd be sour and nitpickish to criticize the letter of a friend during hard times - one knows how deeply Buddy must be hurting. It's just a shame that Salinger didn't take over in the third-person, and let poor Buddy take a day off from the task of constantly recounting Seymour.

Read this one after you read the other Glass family stories - these serve as an effective (albeit uneven) coda for the entire affair.

A fine lettura ti viene spontaneo...
per non tradire una vecchia abitudine dei fratelli Glass,se ti scappa un commento dove lo vai a scrivere?
Sullo specchio del bagno , come Boo Boo, con una scheggia di sapone inumidita
:) Cosa c'è scritto sullo specchio ?
mah, mica facile scrivere con un pezzetto di sapone , comunque , così mi pare
questo è uno di quei libri dalle eccezionali doti di piacevolezza , malinconia, e indimenticabilità ( anche se la calligrafia in certi punti è quasi indecifrabile e c'è un certo margine di interpretazione )
4/5 stelle!

Give me a story that just makes me unreasonably vigilant. Keep me up till five only because all your stars are out, and for no other reason .

116th book of 2021. Artist for this review is American painter Colin Campbell Cooper (1856-1937).

2nd reading. Salinger's fictional Glass family reside in another lifetime for me, in a previous long-lasting relationship, a time I was at university, and oddly, a family entwined with Cornwall. In my early-twenties I became a big Salinger fan and read all 4 of his novels and wondered why he hadn't written more. Penguin recommends a certain reading order for his books, one I didn't follow or know about, and there order is one I long set in stone myself for considering his corpus, and recommending it. Penguin and I both think this should be the final Salinger novel in the run of 4 (ignoring that one of them is a short story collection, not a novel). Like much of the Glass family stuff, this is narrated by Buddy Glass, who is quite transparently Salinger's alter-ego. And before we consider The Catcher in the Rye as being apart from the other three books about the Glass family, Buddy Glass gives us a hint in Seymour: An Introduction: 'Some people—not close friends—have asked me whether a lot of Seymour didn't go into the young leading character of the one novel I've published.' So, The Catcher in the Rye is also in the Glass' universe, a novel 'written' by Buddy Glass.

So after reading The Catcher in the Rye travellers should pass by Franny and Zooey to meet the youngest of the large Glass family. Then onto Nine Stories/For Esmé—With Love and Squalor where we meet several more Glass family members here and there but above all read the short story "A Good Day for Bananafish" in which we see Seymour Glass (the eldest child) killing themselves after much allusion to the event in other Salinger books. This then puts the reader at the feet of Salinger's rather strangely titled 1955 book, Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters; Seymour: An Introduction, which, as some trivia, is the actor Emma Stone's favourite book of all time.

"Fifth Avenue, New York City"

The book is comprised of two separate. . . novellas, at a push. The first is the superior (the same goes for Salinger's Franny and Zooey, also two split stories) by quite a long shot. I originally, on my first read, infatuated with J.D., gave this 5-stars but I've grown mean and dropped a star on account of the second story, "Seymour: An Introduction". The former story I remember almost as clear as I read it yesterday and enjoyed it just as much, reading it in a single sitting one night before going to sleep. Buddy takes us to 1942 for the story (6 years before Seymour's suicide) as he goes to his older brother's wedding. Despite this, Seymour does not feature once, physically, in the story. Instead, Buddy is late to the wedding and ends up in a taxi afterwards with a number of strangers where he finds out what happened at the wedding. One woman in the taxi is not a fan of Seymour. Salinger's forte has always been characters and everyone on the page of this strange, funny, sad, story glows. The highlight is the touching explosion that comes from Buddy's mouth when he finally defends his brother from the women in the taxi, gossiping about stories they've heard about him. I'll leave the rest to J.D.

