What do you think?
Rate this book
Hapworth 16, 1924
Hapworth 16, 1924, pubblicato nel 1965, è l'ultima opera consegnata alle stampe da Jerome D. Salinger, che da allora ha scelto il silenzio e l'isolamento.
Oggi, l'autore del Giovane Holden, uno dei libri più letti di tutti i tempi, fa notizia solo quando un fotografo riesce a sorprenderlo all'uscita del supermercato o quando il suo nome e il suo stile vengono accostati, spesso a sproposito, a quelli di qualche minimalista o post-minimalista dell'ultima generazione.
Oggi, l'autore del Giovane Holden, uno dei libri più letti di tutti i tempi, fa notizia solo quando un fotografo riesce a sorprenderlo all'uscita del supermercato o quando il suo nome e il suo stile vengono accostati, spesso a sproposito, a quelli di qualche minimalista o post-minimalista dell'ultima generazione.
152 pages, Paperback
First published June 19, 1965
39 people are currently reading
2170 people want to read
About the author
J.D. Salinger
146 books16.2k followersLibrarian Note: There is more than one author by this name in the Goodreads database.
Works, most notably novel The Catcher in the Rye (1951), of American writer Jerome David Salinger often concern troubled, sensitive adolescents.
People well know this author for his reclusive nature. He published his last original work in 1965 and gave his last interview in 1980. Reared in city of New York, Salinger began short stories in secondary school and published several stories in the early 1940s before serving in World War II. In 1948, he published the critically acclaimed story "A Perfect Day for Bananafish" in The New Yorker, his subsequent home magazine. He released an immediate popular success. His depiction of adolescent alienation and loss of innocence in the protagonist Holden Caulfield especially influenced adolescent readers. Widely read and controversial, sells a quarter-million copies a year.
The success led to public attention and scrutiny: reclusive, he published new work less frequently. He followed with a short story collection, Nine Stories (1953), of a novella and a short story, Franny and Zooey (1961), and a collection of two novellas, Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction (1963). His last published work, a novella entitled "Hapworth 16, 1924", appeared in The New Yorker on June 19, 1965.
Afterward, Salinger struggled with unwanted attention, including a legal battle in the 1980s with biographer Ian Hamilton. In the late 1990s, Joyce Maynard, a close ex-lover, and Margaret Salinger, his daughter, wrote and released his memoirs. In 1996, a small publisher announced a deal with Salinger to publish "Hapworth 16, 1924" in book form, but the ensuing publicity indefinitely delayed the release.
Another writer used one of his characters, resulting in copyright infringement; he filed a lawsuit against this writer and afterward made headlines around the globe in June 2009. Salinger died of natural causes at his home in Cornish, New Hampshire.
Works, most notably novel The Catcher in the Rye (1951), of American writer Jerome David Salinger often concern troubled, sensitive adolescents.
People well know this author for his reclusive nature. He published his last original work in 1965 and gave his last interview in 1980. Reared in city of New York, Salinger began short stories in secondary school and published several stories in the early 1940s before serving in World War II. In 1948, he published the critically acclaimed story "A Perfect Day for Bananafish" in The New Yorker, his subsequent home magazine. He released an immediate popular success. His depiction of adolescent alienation and loss of innocence in the protagonist Holden Caulfield especially influenced adolescent readers. Widely read and controversial, sells a quarter-million copies a year.
The success led to public attention and scrutiny: reclusive, he published new work less frequently. He followed with a short story collection, Nine Stories (1953), of a novella and a short story, Franny and Zooey (1961), and a collection of two novellas, Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction (1963). His last published work, a novella entitled "Hapworth 16, 1924", appeared in The New Yorker on June 19, 1965.
Afterward, Salinger struggled with unwanted attention, including a legal battle in the 1980s with biographer Ian Hamilton. In the late 1990s, Joyce Maynard, a close ex-lover, and Margaret Salinger, his daughter, wrote and released his memoirs. In 1996, a small publisher announced a deal with Salinger to publish "Hapworth 16, 1924" in book form, but the ensuing publicity indefinitely delayed the release.
Another writer used one of his characters, resulting in copyright infringement; he filed a lawsuit against this writer and afterward made headlines around the globe in June 2009. Salinger died of natural causes at his home in Cornish, New Hampshire.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 145 reviews
September 7, 2009
This novella is undeniably odd and probably only really worth reading for the real Salingerites (?) out there. The sense of unreality that hangs over it is more pervasive than in the other Glass family works; the others you might doubt, but probably won't disbelieve. All the same, it was fun for me, in the middle of a necessary Salinger-fest, and it does give great insight into the person of Seymour; he shapes so much of the family's later actions but the reader knows him personally almost not at all. After reading this, it makes sense that the loss of him sets adrift the remainder of his siblings and that they sort of go down like dominoes. So, if you're a great lover of the Glass family cycle and haven't read it yet, by all means.
April 16, 2015
Posso ufficialmente chiamare questo mese di aprile come ‘il mese di Salinger’. Giusto qualche giorno fa ho – finalmente! – letto Franny e Zooey e ieri, grazie ad un caro amico che mi ha gentilmente prestato la sua copia, ho letto anche I giovani, i tre racconti nuovi di zecca di J.D.Salinger; nuovi almeno per i lettori italiani. La bibliografia di Salinger si è adesso leggermente allargata per il pubblico del nostro paese. Fin qui tutto normale, finché non sono arrivato alla postfazione di Giorgio Vasta. Qui lo scrittore siciliano dice di aver recentemente recuperato tra le sue letture quella di Hapworth 16, 1924.
A questo punto ho strabuzzato un po’ gli occhi. Sapevo che il caro Jerome aveva pubblicato altri racconti al di là dell’Atlantico, ma questo non l’avevo mai sentito nominare. Mi son chiesto dov’è che Vasta fosse andato a pescarlo allora.
Ho fatto una breve ricerca su Google e mi sono imbattuto in questa recensione che mi ha fornito tutte le risposte. (Volevo inserire il collegamento ipertestuale ma non ho idea di come si faccia, per cui in barba ad ogni gusto estetico ecco il link:https://2000battute.wordpress.com/201...) Per chi non avesse voglia di leggere il pezzo, sintetizzerò la surreale vicenda che ruota attorno al racconto.
Hapworth 16, 1924 sembra essere l’ultimo racconto pubblicato da Salinger nel giugno del ’65 sul New Yorker, prima di scomparire agli occhi del mondo. Tra il 1988 e il 1997, una casa editrice americana tentò di raggiungere un accordo con Salinger per l’acquisto dei diritti per la pubblicazione del libro. La notizia finì sui giornali e perfino Amazon pubblicizzò l’uscita del volume. Immagino che l’intero mondo andò in brodo di giuggiole per una pubblicazione così succosa. Non si sa bene perché, ma quel birbante di J.D. cambiò idea all’ultimo momento e questo ormai famoso libretto non vide mai la luce. *inserire qui lacrimuccia*
Tuttavia, in Italia siamo noti per non farci mancare nulla. Proprio nel ’97, infatti, quando la casa editrice americana stava probabilmente organizzando riti propiziatori e sacrificando vittime a molteplici divinità per ottenere quei benedetti diritti, una giovane studentessa di Siena si laureava in lingue con una tesi su Salinger, in particolare con una traduzione di Hapworth 16, 1924. Mi chiedo dove avesse recuperato una copia del New Yorker di trentadue anni prima! La tesi dev’essere piaciuta così tanto al prof. che, avendo una sua casa editrice, non ci pensò due volte a stampare e distribuire il libro, se così si può definire, non avendo alcun codice di identificazione! L’Einaudi, che deteneva i diritti su Salinger, lo venne a sapere, il prof negò tutto, le copie non vennero più ristampate, ma si dice che ben 2000 abbiano fatto il giro dell’Italia.
Per fortuna (o sfortuna?) non siamo più nel 1997 e non è stato difficile recuperare la versione originale del racconto. God Bless America and the Internet!
In cosa consiste, dunque, questo Hapworth 16, 1924? Si tratta di una luuunga lettera che Seymour Glass invia alla sua famiglia mentre si trova in un campo estivo col fratello minore, Buddy. La lettera che leggiamo è stata trascritta proprio da quest’ultimo circa quarant’anni dopo. Devo ammettere che mi aspettavo qualcosa di totalmente diverso, ma non so cosa esattamente. Forse qualcosa di meno allucinato. Sì, perché l’intera epistola è quanto di più inverosimile abbiate mai letto. Per quanto sappiamo bene che i Glass kids sono stati dei bambini prodigio, fuori dal comune, sembra difficile credere che queste siano frasi scaturite dalle penna di un bambino di sette anni (7!!!). La psicologia che la mia mente, a quell’età, era in grado di penetrare si limitava forse ai personaggi di Heidi o dell’Ape Maya. Sicuramente non avrei mai fatto la mia comparsata a Ecco un bambino eccezionale.
