Upon arriving home today i heard the news that one of my favorite recluses had passed. I was not one of those kids who fawned all over Catcher in the Rye, it was a good book but not the life changing experience i've heard many spout off about, no i prefer Nine Stories, my favorite story being A Great Day for Banana Fish, if you've never read it you should. What i admire ole J.D. most for is his turning his back on fame, his utter disdain for the life that came along with being a top selling author in an era where that was like being a rock star. He stated it invaded his privacy to much and though he loved writing he preferred to write for himself and no one else, a writer of the No according to Enrique Vila-Matas, a bit like Gogol or Melville, J.D. from what i've gleaned liked to write and fuck and study eastern religions and didn't like people much, sounds reasonable enough to me, i wonder what he left behind seeing that he hasn't published a thing since 1965, i wonder if he has a room full of manuscripts or if he sat in his back yard in New Hampshire watching the clouds roll in, glass of whiskey in his hand, tossing pages into a big metal drum to watch them burn, laughing and thinking "Fuck Holden Caulfield."