"The Rush Hour, New York City"

"Seymour: An Introduction", however, does not glow. Buddy's tone has lost some of the light humour of the former story and instead becomes imposing, neurotic whilst continuing to try and be funny. He addresses the reader frequently. The story is more of an internal monologue of Buddy's as he tries to come to terms with Seymour's suicide. Elements are moving as you'd expect but Salinger really damages the piece with the strange tone Buddy has, the boring interludes talking to the reader and frankly avoiding talking about Seymour (which I have no doubt is a plot device on J.D.'s front, the avoidance of the reality). Lots of people don't like it and say it's self-indulgent and awful; I wouldn't go that far but I think it's one of the weaker things he put to page. Perhaps the most realised line of the story and the one that identifies itself, '[Seymour was] the one person who was always much, much too large to fit on ordinary typewriter paper—any typewriter paper of mine, anyway.' In the end the story is about failing to write about someone beloved who has died, and in writing a story about failing to write about such a subject, Salinger has partially failed in doing so. Somehow its failing makes for a good ending to the Glass family, as if it says something about losing Seymour, which is at the heart of all of it, in a way; or else it makes a good ending as it makes us want to read them all again. Without realising I started this novel on the exact same date and finished it on the exact same date as I did 3 years prior.

Mi fascinación por Salinger es tal que puede tratarse de un relato como “Raise High the Roof Beam” que no pasa de ser una anécdota divertida en la que no existe algo que particularmente destaque y aún así habrá sido una lectura que bien valió la pena. ¿Y sobre los hermanos Glass qué podría decir? Terriblemente entrañables, siempre haciendo que anhele ser uno de ellos. Leerlos me contagia de su muy particular y sarcástica sabiduria y creatividad aunque yo sea todo lo contrario.

“Antes de reunirnos con esos otros, te lo digo en privado, viejo amigo (y desde muy cerca), por favor, acéptame este modesto ramillete de paréntesis tempranamente florecidos: (((()))).”

“¿Es tan terrible que a veces parezcamos la misma persona? La membrana entre nosotros es tan delgada… ¿Es tan importante que tengamos en cuenta qué es lo que pertenece a cada uno? Aquella vez, hace dos veranos, que estuve tanto tiempo, descubrí que tú, Z. y yo hemos sido hermanos por lo menos en cuatro encarnaciones, quizá más. ¿No hay una belleza en eso? Para nosotros, ¿no es cierto que cada una de nuestras personalidades comienza justo en el instante en que reconocemos nuestras tan estrechas relaciones y aceptamos que es inevitable el mutuo préstamo de chistes, talentos, tonterías?”

“Por tu propio bien, no me hagas sentir orgulloso de ti. Creo que es eso, exactamente, lo que estoy tratando de decir. Si nunca más me mantuvieras despierto por orgullo… Dame un cuento que me vuelva vigilante de un modo irracional. Tenme despierto hasta las cinco sólo porque todas tus estrellas han aparecido y no por ninguna otra razón. Perdona el subrayado, pero es la primera cosa que he dicho de tus cuentos que me hace mover la cabeza de arriba abajo. Por favor, no me dejes decir nada más. Creo esta noche que todo lo que le digas a un escritor después de haberle pedido que deje aparecer sus estrellas, son sólo consejos literarios.”

alzate l'architrave, carpentieri. lo sposo, simile ad ares sopraggiunge, il più alto fra tutti gli uomini.