Nella premessa alla missiva Buddy giura che trascriverà parola per parola la lettera di Seymour, ma non è detto che la vena di scrittore di W. G. Glass non l'abbia spinto ad aggiungere modifiche e ad abbellire l'eloquio del fratellino. Ma tutto ciò non è importante e mi sento un po’ stupido a tentare di trovare una logica in Salinger. Quello che conta è che questo racconto è una porta che si apre su un mondo completamente nuovo. E' un biglietto per un viaggio nel tempo, nell'infanzia di Seymour, personaggio cardine della famiglia Glass nonostante rimanga sempre una presenza misteriosa, che aleggia nell’aria e nei dialoghi dei ‘sopravvissuti’.
Se si riesce a superare lo shock iniziale del dover accettare che i pensieri contenuti nella lettera siano stati partoriti da una mente di un bambino di sette anni, si possono godere di momenti estremamente esilaranti, come la parte in cui Seymour, dopo aver descritto le qualità di Mrs. Happy (a touching heritage of quite perfect legs, ankles, saucy bosoms, very fresh, cute, hind quarters, and remarkable little feet with quite handsome, small toes), descrizione di per sé già abbastanza inquietante, arriva addirittura a dire alla madre "then I must admit, in all joviality, to moments when this cute, ravishing girl, Mrs. Happy, unwittingly rouses all my unlimited sensuality.". Se pensate che questo sia scioccante, aspettate di leggere la parte in cui il primogenito dei Glass chiede al padre di illustrarlo su quali fantasie sensuali stuzzicavano la sua mente alla sua età!
“it would be quite a little windfall if you, dear Les, as my dear father and hearty friend, would be a complete, shameless, open book with regard to your own pressing sensuality when you were our ages. I have had the opportunity of reading one or two books dealing with sensuality, but they are either inflaming or inhumanly written, yielding little fruit for thought. I am not asking to know what sensual acts you performed when you were our ages; I am asking something worse; I am asking to know what imaginary sensual acts gave lively, unmentionable entertainment to your mind."
Il narratore, con un eloquio degno dei migliori college inglesi, descrive i compagni di campeggio, i consulenti e le attività svolte nel corso dell’estate. Fornisce consigli di recitazione e di canto ai genitori, supplicando la madre di non abbandonare il palcoscenico così giovane, ma di attendere il momento giusto. Si rivolge anche ai fratelli minori, spiegando per esempio alla sorella Boo Boo come pregare e come comportarsi in pubblico e in privato. Nell’ultima parte della lettera, invece, stila un lunghissimo elenco di letture che lui e Buddy vorrebbero fare approfittando della vacanza al campeggio, pregando i genitori di contattare la biblioteca e di provvedere all’invio dei libri. Si tratta di classici della letteratura, di libri di filosofia, religione e medicina! Le tipiche letture estive di due bambini di sette e cinque anni, insomma.
Ho tentato di trovare in questa lettera una risposta alla domanda che sicuramente tutti i lettori di Salinger si sono posti almeno una volta: perché Seymour si suicidò in quella camera d’albergo della Florida? Non sono certo uno psicologo in grado di riconoscere in una mente così giovane, come quella del bambino di Hapworth, i segni premonitori di un gesto così radicale. Da quello che ho letto però, mi son risposto che Seymour aveva sempre saputo che non avrebbe vissuto a lungo. In questo racconto sottolinea più volte il fatto che quella attuale non è altro che un’apparizione temporanea della sua persona e che il suo genio proviene dalla sua ultima incarnazione. Seymour sembra prevedere che non raggiungerà mai la vecchiaia:
“I personally will live at least as long as a well-preserved telephone pole, a generous matter of thirty (30) years or more, which is surely nothing to snicker at.”
Inoltre, sottolinea come sia presente in lui una vena di instabilità:
“but one must painfully remember that a vein of instability runs through me quite like some turbulent river; this cannot be overlooked.”
Per quanto non sia stata una lettura convenzionale, sono più che felice di aver aggiunto un altro tassello al mosaico dell’indimenticabile famiglia Glass. Adesso non mi resta che recuperare Alzate l'architrave, carpentieri e Seymour. Introduzione, ma piango già al solo pensiero che con quello, il mosaico sarà davvero completo.
A questo punto ho strabuzzato un po’ gli occhi. Sapevo che il caro Jerome aveva pubblicato altri racconti al di là dell’Atlantico, ma questo non l’avevo mai sentito nominare. Mi son chiesto dov’è che Vasta fosse andato a pescarlo allora.
Ho fatto una breve ricerca su Google e mi sono imbattuto in questa recensione che mi ha fornito tutte le risposte. (Volevo inserire il collegamento ipertestuale ma non ho idea di come si faccia, per cui in barba ad ogni gusto estetico ecco il link:https://2000battute.wordpress.com/201...) Per chi non avesse voglia di leggere il pezzo, sintetizzerò la surreale vicenda che ruota attorno al racconto.
Hapworth 16, 1924 sembra essere l’ultimo racconto pubblicato da Salinger nel giugno del ’65 sul New Yorker, prima di scomparire agli occhi del mondo. Tra il 1988 e il 1997, una casa editrice americana tentò di raggiungere un accordo con Salinger per l’acquisto dei diritti per la pubblicazione del libro. La notizia finì sui giornali e perfino Amazon pubblicizzò l’uscita del volume. Immagino che l’intero mondo andò in brodo di giuggiole per una pubblicazione così succosa. Non si sa bene perché, ma quel birbante di J.D. cambiò idea all’ultimo momento e questo ormai famoso libretto non vide mai la luce. *inserire qui lacrimuccia*
Tuttavia, in Italia siamo noti per non farci mancare nulla. Proprio nel ’97, infatti, quando la casa editrice americana stava probabilmente organizzando riti propiziatori e sacrificando vittime a molteplici divinità per ottenere quei benedetti diritti, una giovane studentessa di Siena si laureava in lingue con una tesi su Salinger, in particolare con una traduzione di Hapworth 16, 1924. Mi chiedo dove avesse recuperato una copia del New Yorker di trentadue anni prima! La tesi dev’essere piaciuta così tanto al prof. che, avendo una sua casa editrice, non ci pensò due volte a stampare e distribuire il libro, se così si può definire, non avendo alcun codice di identificazione! L’Einaudi, che deteneva i diritti su Salinger, lo venne a sapere, il prof negò tutto, le copie non vennero più ristampate, ma si dice che ben 2000 abbiano fatto il giro dell’Italia.
Per fortuna (o sfortuna?) non siamo più nel 1997 e non è stato difficile recuperare la versione originale del racconto. God Bless America and the Internet!
In cosa consiste, dunque, questo Hapworth 16, 1924? Si tratta di una luuunga lettera che Seymour Glass invia alla sua famiglia mentre si trova in un campo estivo col fratello minore, Buddy. La lettera che leggiamo è stata trascritta proprio da quest’ultimo circa quarant’anni dopo. Devo ammettere che mi aspettavo qualcosa di totalmente diverso, ma non so cosa esattamente. Forse qualcosa di meno allucinato. Sì, perché l’intera epistola è quanto di più inverosimile abbiate mai letto. Per quanto sappiamo bene che i Glass kids sono stati dei bambini prodigio, fuori dal comune, sembra difficile credere che queste siano frasi scaturite dalle penna di un bambino di sette anni (7!!!). La psicologia che la mia mente, a quell’età, era in grado di penetrare si limitava forse ai personaggi di Heidi o dell’Ape Maya. Sicuramente non avrei mai fatto la mia comparsata a Ecco un bambino eccezionale.
Nella premessa alla missiva Buddy giura che trascriverà parola per parola la lettera di Seymour, ma non è detto che la vena di scrittore di W. G. Glass non l'abbia spinto ad aggiungere modifiche e ad abbellire l'eloquio del fratellino. Ma tutto ciò non è importante e mi sento un po’ stupido a tentare di trovare una logica in Salinger. Quello che conta è che questo racconto è una porta che si apre su un mondo completamente nuovo. E' un biglietto per un viaggio nel tempo, nell'infanzia di Seymour, personaggio cardine della famiglia Glass nonostante rimanga sempre una presenza misteriosa, che aleggia nell’aria e nei dialoghi dei ‘sopravvissuti’.
Se si riesce a superare lo shock iniziale del dover accettare che i pensieri contenuti nella lettera siano stati partoriti da una mente di un bambino di sette anni, si possono godere di momenti estremamente esilaranti, come la parte in cui Seymour, dopo aver descritto le qualità di Mrs. Happy (a touching heritage of quite perfect legs, ankles, saucy bosoms, very fresh, cute, hind quarters, and remarkable little feet with quite handsome, small toes), descrizione di per sé già abbastanza inquietante, arriva addirittura a dire alla madre "then I must admit, in all joviality, to moments when this cute, ravishing girl, Mrs. Happy, unwittingly rouses all my unlimited sensuality.". Se pensate che questo sia scioccante, aspettate di leggere la parte in cui il primogenito dei Glass chiede al padre di illustrarlo su quali fantasie sensuali stuzzicavano la sua mente alla sua età!
