J. D. Salinger_ A Life - Kenneth Slawenski [126]
“De Daumier–Smith’s Blue Period” is a humorous story containing deep meaning. All the same, Gus Lobrano was correct in his criticism. In constructing it, Salinger attempted to make too many points on too many levels within too little space. As a result, no single message is completely clear and the varied themes that make up this story tend to run together and obscure one another.
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In light of the success of The Catcher in the Rye, Salinger had hoped that living in Manhattan might afford him a measure of anonymity. He was disappointed. He developed a fear of being recognized that, coupled with the lures of the city, with its social gatherings and romantic distractions, made it impossible for him to live a normal life in New York and still write with the devotion he sought. He had a new novel planned, and it would require greater solitude than the city would allow.
Salinger made arrangements to leave soon after January 1 for Florida and Mexico, where he hoped to begin his book in earnest.16 Events, however, predominantly the changing of the guard at The New Yorker, conspired to keep him in the city until March.
Most of the New Yorker “family” believed that fiction editor Gus Lobrano would succeed Harold Ross. Doubtless, Salinger also hoped that his friend would assume the lead role. If Lobrano was often dissatisfied with Salinger’s writings, he was, at least, respectful in his disapproval. Among the magazine’s editors, Salinger had gained a reputation for being difficult to deal with. Oversensitive to criticism and unusually protective of his work, he was known to become sullen and even angry when a story was contested.* Lobrano had learned how to deal with Salinger and treated him with deference. His criticisms were deliberately soft and apologetic, accompanied with expressions of upset, pain, and regret over being forced to rebuff any story. Lobrano was also not above acknowledging Salinger’s occasional anger over his verdicts and—perhaps most important of all—knew how to leave the author alone when it was wise to do so. Having established this rapport, Salinger probably felt it in his interest that Lobrano rise to the helm of The New Yorker.
Out of the shadows emerged the hazy figure of William Shawn. When it was announced at the end of January that Shawn had been selected to succeed Ross, Salinger was disappointed, and Lobrano was embittered. What Salinger could not have realized at the time was that William Shawn would become the greatest champion of his career and was uncannily similar to what Salinger himself would someday become.
Despite having occupied a series of positions at the magazine since 1933, Shawn was barely known by the staff. He was an intensely private person, close to no one, and his reputation consisted of whispers and innuendos. The differences between Ross and Shawn were obvious from the start. Harold Ross had been lively and social and had run the magazine with a loud audacity, while Shawn was temperate and withdrawn, his management style oppressively polite. Shawn’s first act as editor was to demolish Ross’s office and move to the opposite end of the building. The gesture seemed threatening to the preening New Yorker “family,” and rumors began to fly. One story was that in 1924, Shawn had been an intended victim of the infamous murderers Leopold and Loeb. Keen to verify or refute the rumor, amateur sleuths from The New Yorker secretly traveled to Chicago in 1965 to view the transcripts of the Leopold and Loeb trial. Finding no reference to a William in the transcripts, they returned to New York convinced that the tale was untrue. Yet none of the curious staffers dared ask Shawn himself.17 That would have been unthinkable.
Born William Chon in Chicago in 1907, Shawn had never graduated from college. After changing his name, which he felt sounded confusingly Asian, he developed a personality that valued courtesy and loyalty but was