Then, suddenly, almost ecstatically, he felt sleepy.
I don’t understand why people are leaping about and crowing that Salinger’s work and/or mythos are overrated. Or maybe I do understand, and that’s why it makes me so sad.
He wrote things that people, including me, loved reading. Then he stopped, because that was what he wanted to do, and I like to imagine that that made him happy.
A Perfect Day for Bananafish and For Esmé, with Love and Squalor, in particular, packed the kind of gutpunch that leads me to flail around and use the word “perfect”. Thank you, J.D. Salinger.