“it would be quite a little windfall if you, dear Les, as my dear father and hearty friend, would be a complete, shameless, open book with regard to your own pressing sensuality when you were our ages. I have had the opportunity of reading one or two books dealing with sensuality, but they are either inflaming or inhumanly written, yielding little fruit for thought. I am not asking to know what sensual acts you performed when you were our ages; I am asking something worse; I am asking to know what imaginary sensual acts gave lively, unmentionable entertainment to your mind."
Il narratore, con un eloquio degno dei migliori college inglesi, descrive i compagni di campeggio, i consulenti e le attività svolte nel corso dell’estate. Fornisce consigli di recitazione e di canto ai genitori, supplicando la madre di non abbandonare il palcoscenico così giovane, ma di attendere il momento giusto. Si rivolge anche ai fratelli minori, spiegando per esempio alla sorella Boo Boo come pregare e come comportarsi in pubblico e in privato. Nell’ultima parte della lettera, invece, stila un lunghissimo elenco di letture che lui e Buddy vorrebbero fare approfittando della vacanza al campeggio, pregando i genitori di contattare la biblioteca e di provvedere all’invio dei libri. Si tratta di classici della letteratura, di libri di filosofia, religione e medicina! Le tipiche letture estive di due bambini di sette e cinque anni, insomma.
Ho tentato di trovare in questa lettera una risposta alla domanda che sicuramente tutti i lettori di Salinger si sono posti almeno una volta: perché Seymour si suicidò in quella camera d’albergo della Florida? Non sono certo uno psicologo in grado di riconoscere in una mente così giovane, come quella del bambino di Hapworth, i segni premonitori di un gesto così radicale. Da quello che ho letto però, mi son risposto che Seymour aveva sempre saputo che non avrebbe vissuto a lungo. In questo racconto sottolinea più volte il fatto che quella attuale non è altro che un’apparizione temporanea della sua persona e che il suo genio proviene dalla sua ultima incarnazione. Seymour sembra prevedere che non raggiungerà mai la vecchiaia:
“I personally will live at least as long as a well-preserved telephone pole, a generous matter of thirty (30) years or more, which is surely nothing to snicker at.”
Inoltre, sottolinea come sia presente in lui una vena di instabilità:
“but one must painfully remember that a vein of instability runs through me quite like some turbulent river; this cannot be overlooked.”
Per quanto non sia stata una lettura convenzionale, sono più che felice di aver aggiunto un altro tassello al mosaico dell’indimenticabile famiglia Glass. Adesso non mi resta che recuperare Alzate l'architrave, carpentieri e Seymour. Introduzione, ma piango già al solo pensiero che con quello, il mosaico sarà davvero completo.
February 15, 2017
Salinger at his most aimless and Sisyphean. The extraneous detail adds little to the glass family's literary identity other than stressing their precocious dexterity to unbelievable lengths. The idea that a seven year old kid would write this letter home to his family from camp ruins the narrative before it can even begin to develop out of its embryonic state. Furthermore, the writing is dilapidated and stale; just steeped with unbelievable haughtiness. Salinger has no focus here, other than pushing forward with a strange age related symbiosis, where a child can have the same wisdom and erudition of a middle aged man. It's ironically a really unlearned and stupid interpretation of how children think and how they structure and link thoughts together.
So, what could be at work here? Could it be a case of Buddy Glass lying and not reproducing an exact copy of the letter he introduces? Could it therefore be a case of unreliable narrator, given its tampered with content? These interpretations make little sense given that Semour is part of a family which is endlessly praised for its wit and precocious knowledge in every other glass story. Buddy doesn't seem to have a reason to alter or rewrite a letter in this fashion. Could Buddy be writing a fictional text, whereby he merely uses his brother's voice in his later years and sutures it to a younger self? If so, what again is the purpose? It does seem odd that Seymour "predicts" that Buddy will write in the future and his observations indicating that Buddy was writing long and detailed short stories at the age of five and memorizing entire books. Could this be the mind of an egomaniac, rewriting a family log to make himself and his brother better? If so, why did he reproduce the tale of his brother oddly committing suicide in a perfect day for bananafish? (where he comes across as a bizarre introvert, who cannot connect in basic ways with anyone other than a child.) Is his connection with a child in that story reflected here symbolically in taking maybe a suicide note and reworking it into a child's voice? I don't think so. Salinger is totally aimless here and it makes no sense whatsoever.
Salinger was full of endless praise for this story, saying that it represented a high point in his oeuvre, which doesn't bode well for his posthumous works at all (if they actually unlock his magical volt which contains all of these supposed works) This story got its fair share of criticism and it's supposedly this that turned Salinger in on himself. Despite being a fan of his work generally, this is really pathetic and the outrageous conduct he displayed when working with Orchises Press should be the subject of scorn for all readers.
So, what could be at work here? Could it be a case of Buddy Glass lying and not reproducing an exact copy of the letter he introduces? Could it therefore be a case of unreliable narrator, given its tampered with content? These interpretations make little sense given that Semour is part of a family which is endlessly praised for its wit and precocious knowledge in every other glass story. Buddy doesn't seem to have a reason to alter or rewrite a letter in this fashion. Could Buddy be writing a fictional text, whereby he merely uses his brother's voice in his later years and sutures it to a younger self? If so, what again is the purpose? It does seem odd that Seymour "predicts" that Buddy will write in the future and his observations indicating that Buddy was writing long and detailed short stories at the age of five and memorizing entire books. Could this be the mind of an egomaniac, rewriting a family log to make himself and his brother better? If so, why did he reproduce the tale of his brother oddly committing suicide in a perfect day for bananafish? (where he comes across as a bizarre introvert, who cannot connect in basic ways with anyone other than a child.) Is his connection with a child in that story reflected here symbolically in taking maybe a suicide note and reworking it into a child's voice? I don't think so. Salinger is totally aimless here and it makes no sense whatsoever.
Salinger was full of endless praise for this story, saying that it represented a high point in his oeuvre, which doesn't bode well for his posthumous works at all (if they actually unlock his magical volt which contains all of these supposed works) This story got its fair share of criticism and it's supposedly this that turned Salinger in on himself. Despite being a fan of his work generally, this is really pathetic and the outrageous conduct he displayed when working with Orchises Press should be the subject of scorn for all readers.
October 14, 2020
به نظرم برای خوندن این کتاب باید همهی قصه های خانواده گلس روخونده باشی.
وگرنه واقعا شاید یه متن مغشوش باشه اصلا خواننده متوجه نشه چی داره میگه. این خانواده گلس هفت تا بچه آوردن که همه شون نابغه و واقعا عجیب غریبن. تو این کتاب بلوغ عقلی/جنسی سیمور، بزرگ ترین بچه خونواده، تو هفت سالگی! کاملا مشهوده. بچهای که پروست و اناتول فرانس و بالزاک میخونه و تمام ادبیات رو تحلیل میکنه. چندبار اشارات به تناسخ و مسئلهی ایمان به خداداره که همیشه از دغدغههای سلینجره هم بوده.
مهم ترین بخش کتاب برای من پیشگویی های سیمور از وقایع زندگیش در آینده بود( پیش بینی مرگ خودش و نویسنده شدن بادی) و حتی آگاهی کامل به اتفاقات ی که توی قصه «تیرهای سقف را ...».
خلاصه وقتی اون قصه ها رو خونده باشی این داستان عین قطعه پازل میفته سر جاش و جالب میشه.
برای آشنایی با خانواده گلس :
پدر و مادر : لس گلس و بسی گلگر
•
بچه ها به ترتیب سن و داستانهایی که توشون شخصیت کلیدی هستند :
•
سیمور: (یک روز عالی با موزماهیها در مجموعهی نه داستان/ تیرهای سقف را بالاتر بگذارید، نجاران و سیمور : پیشگفتار/ شانزدهم هپورث 1924)
•
بادی : داستانهای بالا ( در کتاب «تیرهای سقف...» راویه و نامهی بادی توی کتاب فرنی و زویی)
•
بئاتریس (بو بو) ( در چند داستان بهش اشاره میشه)
•
والتر و واکر ( دوقلوها) ( در چند داستان بهشون اشاره میشه)
•
زویی ( فرنی و زویی)
•
فرنی (فرنی و زویی)
وگرنه واقعا شاید یه متن مغشوش باشه اصلا خواننده متوجه نشه چی داره میگه. این خانواده گلس هفت تا بچه آوردن که همه شون نابغه و واقعا عجیب غریبن. تو این کتاب بلوغ عقلی/جنسی سیمور، بزرگ ترین بچه خونواده، تو هفت سالگی! کاملا مشهوده. بچهای که پروست و اناتول فرانس و بالزاک میخونه و تمام ادبیات رو تحلیل میکنه. چندبار اشارات به تناسخ و مسئلهی ایمان به خداداره که همیشه از دغدغههای سلینجره هم بوده.
