J. D. Salinger_ A Life - Kenneth Slawenski [214]
Salinger made attempts to break out of isolation and venture into the world beyond Cornish, but they were usually short excursions and progressively few. In June 1981, he made an arduous journey into New York City, a rare occurrence compared with years past. Upon returning, he boasted to a friend that he had suffered but “was There.” That summer, he managed a 258-mile drive to visit a friend on Cape Cod, but although he hated the long drive, he was back on the road to Cornish the next morning. In May 1982, he traveled to Florida to meet the actress Elaine Joyce, with whom he had been corresponding for months. But that trip was an exception. Rather than visit with friends, Salinger was more likely to repeat a 1981 day trip to Boston, where he took in a Pissarro exhibit but declined to meet a friend just a short distance away. It was safer to apologize through a letter than to chance an awkward afternoon.
The extent of Salinger’s estrangement became undeniable during the summer of 1984. Peggy was pursuing graduate studies at Oxford University and Salinger decided to surprise her with a visit. He flew to England unannounced, reserved a room in a London hotel, and phoned his daughter at school. He received no answer. Taking advantage of a break in classes, Peggy was traveling abroad. Still, Salinger knew a number of people in London whom he had planned to visit during his trip. Now, however, he found it impossible to pick up the phone to contact or see anyone. Salinger instead spent the week alone in his London hotel room, staring at the telephone and trying without success to locate enough courage to dial a number. “No sound explanation for it,” he later confessed. “I feel closed off from all general or personal conversation these years and consort with almost no one.”14 Peggy returned to England just prior to her father’s flight home. They shared but a single lunch that summer, ample time for Peggy to recognize the change that had taken hold of her father: “He seemed so much less powerful than the Daddy I knew.”15
Salinger’s chronic aversion to unsolicited mail moved from dread, to scorn, to fear. By 1983, he found himself unable to face even those letters forwarded by his agent, despite knowing that Olding had sorted through those he’d received and discarded most. Salinger imagined the majority of his mail to be “fishy,” consisting of appeals for favors and advice to resume publishing. After retrieving his mail from the Windsor post office—a ritual he refused to abandon—he allowed it to collect unopened on his desk, sometimes for weeks at a time. As the pile grew, it terrified him more, until he became paralyzed by the sight, claiming that it killed the last vestige of kindness his heart had been born with.16
That Salinger would be suspicious of fan mail after the murder of John Lennon is not irrational in itself, but, within time, he began to ignore not only mail sent by strangers but also letters from family and friends. Most of his relationships were maintained through letters, important bonds he had nurtured for years. Letters had become his primary connection with his sister, with William Maxwell, with John Keenan and Michael Mitchell. His fear of the mail now put those relationships in jeopardy.
By 1985, Salinger had rationalized his fears and self-imposed isolation. He excused himself to Michael Mitchell, whom he had increasingly ignored over the past few years. Salinger offered little regret for neglecting his friend. He instead presented a stubborn declaration of his writing philosophy entwined with a warning that his future investment in their thirty-eight-year-old friendship would be minimal. Salinger maintained that his work—what he now dubbed his “assignment”—demanded sacrifices of his personal