The Former Anne Spollen's Author Blog Is Being Retitled to "Notes from Living Upghetto": Salinger

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Salinger

I don't believe writers when they say they aren't derivative: every writer had basic influences early on that left impressions on their writing style. I read a real lot when I was younger, and I tended to read European authors like Jane Austen and anything by the Brontes. I also read Frankenstein over and over. I didn't understand everything that I read, but since I wasn't required to read those books, they left a more lasting impression on me than say, Johnny Tremain which was required and achingly dull.

Literature seemed pretty tidy in those books. Emotions were veiled and even Frankenstein didn't scare me. Somewhere in my 'tween mind, I got he was a symbol.

Then I read Catcher in the Rye. It was as if I had been slouching around reading and this book made me sit up. He talked about places I recognized, like the duck pond in Central Park. He talked about having panic attacks. He talked about telling lies. He openly talked about not being happy.

I remember telling my English teacher I was reading Salinger. She snorted, "That book is like one long complaint."

Still, I read it over and over. I think I was about 12 or 13 when I read it. I read it again at about 16 and understood a lot more. I even looked up what a field of rye might look like back when you had to use an Encyclopedia Britannica. It pretty much looks like this:

All kinds of things are being said about Salinger now. I don't think he began YA as a genre as a lot of bloggers and interviewees are saying. I'm not sure if he spoke for a generation as that generation is now approaching 100. Maybe he did at the time.

What he did do was write a really, really good book that spoke to teenagers in a way that made them feel connected to someone else through literature.

Pretty much, that's the whole point.

9 comments:

Jemi Fraser said...: What an awesome review. I wish Salinger could read this. As writers we all hope to have this kind of impact on someone.; Wednesday, 03 February, 2010
K.C. Shaw said...: I'm kind of embarrassed that I haven't read Catcher in the Rye. I think I would have really appreciated it as a high-schooler. I don't know if I'd appreciate it as much now, but I might just pick up a copy and see.; Wednesday, 03 February, 2010
Anne Spollen said...: Heh, maybe Salinger IS reading this, Jemi. If you think paranormally. (Is that a word?)

You might still like "Catcher," K.C. He really captures that adolescent sense of feeling outside of just about everything bettern than anyone else I've ever read.; Wednesday, 03 February, 2010
Hardygirl said...: I loved Catcher in the Rye, too. It was the first time I truly understood the word "voice".

And, I had to read the stupid Johnny Tremain book in school, too. Bleah.

sf; Wednesday, 03 February, 2010
Bish Denham said...: Excellent post. I know I read Catcher in high school, but I don't remember a thing about the book.; Thursday, 04 February, 2010
Marcia said...: I've never read CATCHER either. Once I looked for it in my library and they didn't have it, which blew me away, and then of course I just went on to other books. But I have to add a plug for Johnny Tremain. We had to read that too, and it was assigned by a teacher whose book choices I always hated. But I loved it. Learned later it had won the Newbery, and I thought, "Yeah, I can definitely see that."; Thursday, 04 February, 2010
Anne Spollen said...: Yup, that's it, sf! It's voice - it was the first novel I ever read that had less plot and more voice. It seemed so amazing at the time.

There had to have been another book that was like "Catcher" to you, Bish -- maybe just not your cup of tea.

Hey Marcia - you're back! Nice to see you! I had to teach Johnny Tremain for four years to bored, unhappy seventh graders. That could color one's opinion...not having liked it so much in the first place.

But I can definitely see why someone would like it. Then there's that Newberry...; Thursday, 04 February, 2010
Mary Witzl said...: I liked Johnny Tremain too -- it was required and I was all set to hate it, but it clicked with me for some reason. Though not quite like Catcher did.

I read Catcher in the Rye when I was 17 and was bowled over by it. I loved everything about the book: the whole adventure of his life, the way Holden described the phonies around him (I was sick of phonies myself and always on the alert for them), the aching sadness as he remembered his younger brother, dead of leukemia. I read it over and over, then checked out everything else Salinger wrote and read that multiple times too.