مهم ترین بخش کتاب برای من پیشگویی های سیمور از وقایع زندگیش در آینده بود( پیش بینی مرگ خودش و نویسنده شدن بادی) و حتی آگاهی کامل به اتفاقات ی که توی قصه «تیرهای سقف را ...».
خلاصه وقتی اون قصه ها رو خونده باشی این داستان عین قطعه پازل میفته سر جاش و جالب میشه.
برای آشنایی با خانواده گلس :
پدر و مادر : لس گلس و بسی گلگر
•
بچه ها به ترتیب سن و داستانهایی که توشون شخصیت کلیدی هستند :
•
سیمور: (یک روز عالی با موزماهیها در مجموعهی نه داستان/ تیرهای سقف را بالاتر بگذارید، نجاران و سیمور : پیشگفتار/ شانزدهم هپورث 1924)
•
بادی : داستانهای بالا ( در کتاب «تیرهای سقف...» راویه و نامهی بادی توی کتاب فرنی و زویی)
•
بئاتریس (بو بو) ( در چند داستان بهش اشاره میشه)
•
والتر و واکر ( دوقلوها) ( در چند داستان بهشون اشاره میشه)
•
زویی ( فرنی و زویی)
•
فرنی (فرنی و زویی)
June 28, 2025
برای این کتاب یادداشت خاصی نداشتم فقط خواستم ترتیب علاقهام به آثار سلینجر رو بنویسم:
۱. جنگل واژگون
۲. نُه داستان
۳. تیرهای سقف را بالا بگذارید نجان و پیشگفتار سیمور
۴. فرنی و زویی
۵. ناتور دشت
۶. شانزدهم هپورث، سال ۱۹۲۴
نکته: سلینجر فقط چهار کتاب رو تائید کرده بود که قراره ما اونو باهاشون بشناسیم، و کتاب اول و آخر این فهرست از نظر وی غیرمجازند برای انتشار. منم واقعا بابت خوندن اون دو تا عذابوجدان دارم.
پیشنهاد: اگر ناتوردشت رو دوست نداشتید به نظرم بین کارهای سلینجر اثر متفاوتیه، و بهتره آثار دیگرش رو امتحان کنید. من البته تمام آثاری که خوندم رو دوست داشتم.
۱. جنگل واژگون
۲. نُه داستان
۳. تیرهای سقف را بالا بگذارید نجان و پیشگفتار سیمور
۴. فرنی و زویی
۵. ناتور دشت
۶. شانزدهم هپورث، سال ۱۹۲۴
نکته: سلینجر فقط چهار کتاب رو تائید کرده بود که قراره ما اونو باهاشون بشناسیم، و کتاب اول و آخر این فهرست از نظر وی غیرمجازند برای انتشار. منم واقعا بابت خوندن اون دو تا عذابوجدان دارم.
پیشنهاد: اگر ناتوردشت رو دوست نداشتید به نظرم بین کارهای سلینجر اثر متفاوتیه، و بهتره آثار دیگرش رو امتحان کنید. من البته تمام آثاری که خوندم رو دوست داشتم.
January 2, 2011
Salinger’s famously un(re)published Glass family novella. (An excellent account of this great publishing disaster, recounted by the publisher, can be found here.) It has a tendency to suddenly reappear on, then disappear from, the internet; I myself got a copy in the most delightful black-market fashion. Having struck up a conversation with a customer about Salinger, who had recently died and who I was rather publicly mourning with a (pleasantly profitable) front counter display, we rolled around to the subject of this story, and the customer’s voice dropped, his manner turning clandestine. He admitted that he had a copy, typed out for him by some kind soul from the original New Yorker publication; would I like to read it? Would I! It was, less than a week later, slipped to me under plain manilla covers, and I took it home feeling like some of the original readers of Lady Chatterley’s Lover or of, you know. Porn.
Anyway, that was all quite fun. But what of the story itself?
Seriously. I need help with this. I love the Glass family stories so much (as this bit of gushing illustrates), but making this tale fit with the rest of the canon makes my head hurt. My anonymous benefactor felt similarly, when we met up again (beneath a picturesque bridge, or in a shadowy parking garage, perhaps) to discuss the work. The story takes the form of a letter home from camp by a seven-year-old Seymour Glass; the letter however comes to us introduced by Seymour’s brother Buddy, and like much of what we know of Seymour, one must wonder how much of it is authentic and how much shaped by Buddy’s hand. In this particular case, one is inclined to believe that the whole thing is fabricated, as the letter seems impossibly—and even creepily—precocious for someone of Seymour’s purported age. But if that is the case, what is Buddy trying to convey, what ghost is he trying to exorcise by portraying his brother and his family in this way? Without a doubt, Hapworth 16, 1924 is by far the most mysterious and bizarre of the often mysterious and bizarre Glass family tales, and it casts an odd light on the rest of the canon.
“Data! Data! Data!” she cried. “I can’t make bricks without clay.” Which I suppose is my way of saying: it’s been almost a year already! Where’s this vast store of Salinger’s unpublished work that was supposed to appear following his death? Stop tormenting me from beyond the grave, J.D. It’s just petty.
Anyway, that was all quite fun. But what of the story itself?
Seriously. I need help with this. I love the Glass family stories so much (as this bit of gushing illustrates), but making this tale fit with the rest of the canon makes my head hurt. My anonymous benefactor felt similarly, when we met up again (beneath a picturesque bridge, or in a shadowy parking garage, perhaps) to discuss the work. The story takes the form of a letter home from camp by a seven-year-old Seymour Glass; the letter however comes to us introduced by Seymour’s brother Buddy, and like much of what we know of Seymour, one must wonder how much of it is authentic and how much shaped by Buddy’s hand. In this particular case, one is inclined to believe that the whole thing is fabricated, as the letter seems impossibly—and even creepily—precocious for someone of Seymour’s purported age. But if that is the case, what is Buddy trying to convey, what ghost is he trying to exorcise by portraying his brother and his family in this way? Without a doubt, Hapworth 16, 1924 is by far the most mysterious and bizarre of the often mysterious and bizarre Glass family tales, and it casts an odd light on the rest of the canon.
“Data! Data! Data!” she cried. “I can’t make bricks without clay.” Which I suppose is my way of saying: it’s been almost a year already! Where’s this vast store of Salinger’s unpublished work that was supposed to appear following his death? Stop tormenting me from beyond the grave, J.D. It’s just petty.
February 15, 2020
Questa è l'ultima opera consegnata alle stampe da J. D. Salinger.
Ed è il secondo libro di Salinger che leggo.
E ho proprio l'impressione di essere partita dalla fine della sua produzione.
Quindi questa è una prima lettura, per ritornarci dopo, con più calma, quando avrò letto almeno "Il giovane Holden", "Franny e Zooey" e "Nove racconti". Dall'introduzione, infatti, legggo che Hapworth 16, 1924 è collegato a "Nove racconti" e a "Franny e Zooey".
Hapworth 16, 1924 è una lunga lettera scritta da Seymour, all'età di sette anni, mentre con il fratello Buddy è al campeggio per trascorrere le vacanze estive.
Seymour scrive questa lettera per far vedere ai suoi che ha compiuto notevoli progressi nella scrittura.
Siamo di fronte a un bambino geniale che dimostra una saggezza insolita per la sua età e che non ha timore a stilare la lista dei libri che vorrebbe leggere (tutti romanzi scritti da grandi autori, che rende paradossale il fatto che il bambino abbia solo sette anni).
Devo ritornarci, perché sento che mi mancano "pezzi" per fare i dovuti collegamenti. Riconosco la "qualità della scrittura", ma mi sento un po' presa in giro, come lettrice, dal fatto che a scrivere questa lettera sia un bambino di sette anni. Per quanto geniale, sempre sette anni ha.
È il motivo per cui ho dato tra 3 e 4 stelle.
P.S. Questo è un libro "disperso", meglio noto come libro “pirata” o “esistito ma inesistente”, “fantasma” o simili. Insomma è uno dei libri rari. Ma si sa che ho una predilezione per i libri rari.
P.P.S. Per quanto il libro sia raro, l'editor avrebbe potuto fare un lavoro più accurato. Ci sono certi refusi sparsi per il libro che infastidiscono.
Ed è il secondo libro di Salinger che leggo.
E ho proprio l'impressione di essere partita dalla fine della sua produzione.