la differenza col 111mo frammento di saffo, è che qui lo sposo non arriva. seymour - fratello dell'alter ego di salinger, lo scrittore buddy glass - molla la sposa all'altare, salvo fuggire poche ore dopo con lei, schivando cerimonia e festeggiamenti. è lui, geniale e scentrato fratello maggiore, il protagonista dei due lunghi racconti di questo volume. lui insieme a una pletora di personaggi indimenticabili (aspettavo da una vita di abbinare banalmente queste due parole) che sono le comparse attraverso cui JDS traccia la sinopia ironica della società americana del secondo dopoguerra. ed è anche per questo che alzate l'architrave eccetera è il modo per leggere un ottimo salinger quando la carta di identità impone di uscire dalla sfera di influenza del giovane holden.
perché il più celebre portatore di disturbo post traumatico da stress della letteratura americana in questo libro sistema non solo l'architrave dei racconti, ma anche i pilastri, gli stipiti e ogni elemento verticale necessario a reggerli. e quello che si coglie di autobiografico nelle vicende dei glass - le bislaccherie e i noti tratti caratteriali che erano anche quelli di JD - sono i riflessi che personalmente amo di più nella sua scrittura. la ruvidità che si veste di ironia nel cogliere i tic e i normalissimi dettagli propri e altrui. oltre a una dose cospicua di ossessioni e timidezza (misantropia?) che diventano il suo imprescindibile vizio di forma.
«verso i vent'anni attraversai un breve periodo durante il quale combattei una strenua battaglia, perduta in partenza, per diventare un individuo socievole che ama la compagnia». ecco jerome d. salinger, sono proprio contenta che non ti sia riuscito.

https://rogueliterarysociety.com/f/sa...

I hear myself out on the literary field of battle loudly cheering, and if you look hard enough you can see me flailing my arms as well. I have my own Davega to share. A gift to be given for the meek and serious among you. I am speaking to the seriously patient and long-suffering reader, and not instead to a citizen submissive or spineless in any way. I mean a searcher as I am; one looking for the hard truth and all its surprises.

The credentialed shine, but they shine with the misinformation of the ages, which is hard on a fellow like me. But they shine, and I recognize that, though it leaves a bad taste in my mouth to admit it. Do not worry, you may dismiss me as well, for I have no official credentials either.

A couple days ago I began reading the J.D. Salinger collected masterpiece Raise High the Roofbeam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction again for the second time. The first time I read the book I was quite a bit younger, I had never been to NYC, and back then I was still pretty dumb about most things. Certainly I am wiser now thirty years later, have made my share of mistakes, been to NYC over twenty times, know the city quite well, and know I made an error in my previous assessment of this book. This is a fine piece of writing by Salinger and I enjoyed the book immensely. Both of them.

I think sometimes it is so hard to see. For instance, I now use reading glasses or else the words would be a constant blur. But I get Salinger where I couldn't while I was young. Yes, The Catcher in the Rye was somewhat of a bible and treatise for me way back then. It was easy to attach oneself to a book like that. But the best of them, Raise High the Roofbeam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction are not for the young, though the young are always encouraged to read them all and get what they can out of the experience. And that is where the Seymour quote stating, "They may shine with the misinformation of the ages, but they shine" comes from. It is difficult to accept that Seymour thought them "pieces of Holy Ground", but he did, and that is what made him Seymour.

I am not surprised that so many readers did not like the second piece, Seymour: An Introduction. The most obvious common thread was the comment that Raise High the Roofbeam, Carpenters was more of a story, "a pleasure to read", it had a beginning a middle, and an end. A further negative comment that Seymour: An Introduction was composed as "stream of consciousness" I find particularly quite wrong. Buddy, the narrator, even explains to the reader that his writing here is more of a diary, written over several sittings, each taking thirty cups of coffee or more. The comments call the book "haphazard, disorganized, a bore". For the record I do not find Seymour: An Introduction a "rambling or diffuse read" at all. Anyone not wanting to learn more about writing, or even afraid of measuring up so to speak, to poetry in particular, would be well-advised to stay away from reading it at all. Very early on in my latest reading of this second book I was enamored with Buddy's claim of a lack of original American poets, a claim contemporary writers today still make, such as the quickly-rising fame of the dead guy, Roberto Bolaño. Buddy remarked that a clever professor might describe "...a poem of Seymour's being to the haiku what a double Martini is to the usual Martini." He also hoped it would not be himself who said such a thing, though he admitted profusely he was being garrulous and would also be justly accused of it. Buddy warns the reader at every turn what the reader is in for if he/she continues on to the bottom of the page. Buddy is not the most gracious or humblest of writers. He even thinks his reader might be dumb, and by the looks of the comments, I for one believe he is mostly correct in his assumption. But again, as Seymour said, "They may shine with the misinformation of the ages, but they shine..."