Rereading Catcher as an adult, I found it had lost some of its lustre. But his short stories have stayed with me still, in particular De Daumier-Smith's Blue Period, which I remember as a real classic, funny, self-deprecatory and poignant. And I'll be looking out for his posthumous stuff, if it ever sees the light of day.; Tuesday, 09 February, 2010
Liz @ Cleverly Inked said...: Very well put; Monday, 15 February, 2010

Books

Light Beneath Ferns

"I have this strange sense that my silence is preparing me for something I can't name . ."

Elizah Rayne is nothing like other fourteen-year-old girls. More interested in bird bones than people, she wraps herself in silence. Trying to escape the shadow of her gambler father, Elizah and her mother move into an old house that borders a cemetery. All her mother wants is for them to have "normal" lives. But that becomes impossible for Elizah when she finds a human jawbone by the river and meets Nathaniel, a strangely hypnotic boy who draws Elizah into his dreamlike and mysterious world.

Only by forgetting everything she knows can Elizah understand the truth about Nathaniel—and discover an unimaginable secret.

Teen made trailer for Light Beneath Ferns.

Order Light Beneath Ferns here.

Foreword Magazine's Review of Light Beneath Ferns

Excerpt from THE SHAPE OF WATER

CHAPTER ONE
I discovered windows one afternoon and after that, nothing was ever the same. They had always been there, of course, glass panes shimmering in the color of rain, but that spring for the first time, I was able to open the windows in my room. For years, the locks had been painted stuck, and during the winter, heat from the radiator beneath my windows finally steamed off enough paint off the metal wings of the locks could be twirled open. Knowing that I could open the windows attracted me to them, and I began sitting under the windows, staring through the glass at the sky. From that position, on a chair in my room, the sky did not seem real; it seemed a place I was making up, so I watched it.
The white wood of the window panes acted as frames so the sky came to me slowly, and the huge openness of its space did not touch me. All the window glass in our old house had wavers and bubbles inside it, so at times the clouds moved like water, melting and blurring until they passed outside of the warp. After a few afternoons of sitting, the heavens seemed too quiet to keep watching so I began watching a small patch of woods next to our yard that housed little more than trees and a scatter of bony, mean-looking rabbits.
I started gazing at the sky and the woods in March when the branches were still wet and it was then, with nothing outside my window but trees and rain, that I noticed a shine inside darkness, I noticed colors glimmering within the darkness of the wood. I watched birds come and go, I watched rain nipple down from buds to the grass. The water dripping from branch edges and leaves created optical tricks; I could see that as I watched leaves melt.
Then one day I ventured into the space outside. I did not think about doing this much beforehand. I simply opened the window and dropped to the ground below, uncertain as to why this should be such a more satisfying exit than simply using the door; my father worked until seven o’clock and I could do whatever I wanted until then. But I liked the solid sound my legs made when I landed. Leaving via a five foot drop seemed so much more a decision than just using a door. The sense of escape made my heart pound, though all I escaped was the soundless spread of moss-colored light inside my house and the silence.
I had come to know silence well during those months after my mother died. When you sit in silence long enough, you learn that silence has a motion. It glides over you without shape or form, but with weight, exactly like water. Its color is silver. And silence has a sound you hear only after hours of wading inside it. The sound is soft, flute notes rising up like the words of glass speaking. There comes a point when you must shatter the silence, when you must shatter the blindness of its words, the blindness of its light. I did this by going into the yard. Once I stood there, in the grass next to the trees I had been watching, I found silence outside as well. But I was happier outside than I had been in the house, so I stayed for a bit. I stood beneath my bedroom window for a few minutes, looking up at the branches and the crooked pieces of sky colliding between the branches. I believed I could identify the scent of the sky as I stood there, a blue menthol fragrance similar to the scent of seawater that sprayed into my face when I first dove into the ocean. That initial scent smelled much more subtle than the ocean’s heavy, fishy aroma, a whiff of salt and mint that warned a more powerful scent would enter my nose just as I approached the water on a dive. It was the scent I dreamed in. And it was the scent of that spring sky as I stood in my yard.

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