Quindi questa è una prima lettura, per ritornarci dopo, con più calma, quando avrò letto almeno "Il giovane Holden", "Franny e Zooey" e "Nove racconti". Dall'introduzione, infatti, legggo che Hapworth 16, 1924 è collegato a "Nove racconti" e a "Franny e Zooey".
Hapworth 16, 1924 è una lunga lettera scritta da Seymour, all'età di sette anni, mentre con il fratello Buddy è al campeggio per trascorrere le vacanze estive.
Seymour scrive questa lettera per far vedere ai suoi che ha compiuto notevoli progressi nella scrittura.
Siamo di fronte a un bambino geniale che dimostra una saggezza insolita per la sua età e che non ha timore a stilare la lista dei libri che vorrebbe leggere (tutti romanzi scritti da grandi autori, che rende paradossale il fatto che il bambino abbia solo sette anni).
Devo ritornarci, perché sento che mi mancano "pezzi" per fare i dovuti collegamenti. Riconosco la "qualità della scrittura", ma mi sento un po' presa in giro, come lettrice, dal fatto che a scrivere questa lettera sia un bambino di sette anni. Per quanto geniale, sempre sette anni ha.
È il motivo per cui ho dato tra 3 e 4 stelle.
P.S. Questo è un libro "disperso", meglio noto come libro “pirata” o “esistito ma inesistente”, “fantasma” o simili. Insomma è uno dei libri rari. Ma si sa che ho una predilezione per i libri rari.
P.P.S. Per quanto il libro sia raro, l'editor avrebbe potuto fare un lavoro più accurato. Ci sono certi refusi sparsi per il libro che infastidiscono.
November 26, 2019
عالی
بی نظیر
بی نظیر
March 15, 2015
کل این کتاب یک نامهی بلند بود.
میدانم که کتابهایی که نامه اند زیاد خوانده اید احتمالا. اما این متفاوت بود. چون فقط "یک" نامه بود و در یک روز نوشته شده بود.
و من نمیتوانم حال و احساس خودم رو نسبت به سلینجر عزیزم بیان کنم.
و حتی نمیفهمم که مریم چطوری همچین چیز باب علاقهای به من کادو داده!
داستان باز هم داستان خانوادهی گلس عزیز است...
لحنش با اینکه از زبان سیمور بود که قبلا هم چیزی ازش خوانده بودم، خیلی فاخر بود. و جالبی قضیه این جا بود که توی این کتاب فقط هفت سالش است. و وقتی آدم همهی این داستان هایی که سلینجر درمورد این خانواده نوشته را کنار هم میگذارد و بزرگ شدنشان را نگاه میکند، فقط در عجبی پایان ناپذیر فرو میرود.
نمیدانم که آدم باید برای ستاره دادن باید بگذارد زمانی بگذرد و احساساتش ته نشین بشوند و یا اینکه همان احساس اولیه را در نظر بگیرد... اما به هر حال به نظر من فوق العاده بود. به دلایلی که قابل بیان نیستند خیلی، و شاید بهتر باشد که کتاب را بخوانید....
خیلی آرام آرام خواندمش. در وقت هایی که حالم به نحو قابل قبولی خوب بود، و کنار پنجرهی اتاقم مینشستم و میخواندم و یاد دخترهای قدیمی انگلیسی میافتادم و ابرهای قلنبه قلنبهی آسمان را نگاه میکردم و بعد باز به خواندن ادامه میدام..
در نهایت، مراتب تقدیر و ارادتم رو به این نویسنده ابراز میدارم. و ازش ممنونم.
میدانم که کتابهایی که نامه اند زیاد خوانده اید احتمالا. اما این متفاوت بود. چون فقط "یک" نامه بود و در یک روز نوشته شده بود.
و من نمیتوانم حال و احساس خودم رو نسبت به سلینجر عزیزم بیان کنم.
و حتی نمیفهمم که مریم چطوری همچین چیز باب علاقهای به من کادو داده!
داستان باز هم داستان خانوادهی گلس عزیز است...
لحنش با اینکه از زبان سیمور بود که قبلا هم چیزی ازش خوانده بودم، خیلی فاخر بود. و جالبی قضیه این جا بود که توی این کتاب فقط هفت سالش است. و وقتی آدم همهی این داستان هایی که سلینجر درمورد این خانواده نوشته را کنار هم میگذارد و بزرگ شدنشان را نگاه میکند، فقط در عجبی پایان ناپذیر فرو میرود.
نمیدانم که آدم باید برای ستاره دادن باید بگذارد زمانی بگذرد و احساساتش ته نشین بشوند و یا اینکه همان احساس اولیه را در نظر بگیرد... اما به هر حال به نظر من فوق العاده بود. به دلایلی که قابل بیان نیستند خیلی، و شاید بهتر باشد که کتاب را بخوانید....
خیلی آرام آرام خواندمش. در وقت هایی که حالم به نحو قابل قبولی خوب بود، و کنار پنجرهی اتاقم مینشستم و میخواندم و یاد دخترهای قدیمی انگلیسی میافتادم و ابرهای قلنبه قلنبهی آسمان را نگاه میکردم و بعد باز به خواندن ادامه میدام..
در نهایت، مراتب تقدیر و ارادتم رو به این نویسنده ابراز میدارم. و ازش ممنونم.
December 5, 2025
شاید چون اوضاعم خوب نبود و واسه فرار از زندگی رفته بودم سمت کتاب، دوتا کم کردم
فکر و خیال زیاد داشتم. خیلی خطها رو گم میکردم و حواسم پرت میشد. فقط واسه خفه کردن صداهای مغزم تندتند میخوندمش، مطمئنم اگه ردیفتر بودم راحتتر پیشمیرفتم
بعدا دوباره بهش سر میزنم قول میدم. یکشنبه ۲۷ جولای ۲۰۲۵
فکر و خیال زیاد داشتم. خیلی خطها رو گم میکردم و حواسم پرت میشد. فقط واسه خفه کردن صداهای مغزم تندتند میخوندمش، مطمئنم اگه ردیفتر بودم راحتتر پیشمیرفتم
بعدا دوباره بهش سر میزنم قول میدم. یکشنبه ۲۷ جولای ۲۰۲۵
July 12, 2024
Where to begin with this one. Hapworth 16, 1924, Salingers last published work (New Yorker, 1965) consists of another story about the Glass Family. More in particular a letter from 7 year old Seymour written from summer camp to his family members back home (Father and mother, Les and Bessie, brothers and sister, Walter, Waker and Boo Boo. Franny and Zooey unborn at that point.) The letter is transcribed by Buddy, later in life, who was with him at summer camp.
I love the Glass family. And even if it is, 7 year old Seymour speaking, I am glad to get a little inside about this mysterious character. Seymour is often mentioned throughout Salingers work, maybe even the most important character in his stories. We get fragments and anecdotes of Seymour in all his Glass family stories. Even his suicide in ‘A perfect day for Bananafish’ listed as the first short story in ‘9 stories’. But in Hapworth, we get 60 pages of Seymour talking.
I understand the criticism about Hapworth 16. But in every story we read, Seymour is portrayed as an intellectual mastermind. So for the sake of the story (but far from reality) I can go with the fact that this is no ordinary young boy of 7. Hell no one in that family is something other than extraordinary.
The critique that this was completely unreadable was not the case for me. I’m in love with Salingers writing style and busy overflowing pages full of ramblings and information. Albeit I admit it was a bit of a challenge. But I struggled more with ‘Seymour, an introduction’ as second part of Raise high the roof beam, carpenters.
I would pay money for a visual of Bessie and Les when they got Seymour’s request for reading material. That was marvelously ridiculous.
That said, for me, nothing tops ‘9 stories’ and ‘Franny and Zooey’. But I’ve enjoyed it. I’m done. Finished everything from Salinger. Maybe one day, something else pops out the vault, we can only dream.
I love the Glass family. And even if it is, 7 year old Seymour speaking, I am glad to get a little inside about this mysterious character. Seymour is often mentioned throughout Salingers work, maybe even the most important character in his stories. We get fragments and anecdotes of Seymour in all his Glass family stories. Even his suicide in ‘A perfect day for Bananafish’ listed as the first short story in ‘9 stories’. But in Hapworth, we get 60 pages of Seymour talking.
I understand the criticism about Hapworth 16. But in every story we read, Seymour is portrayed as an intellectual mastermind. So for the sake of the story (but far from reality) I can go with the fact that this is no ordinary young boy of 7. Hell no one in that family is something other than extraordinary.
The critique that this was completely unreadable was not the case for me. I’m in love with Salingers writing style and busy overflowing pages full of ramblings and information. Albeit I admit it was a bit of a challenge. But I struggled more with ‘Seymour, an introduction’ as second part of Raise high the roof beam, carpenters.
I would pay money for a visual of Bessie and Les when they got Seymour’s request for reading material. That was marvelously ridiculous.
