J. D. Salinger_ A Life - Kenneth Slawenski [108]
In addition to the verdict on Catcher, Lobrano’s letter included a lecture on Salinger’s writing style. Immediately after finishing the novel, Salinger had written a short story entitled “Requiem for the Phantom of the Opera.” Lobrano’s letter containing the Catcher rebuff was ostensibly a rejection letter for that story. Lobrano felt that Salinger had attempted “Requiem” too soon after completing Catcher. “I can’t help but wonder,” he commented, “if you were still imprisoned in the mood and even the scenes of the novel.” Lobrano went on to criticize the story as being “too ingenious and ingrown.” He reminded Salinger that The New Yorker took a dim view of any story that displayed “writer-consciousness.”
Despite Salinger’s hurt over the novel’s rejection by The New Yorker, it seems that he took much of Lobrano’s criticism to heart. Perhaps in reaction to the editor’s homily on “writer-consciousness,” Salinger adopted an attitude to publicity and publishing that mirrored The New Yorker’s concept of the “proper” relationship between an author and his work. The magazine promoted a literary philosophy that elevated the story and subjugated the writer. If the author’s presence was too strident in a story, it was viewed as flouting the magazine’s creed on “writer-consciousness.” It felt that any literary acclamation was the reserve of the magazine. All New Yorker stories were to be written in the New Yorker style.
The Catcher in the Rye was not such a work. It had been conceived a decade before, and those who knew Salinger clearly saw the author’s individual imprint. To Lobrano, this approach was authorial conceit, and he probably coupled the rejection of “Requiem” with the rebuke of Catcher in order to make the point. What was not perceived at The New Yorker was Catcher’s uncanny ability to speak to individuals on a level so personal as to remove the author completely. Salinger was not about to rewrite Catcher to please Gus Lobrano, but his letter may have cast doubt into his mind, causing him to redouble his efforts to emulate the literary philosophy of a magazine he still profoundly respected.
More important, that philosophy also fit in with Salinger’s Zen beliefs. In 1950 and early 1951, he was following a line of Zen thought that demanded ego detachment as an element of meditation. If Salinger indeed equated writing with meditation at this time, he would have shied away from publicizing himself in connection with his book. Self-promotion—more than just appearing smug or un–New Yorker—would have been sacrilegious to him. Publicity would have seemed like taking credit for the authorship of prayer, defeating the very purpose of meditation itself. After incorporating himself into every page of the novel, from this point forward Salinger sought a level of anonymity that would prove impossible to obtain.
Detachment did not mean that Salinger would remove himself from how his book was to be presented. He was not about to let unknown editors have their way with it. Neither was he prepared to have them challenge his personal beliefs for the sake of profit. While avoiding attention, he still wanted control over every aspect of the novel’s production. Though The New Yorker may have understood the philosophies of consultation and writer-consciousness, Little, Brown and Company certainly did not. Between its acceptance of Catcher at the end of 1950 and its release in July 1951, what transpired between Salinger and his publishers was a series of episodes in which Salinger appeared to fight every effort to make his book a success.
An example of what it was like to negotiate with Salinger was experienced by the New American Library, which had been appointed by Little, Brown to produce the novel’s paperback edition. The company had contracted a well-known artist, James Avati, to design the book’s cover. His design included an illustration of Holden Caulfield wearing his red hunting hat. Salinger detested the image. It reminded him