J. D. Salinger_ A Life - Kenneth Slawenski [182]
This story, now famous, was not part of the May 30, 1960, Newsweek article. Its origin is a later New York Post Magazine article by Edward Kosner, who quoted Nelson Bryant of the Claremont Eagle, who in turn quoted the photographer quoting Salinger. In a letter to Donald Fiene dated May 9, 1961, Bryant claimed that the actual story differed from Kosner’s published rendition. In Bryant’s later version, the photographer was on foot and Salinger was driving in his car with Peggy. Noticing the man on the road leading to his house, Salinger pulled over and asked if his car was broken down and he needed help. The photographer said no, and Salinger drove on. After realizing that he had just spoken to his subject, the photographer continued on to Salinger’s cottage, where he shamefacedly explained his assignment.12 Regardless of the version, the story of Salinger and the Newsweek photographer is poignant and gentle, but it is a tale very much like that of Hemingway and the chicken. The chance that it survived three retellings unadulterated is slim.
The New York Post story did not appear until April 30, 1961, almost a year after the Newsweek feature. By then Salinger had made certain that even the meager disclosures obtained by Newsweek had vanished. Post reporter Edward Kosner found that fewer people would talk to him than Elfin. His final article complained at great length of the refusal of Salinger’s friends to be interviewed. William Shawn had told him that “Salinger simply does not want to be written about.” At Harold Ober Associates, Kosner was informed that Salinger deserved privacy and should be left alone. Undaunted, Kosner traveled to Cornish, where absolutely no one would talk with him. Nevertheless, he published his article even though it was devoid of any information not already commonly known.
Such events could not help but disrupt Salinger’s world, putting what little normalcy his life contained into jeopardy. He had taken joy in strolling with Peggy and taking her into Windsor to visit the post office and eat at the local diner. Now strangers lurked about his property, attempted to scale his fence, and waited on the road to ambush him and his family. He had regularly attended town meetings and church socials. But reporters hid in darkened doorways and photographers stalked the village center. In this threatening atmosphere, Salinger was attempting to raise a four-year-old daughter and a newborn son, seeking to protect the magic of their innocence from encroaching fears. Claire must also have been uneasy. If she had felt trapped in the past, the constant presence of prowling strangers completed her imprisonment. Even more menacing, some of Salinger’s followers were mentally unstable. As his fame and reputation for aloofness grew, he began to receive threats in the mail—and, worse yet, threats against the children. Any shadow in the woods, any lurking figure on the road or loitering stranger in town, might well have been a crazed fanatic, determined to harm him and his family.
At the same time that Salinger’s friends and family were dodging reporters, the State Department began its own investigation of the author. The Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs sent a questionnaire to the most respected of Salinger’s associates inquiring about his character. In light of what was commonly known of the author, the purpose of the survey was shockingly obtuse. “We wish to add the