That said, for me, nothing tops ‘9 stories’ and ‘Franny and Zooey’. But I’ve enjoyed it. I’m done. Finished everything from Salinger. Maybe one day, something else pops out the vault, we can only dream.
December 1, 2008
I first read this in an anthology of Salinger's work while doing research for a term paper on the Glass family. It is a letter from camp written by seven year old Seymour Glass, main character of "A Perfect Day for Bananafish." After its appearance in The New Yorker in 1966, Salinger quietly disappeared and stopped publishing altogether.In 1996, a small publishing house in Virginia announced that it would reprint "Hapworth" but shortly before the books were to be shipped, Salinger changed his mind, and the work was withdrawn. It is scheduled to be published, finally, on January 1, 2009, which will be J.D. Salinger’s ninetieth birthday. I recommend to anyone who likes post-modern lit.
March 1, 2017
شانزدهم هپورث، داستانی دربارهی خانوادهی درخشان گلس است؛
یک نامهی نود صفحهای از سیمور گلس هفت ساله به پدر و مادرش.
متاسفانه لذتی نبردم. نود صفحهی بیهدف و بیداستان، که البته چون بنده سعادت خوندن فرنی و زویی رو داشتهم، باز برام یه اندک معنا و کششی داشت. وگرنه فکر نمیکنم کسی بتونه با چنین نوشتهای ارتباط برقرار کنه.
سلینجر بسیار بیظرافت، تمام کتابهایی که خودش خونده رو از زبون یه پسربچهی هفت ساله نقد میکنه و تمام امیال و اعتقاداتش رو ذره به ذره از زبون این پسر بیان میکنه. تعجب نکردم وقتی دیدم سیمور گلس همون جروم دیوید سلینجره. تصور خودبزرگبینی و غرور سلینجر چنین حدسی رو برام ممکن کرده بود.
اما کاش پنهان شدنش پشت سیمور، انقدر بیظرافت نبود.
یک نامهی نود صفحهای از سیمور گلس هفت ساله به پدر و مادرش.
متاسفانه لذتی نبردم. نود صفحهی بیهدف و بیداستان، که البته چون بنده سعادت خوندن فرنی و زویی رو داشتهم، باز برام یه اندک معنا و کششی داشت. وگرنه فکر نمیکنم کسی بتونه با چنین نوشتهای ارتباط برقرار کنه.
سلینجر بسیار بیظرافت، تمام کتابهایی که خودش خونده رو از زبون یه پسربچهی هفت ساله نقد میکنه و تمام امیال و اعتقاداتش رو ذره به ذره از زبون این پسر بیان میکنه. تعجب نکردم وقتی دیدم سیمور گلس همون جروم دیوید سلینجره. تصور خودبزرگبینی و غرور سلینجر چنین حدسی رو برام ممکن کرده بود.
اما کاش پنهان شدنش پشت سیمور، انقدر بیظرافت نبود.
May 5, 2018
«عطش بامزه ی اشرافی گری در این دنیا بی پایان است! ... در یک روز مطبوع بارانی، وقتی میلت کشید، دل و روده ی یک انقلاب تاثیرگذار تاریخ را بیرون بریز؛ در قلب هر انقلاب فوق العاده ای، اگر اشتیاق و حسادت شخصی برای اشرافی گری -با یک قالب هوشمندانه- و تلاش فراوان برای رسیدن به غذای بیشتر و فقر کمتر ندیدی، با خوشحالی تمام به خاطر این ویژگی سراسر خودخواهانه از طرف او عذرخواهی می کنم.»
November 22, 2020
این تلاش دومم بود که بتونم با سلینجر ارتباط بگیرم.
بعد از ناتوردشت که نصفه خوندم و اصلا خوشم نیومد از نثر نویسنده، این کتابش هم به همون اندازه مزخرف بود.
👎🏼👎🏼
بعد از ناتوردشت که نصفه خوندم و اصلا خوشم نیومد از نثر نویسنده، این کتابش هم به همون اندازه مزخرف بود.
👎🏼👎🏼
February 27, 2023
“𝑊ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑘𝑙𝑦 𝑠𝑘𝑖𝑚𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑏𝑖𝑡 𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒, 𝐼 𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑝𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑢𝑡, 𝑟𝑒𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑦, 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑛, 𝐵𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐿𝑒𝑠, 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑏𝑏𝑦, ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑎 𝑓𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑦 𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑐𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚.”
Ova Selindžerova novela u biti je jedno veoma dugačko pismo koje Simor, najstarije dete Glasovih, piše roditeljima iz kampa i na neki način predviđa događaje daleke budućnosti (dužinu svog života, karijeru pisca svog brata...). Simor u tom trenutku ima sedam godina i u kampu je sa bratom Badijem koji ima pet.
[Filmovi Vesa Andersona su me inspirisali da se vratim Selindžeru (naročito moj najvoljeniji 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥 𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐧𝐛𝐚𝐮𝐦𝐬 /insert fun fact – Bu Bu Glas nakon udaje postaje Tanenbaum), a čitajući Simorovo pismo zaista mogu da prizovem genijalnost i neobični izraz Vesovih likova (možda najpre mali Čez Tenenbaum ili čak likovi iz 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐦).]
Čitaocu je teško da poveruje da sedmogodišnji dečak piše takve rečenice, da ima psihološke i društvene uvide i skoro filozofske opaske, britkog humora i jezika, ali čitalac mora da poveruje jer to su Selindžerovi Glasovi, porodica genija, i na kraju krajeva, to je Simor, večiti uzor, učitelj i senka koja se nadvija nad polomljenim vunderkindovima i njihovim egzistencijalnim pitanjima kasnije tokom života (naročito primetno kod Freni i Zuija).
Simor je i meni nekako uvek bio The nostalgija ili saudade, lik koga bih želela da poznajem, posmatram, utešim, sa kim bih volela da razgovaram. Ispostavlja se da bih se sa Simorom složila i po pitanju sestara Bronte, a pošto trenutno čitam Šarlotinu biografiju, ovaj pasus iz njegovog pisma mi je bio zabavan i zanimljiv:
“𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐵𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒̈ 𝑠𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛; ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑠! 𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑖𝑛 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐵𝑢𝑑𝑑𝑦 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑑𝑑𝑙𝑒 𝑜𝑓 “𝑉𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒,” 𝑎 𝑠𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑜𝑜𝑘, 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑤 𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑝; 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑧𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟, 𝑎𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑙, 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑠 𝑛𝑜 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑢𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑢𝑛𝑎𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑑𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒! 𝐼𝑡 𝑚𝑎𝑦 𝑏𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑, 𝑎𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑙, 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑢𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑡 𝑎 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑦 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑒; 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑡 𝑎 ℎ𝑢𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑠, 𝑎𝑡 𝑚𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠, 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦. 𝐼𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡, 𝐼 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑙 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑒𝑟; ℎ𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟, 𝑖𝑛 𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡, ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑎 𝑑𝑎𝑚𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒.”
Ova novela nije obavezno štivo, ali mislim da bi je Selindžerovi najveći fanovi svakako cenili, naročito što imaju priliku da čuju Simora i da održe još malo njegov kult.
Ova Selindžerova novela u biti je jedno veoma dugačko pismo koje Simor, najstarije dete Glasovih, piše roditeljima iz kampa i na neki način predviđa događaje daleke budućnosti (dužinu svog života, karijeru pisca svog brata...). Simor u tom trenutku ima sedam godina i u kampu je sa bratom Badijem koji ima pet.
[Filmovi Vesa Andersona su me inspirisali da se vratim Selindžeru (naročito moj najvoljeniji 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥 𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐧𝐛𝐚𝐮𝐦𝐬 /insert fun fact – Bu Bu Glas nakon udaje postaje Tanenbaum), a čitajući Simorovo pismo zaista mogu da prizovem genijalnost i neobični izraz Vesovih likova (možda najpre mali Čez Tenenbaum ili čak likovi iz 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐦).]
Čitaocu je teško da poveruje da sedmogodišnji dečak piše takve rečenice, da ima psihološke i društvene uvide i skoro filozofske opaske, britkog humora i jezika, ali čitalac mora da poveruje jer to su Selindžerovi Glasovi, porodica genija, i na kraju krajeva, to je Simor, večiti uzor, učitelj i senka koja se nadvija nad polomljenim vunderkindovima i njihovim egzistencijalnim pitanjima kasnije tokom života (naročito primetno kod Freni i Zuija).