Seymour: An Introduction is simply written as Buddy says, in several sittings of thirty cups of coffee each. Does the coffee, the several sittings as if writing a diary, this "somewhat pustulous disquisition on my brother's poetry" make the Glass family, as a whole, to be regarded as mentally ill? I think not. The reader would be best served to mature and enjoy life's experiences for some years, come back to the novella at a time in life that has little to no demands on the reader but this own incessant impending death-wish slung not so casually over one's shoulder and waiting somewhat patiently for his end. Of course, a little great understanding of what good writing is, what demanding and taxing poetry can do for your damaged head, and the instincts to know that Buddy is not bullsh*tting you on the page but rather being the further teacher you always wanted to hold close to the vest and unleashed.

The layout of the book is easy to follow especially as Buddy explains everything to the dumb reader. It is possibly his affront on the reader's ability that the negative reviewer finds distasteful. It has often been said that truth hurts. I simply find the book a delightful read. Seymour: An Introduction meant nothing to me the first time through so many years ago. I credit my new understanding of the material to having been a student of Gordon Lish's from 1995 through 1997. Much of the same teachings by Buddy can be found in a ten-hour-straight Lish event. The same principles of "writing for history and not recreation, or because it is fun to do" persists there in Lish's class and also on these pages of Seymour: An Introduction.

One of my favorite segments in the book was Buddy telling about his father Les Glass asking Seymour, as an adult, if he remembered Joe Jackson giving him a ride on the handle bars of his famous shiny nickel-plated trick bicycle? Seymour's answer to his dad was that he wasn't sure he had ever gotten off Joe Jackson's beautiful bicycle. And I guess that is my own Davega I am offering to you.

For the serious complainers who say that Seymour: An Introduction doesn't let us get to Seymour first hand, I suggest reading A Perfect Day for Bananafish collected in Nine Stories. It is a beautiful introduction for getting to know Seymour a little bit first-hand. I always recommend the reading of Bananafish to the people I love before they make their personal plunge into any of the Glass family memoirs.

Da tempo questo librino sostava nella mia libreria, acquistato sull’onda di un commento anobiano entusiasta e per la curiosità che il titolo mi aveva messo. Solo quando ho deciso di leggerlo ed ho sfogliato le prime pagine ho capito il significato del titolo: sono due racconti, uno intitolato “Alzate l’architrave, carpentieri” e l’altro è “Seymour. Introduzione”. Ho scoperto anche l’origine del titolo del primo racconto, consistente nei versi di un’ode di Saffo che così recita: “Alzate l’architrave, carpentieri. Lo sposo, simile ad Ares sopraggiunge, il più alto tra tutti gli uomini.” L’ho compreso leggendo quanto Boo Boo Glass ha scritto con il sapone nello specchio del bagno di casa del fratello Seymour.
Detto questo, ecco la mia opinione sui due racconti.
Dopo aver letto il primo mi sono “innamorata” di Seymour Glass, è stato un colpo di fulmine, e si pensi che di lui non c’ traccia nel racconto stesso, anzi, la storia gira intorno alla scomparsa di Seymour che ha lasciato sull’altare la sposa ad attenderlo! Nonostante l’assenza Seymour Glass, il maggiore della famiglia di sette fratelli, mi ha conquistato, farei pazzie per uno come lui! Me ne sono innamorata leggendo con il fratello Buddy alcune pagine del suo diario, da cui emerge una persona di una sensibilità straordinaria, tanto da essere segnato quasi fisicamente dall’innocenza, semplice nelle esigenze e nell’approccio al mondo, ma di una semplicità ricca e profonda, di cui mi hanno colpito queste ultime parole da lui scritte nel diario: “ Oh mio Dio, se la mia personalità può essere definita clinicamente, allora sono una specie di paranoico alla rovescia. Ho il sospetto che tutti stiano complottando per farmi felice”.
Come sia possibile far innamorare una lettrice di un personaggio che non c’è nel racconto, il quale ruota tutto intorno proprio alla sua assenza, lo sa solo Salinger , che ha scritto un racconto a mio parere di rarissima intensità e bellezza, vicino alla perfezione (la perfezione per me la raggiunge con un altro racconto, che non è presente qui ma è in una diversa raccolta, “Il giorno ideale per i pescibanana”).
Il secondo racconto sembra scritto da un’altra persona, nel senso che ha uno stile completamente diverso, una scrittura meno lineare, più complessa, è verboso, con un periodare lungo e articolato, espressione di un certo virtuosismo letterario caro ai postmoderni, e con un particolare che ho ritrovato in qualche altro libro, che mi piace poco, il rivolgersi direttamente al lettore da parte del narratore con una specie di ammiccamento che però in questo caso è risultato meno fastidioso che in altri. A parte la scrittura, il tema è comune con l’altro racconto: la mancanza di Seymour. Mentre ci si sarebbe aspettato che lo scrittore ci desse spiegazioni sul personaggio Seymour in grado di farci capire perché si sia comportato come abbiamo letto nel racconto che precede, invece nulla di tutto ciò, Salinger questa volta fa parlare Bobby Glass, che, tra digressioni a volte difficili da comprendere, con risvolti letterari e religiosi, parla in modo frammentario ma splendido di suo fratello Seymour, delle sue caratteristiche fisiche e morali: Seymour poeta universale, santo inconsapevole, saggio illuminato; Seymour che fu tutto per i suoi fratelli e sorelle, ma nessun racconto, nemmeno di suo fratello, la persona che più di tutti è vissuta a stretto contatto con lui, potrà esaustivamente parlare del la sua personalità multiforme e complessa, nessun racconto tranne quello in cui Seymour è protagonista assente.

Se riflettessimo su chi sia il nostro scrittore preferito, probabilmente ci limiteremmo ad un silenzio imbarazzato. Troppi nomi, troppi libri, troppi personaggi affastellati nella nostra testa da lettori. Eppure. Eppure. Eppure, miei cari. Se, come me adesso, vi ritrovaste intatti - non solo intatti ma anche, per così dire, accesi - dopo la lettura della più insopportabile, verbosa e straordinariamente prolissa baggianata che sia mai stata scritta (per i meno svegli: Seymour, un'introduzione), allora, non nutrireste dubbio alcuno su chi sia lo scrittore del vostro cuore confuso (eppure persuaso). Ed è quel mattacchione di J.D. Salinger. Purtroppo. Che è morto. E non potrete mai e poi mai andare a stringergli la mano. Meno male. Perché a) con tutta probabilità vi avrebbe rifilato una bastonata sui denti b) dalle pagine appena lette sembrerebbe proprio un tipo dal quale tenersi alla larga.

Once you’re addicted to the Glass family and the Salinger universe, you’re hooked. This one took me a little less than a day to finish. I gobbled down Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters because I was dying to know more about Seymour, and I wolfed down Seymour: An Introduction even faster because I was dying to know more about Seymour. Crazy how much all of these books revolve around this one character, honestly. I am fascinated by what he presents (or what Buddy Glass presents about him). That first impression from Bananafish changes. Oh boy does it change.

The second part of this one was nothing but linguistic, theological, philosophical, psychological, and theological p*rnography. Amazing.

I wish I could give this 4.5 or 4.8 or something like that. Doesn't matter carpenters. We shall not let ourselves get caught under the beam as pendants resembling penny counters, we shall rise above the fascism and rally.
4 is very dependable after all.