Simor je i meni nekako uvek bio The nostalgija ili saudade, lik koga bih želela da poznajem, posmatram, utešim, sa kim bih volela da razgovaram. Ispostavlja se da bih se sa Simorom složila i po pitanju sestara Bronte, a pošto trenutno čitam Šarlotinu biografiju, ovaj pasus iz njegovog pisma mi je bio zabavan i zanimljiv:
“𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐵𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒̈ 𝑠𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛; ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑠! 𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑖𝑛 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐵𝑢𝑑𝑑𝑦 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑑𝑑𝑙𝑒 𝑜𝑓 “𝑉𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒,” 𝑎 𝑠𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑜𝑜𝑘, 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑤 𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑝; 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑧𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟, 𝑎𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑙, 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑠 𝑛𝑜 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑢𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑢𝑛𝑎𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑑𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒! 𝐼𝑡 𝑚𝑎𝑦 𝑏𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑, 𝑎𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑙, 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑢𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑡 𝑎 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑦 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑒; 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑡 𝑎 ℎ𝑢𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑠, 𝑎𝑡 𝑚𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠, 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦. 𝐼𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡, 𝐼 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑙 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑒𝑟; ℎ𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟, 𝑖𝑛 𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡, ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑎 𝑑𝑎𝑚𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒.”
Ova novela nije obavezno štivo, ali mislim da bi je Selindžerovi najveći fanovi svakako cenili, naročito što imaju priliku da čuju Simora i da održe još malo njegov kult.
December 16, 2025
An unmitigated disaster.
November 13, 2023
I believe that the letter from Seymour is actually written by Buddy during a nervous breakdown as a result of his long-term project to conjure Seymour by describing him into existence. You can see the the beginning of that process in Seymour: An Introduction. Buddy is in the middle of a mental crisis. He's at once drawn to but terrified by the power of his writing about Seymour, just as he was baffled by but deeply influenced by the power of Seymour's presence and person while alive. Writing about Seymour has not turned into healthy therapy for Buddy. His efforts have turned into obsession and in evoking a resurrected Seymour he is sacrificing himself, his identity and his sanity. Hapworth sees Buddy moving from trying to describe Seymour but actually becoming him in a strange exorcism-by-possession. Is he really trying to exorcise Seymour? It's that tension that creates the stress in this bizarre story. It's not parody, it's not a complete breakdown on Buddy's part but it is a bizarre possession of Seymour by Buddy. Buddy becomes the ghost to his dead brother in an extended riff. He's alone, in his room at the school when school is out for the winter break, and he's writing this disturbing demon version of his brother that's also a tantrum act, this narrative like a desecration.... You picture Buddy up late at night into the next day past the morning.
The whole critical take on this story is based on the immediate reaction, "Seymour could not have written this at age 7." That was the point. Nobody got it then and didn't until right now. This is an overnight exorcism of self from the memory of his brother, as if his brother's influence in life as well as the rage & grief over his death had become a dark version of Seymour after passing away.
If I'm wrong about this, then this story marks Salinger's collapse as a writer and this story is unsalvageable.
The whole critical take on this story is based on the immediate reaction, "Seymour could not have written this at age 7." That was the point. Nobody got it then and didn't until right now. This is an overnight exorcism of self from the memory of his brother, as if his brother's influence in life as well as the rage & grief over his death had become a dark version of Seymour after passing away.
If I'm wrong about this, then this story marks Salinger's collapse as a writer and this story is unsalvageable.
December 14, 2019
This was published in The New Yorker in 1965. Incredibly, I still had my copy from then (okay, I am something of a packrat) and came across it when going through boxes I have failed to unpack in nine years of living in Longmont, so I had to reread it. It is another of the stories J.D. Salinger wrote about the Glass family (Franny & Zooey; Seymour: An Introduction; Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters; and the chilling short story "A Perfect Day for Bananafish") and was never published outside of that New Yorker magazine (a whole issue was almost entirely given over to it). Hopefully, now that Salinger has died, it will be in print and easily accessible, together with the other things Salinger has written since 1965 and never released. It is now at least widely available on line for those who are not packrats of 50+ years duration. Can we really believe that an 8 year old could write such a thing in a letter to his family (from summer camp, Camp Hapworth, which explains the name of the novella)? Maybe someone as smart as Seymour? No, not really. But it is worth reading if you know and admire the other books and the short story about the Glass children, as I do. I hope others are released while I am around to read them. I am glad to have reread this after all this time.
Read
September 7, 2015"خیلی نفرت انگیز است که همیشه قلب یا بدنت کار کوچکی انجام بدهند و گدایی ِ عکس العمل ِ متقابل افراد را بکنی. کاملا قانع شدم که اگر باد، کلاه آقای " الف " را وقتی خوش خوشک دارد توی خیابان قدم می زند، ببرد، این وظیفۀ دوستانۀ آقای " ب " است که آن را از روی زمین بردارد و بدون برانداز کردن صورت الف یا خیره شدن به آن برای دریافت تشکر،به او بدهد. خدایا، این توان را به من بده که دلتنگ خانوادۀ عزیزتر از جانم باشم، بدون این که آرزوی دلتنگی آن ها را برای خودم در عوض داشته باشم."
December 30, 2023
وقتی هرکس بدونِ حتی ذره ای شک و تردید با تمام وجود میداند که چقدر معمولی و عادی است،چه فرصت ها و اتفاقاتی که پیش می آید!
June 14, 2021
The last thing J.D. Salinger published (a novella really which The New Yorker magazine turned over an entire issue to). I have always enjoyed his stories about the Glass family. Seymour is basically writing a letter home from camp (Camp Hapworth) to his parents and his learnedness and interests astound (he is just seven years old). I wish now that Salinger has died his estate would release other work but they seem in no rush. I would not say this is exactly valedictory but I gave it an extra star just because Salinger wrote it. If you want to read it, the easiest way is to find it on line and print it. Incredibly, I still have the original publication in The New Yorker magazine - I have held onto it all these years! For now, this and the published works will have to do. Maybe for good.
March 13, 2015
با این که سخت بود خوندنش ولی بسیار لذت بردم، درسته که کتاب٬ نامه سیمور گلس به خونوادشه ولی بیشتر حرفای دل خود سلینجره به نظر من٬ قسمتی که راجع به نویسنده ها و کتاب هاشون صحبت میکنه واقعا عالیه :)
April 16, 2019
یه بازگشت کوتاه شیرین در یک روز تعطیل به سلینجر
January 23, 2022
I really wanted to like it...
<\3
<\3
March 8, 2023
با یا بدون دلیل قطعی، گاهی خیلی هم احمقانه نیست که شادی آنچه میدرخشد را قبول نکنم.
January 22, 2022
Hapworth 16, 1924
By J.D. Salinger
Camp Simon Hapworth
Hapworth Lake
Hapworth, Maine
Hapworth 16, 1924, or quite
in the lap of the gods!!
DEAR BESSIE, LES, BEATRICE, WALTER, AND WAKER:
I WILL write for us both, I believe, as Buddy is engaged elsewhere for an indefinite period of time. Surely sixty to eighty per cent of the time, to my eternal amusement and sorrow, that magnificent, elusive, comical lad is engaged elsewhere! As you must know in your hearts and bowels, we miss you all like sheer hell. Unfortunately, I am far from above hoping the case is vice versa. This is a matter of quite a little humorous despair to me, though not so humorous. It is entirely disgusting to be forever achieving little actions of the heart or body and then taking recourse to reaction. I am utterly convinced that if A’s hat blows off while he is sauntering down the street, it is the charming duty of B to pick it up and hand it to A without examining A’s face or combing it for gratitude! My God, let me achieve missing my beloved family without yearning that they miss me in return! It requires a less wishy-washy character than the one available to me. My God, however, on the other side of the ledger, it is a pure fact that you are utterly haunting persons in simple retrospect! How we miss every excitable, emotional face among you! I was born without any great support in the event of continued absence of loved ones. It is a simple, nagging, humorous fact that my independence is skin deep, unlike that of my elusive, younger brother and fellow camper.
While bearing in mind that my loss of you is very acute today, hardly bearable in the last analysis, I am also snatching this stunning opportunity to use my new and entirely trivial mastery of written construction and decent sentence formation as explained and slightly enriched upon in that small book, alternately priceless and sheer crap, which you saw me poring over to excess during the difficult days prior to our departure for this place. Though this is quite a terrible bore for you, dear Bessie and Les, superb or suitable construction of sentences holds some passing, amusing importance for a young fool like my- self! It would be quite a relief to rid my system of fustian this year. It is in danger of destroying my possible future as a young poet, private scholar, and unaffected person. I beg you both, and perhaps Miss Overman, should you drop by at the library or run into her at your lei- sure, to please run a cold eye over all that follows and then notify me immediately if you uncover any glaring or merely sloppy errors in fundamental construction, grammar, punctuation, or excellent taste. Should you indeed run into Miss Overman quite by accident or design, please ask her to be merciless and deadly toward me in this little mat- ter, assuring her amiably that I am sick to death of the wide gap of embarrassing differences, among other things, between my writing and speaking voices! It is rotten and worrisome to have two voices. Also please extend to that gracious, unsung woman my everlasting love and respect. Would to God that you, my acknowledged loved ones, would cease and cut out thinking of her in your minds as a fuddy duddy. She is far from a fuddy duddy. In her disarming, modest way, that little bit of a woman has quite a lot of the simplicity and dear fortitude of an unrecorded heroine of the Civil or Crimean War, perhaps the most moving wars of the last few centuries. My God, please take the slight trouble to remember that this worthy woman and spinster has no comfortable home in the present century! The current century, unfortunately, is a vulgar embarrassment to her from the word go! In her heart of hearts, she would zestfully live out her remaining years as a charming, intimate neighbor of Elizabeth and Jane Bennet, continually being approached by those unequally delicious heroines of “Pride and Prejudice” for sensible and worldly advice. She is not even a librarian at heart, unfortunately. At all events, please offer her any generous specimen of this letter that does not look too personal or vulgar to you, prevailing upon her at the same time not to pass too heavy judgment on my penmanship again. Frankly, my penmanship is not worth the wear and tear on her patience, dwindling energies, and very shaky sense of reality. Also frankly, while my penmanship will im- prove a little as I grow older, looking less and less like the expression of a demented person, it is mostly beyond redemption. My personal instability and too much emotion will ever be plainly marked in every stroke of the pen, quite unfortunately.
Bessie! Les! Fellow children! God Almighty, how I miss you on this pleasant, idle morning! Pale sunshine is streaming through a very pleasing, filthy window as lie forcibly abed here. Your humorous, ex- citable, beautiful faces, I can assure you, are suspended before me as perfectly as if they were on delightful strings from the ceiling! We are both in very satisfactory health, Bessie sweetheart. Buddy is eating quite beautifully when the meals are stomachable. While the food it- self is not atrocious, it is cooked without a morsel of affection or in- spiration, each string bean and simple carrot arriving on the camper’s plate quite stripped of its tiny, vegetal soul. The food situation could change in a trice, to be sure, if Mr. and Mrs. Nelson, the cooks, man and wife, a very hellish marriage from casual appearances, would only dare to imagine that every boy who comes into their mess hall is their own beloved child, regardless of from whose loins he sprang in this particular appearance. However, if you had the racking opportunity of chatting for a few minutes with these two persons, you would quite know this is like asking for the moon. A nameless inertia hangs over those two, alternating with fits of unreasonable wrath, stripping them of any will or desire to prepare creditable, affectionate food or even to keep the bent silverware on the tables spotless and clean as a whistle. The sight of the forks alone often whips Buddy into a raw fury. He is working on this tendency, but a revolting fork is a revolting fork. Also, past a certain important, touching point, I am far from at liberty to tamper with that splendid lad’s furies, considering his age and stunning function in life.
On second thought, please do not say anything to Miss Overman about my penmanship. It is best for her daily and hourly position to dwell or harp on my rotten penmanship to her heart’s content. I am inutterably in that good woman’s debt! She has been meticulously trained by the Board of Education. Quite unfortunately, my rotten penmanship, cou- pled with the subject of the late hours I enjoy keeping, are very often the only grounds for discussion she finds thoroughly comfortable and familiar. I do not yet know where I have failed her in this respect. I suspect I got us off on quite the wrong foot when I was younger by allowing her to think I am a very serious boy simply because I am an omnivorous reader. Unwittingly, I have left her no decent, human no- tions that ninety-eight per cent of my life, thank God, has nothing to do with the dubious pursuit of knowledge. We sometimes exchange little persiflages at her desk or while we are stepping over to the card catalogues, but they are very false persiflages, quite without decent bowels. It is very burdensome to us both to have regular communica- tion without bowels, human silliness, and the common knowledge, quite delightful and enlivening in my opinion, that everybody seated in the library has a gall bladder and various other, touching organs un- der their skin. There is much more to the question than this, but I cannot pursue it profitably today. My emotions are too damnably raw today, I fear. Also the precious five of you are innumerable miles from this place and it is always too damned easy to fail to remember how little I can stand useless separations. While this is often a very stimulating and touching place, I personally suspect that certain chil- dren in this world, like your magnificent son Buddy as well as myself, are perhaps best suited to enjoying this privilege only in a dire emer- gency or when they know great discord in their family life. But let me quickly pass on to more general topics. Oh my God, I am relishing this leisurely communication!
The majority of young campers here, you will be glad to know, could not possibly be nicer or more heartrending from day to day, particu- larly when they are not thriving with suspicious bliss in cliques that insure popularity or dubious prestige. Few boys, thank God with a bursting heart, that we have run into here are not the very salt of the earth when you can exchange a little conversation with them away from their damn intimates. Unfortunately, here as elsewhere on this touching planet, imitation is the watchword and prestige the highest ambition. It is not my business to worry about the general situation, but I am hardly made of steel. Few of these magnificent, healthy, sometimes remarkably handsome boys will mature. The majority, I give you my heartbreaking opinion, will merely senesce. Is that a pic- ture to tolerate in one’s heart? On the contrary, it is a picture to rip the heart to pieces. The counsellors themselves are counsellors in name only. Most of them appear slated to go through their entire lives, from birth to dusty death, with picayune, stunted attitudes towards every- thing in the universe and beyond. This is a cruel and harsh statement, to be sure. It fails to be harsh enough! You think I am a kind fellow at heart, is that not so? God reward me with hailstones and rocks, I am not! No single day passes that I do not listen to the heartless indif- ferences and stupidities passing from the counsellors’ lips without se- cretly wishing I could improve matters quite substantially by bashing a few culprits over the head with an excellent shovel or stout club! I would be less heartless, I am hoping, if the young campers themselves were not so damned heartrending and thrilling in their basic nature. Perhaps the most heartrending boy within sound of my ridiculous voice is Griffith Hammersmith. Oh, what a heartrending boy he is! His very name brings the usual fluid to my eyes when I am not exer- cising decent control over my emotions; I am working daily on this emotional tendency while I am here, but am doing quite poorly. Would to God that loving parents would wait and see their children at a practical age before they name them Griffith or something else that will by no means ease the little personality’s burdens in life. My own first name “Seymour” was quite a gigantic, innocent mistake, for some attractive diminutive like “Chuck” or even “Tip” or “Connie” might have been more comfortable for adults and teachers wont to address me in casual conversation; so I have some acquaintance with this petty problem. He, young Griffith Hammersmith, is also seven; however, I am his senior by a brisk and quite trivial matter of three weeks. In physical bulk, he is the smallest boy in the entire camp, being still smaller, to one’s amazement and sadness, than your magnificent son Buddy, despite the gross age difference of two years. His load in this appearance in the world is staggering. Please consider the following crosses this excellent, droll, touching, intelligent lad has to bear. Re- sign yourselves to ripping your hearts out by the roots!
A) He has a severe speech impediment. It amounts to far more than a charming lisp, his entire body stumbling at the brink of conversation, so counsellors and other adults are not pleasantly diverted.
B) This little child has to sleep with a rubber sheet on his bed for ob- vious reasons, similar to our own dear Waker, but quite different in the last analysis. Young Hammersmith’s bladder has given up all hope of soliciting any interest or favor.
C) He has had nine (9) different tooth brushes since camp quite opened. He buries or hides them in the woods, like a chap of three or four, or conceals them beneath the leaves and other crap under his bungalow. This he does without humor or revenge or private relish. There is quite an element of revenge in it, but he is not at liberty to en- joy his revenge to the hilt or get any keen satisfaction out of it, so to- tally has his spirit been dampened or quite smothered by his relatives. The situation is thoroughly subtle and rotten, I assure you.
He, young Griffith Hammersmith, follows your two eldest sons around quite a bit, often pursuing us into every nook and cranny. He is excellent, touching, intelligent company when he is not being hounded by his past and present. His future, I am fairly sick to death to say, looks abominable. I would bring him home with us after camp is over in a minute, with complete confidence, joy, and abandon, were he an orphan. He has a mother, however, a young divorcée with an exquisite, swanky face slightly ravaged by vanity and self-love and a few silly disappointments in life, though not silly to her, we may be sure. One’s heart and pure sensuality go out to her, we have found, even though she does such a maddening, crappy job as a mother and woman. Last Sunday afternoon, a stunning day, utterly cloudless, she popped by and invited us to join her and Griffith for a spin in their imposing, ritzy Pierce-Arrow, to be followed by a snack at the Elms before returning. We regretfully declined the invitation. Jesus, it was a frigid invitation! I have heard some stunning, frigid invitations in my time, but this one quite took the cake! I am hoping you would have been slightly amused by her utterly false, friendly gesture, Bessie, but I doubt it; you are not old enough, sweetheart! Not too deep in Mrs. Hammersmith’s transparent, slightly comical heart, she was keenly disappointed that we are Griffith’s best friends in camp, her mind and admirably quick eye instantaneously preferring Richard Mace and Donald Wiegmuller, two members of Griffith’s own bunga- low and more to her taste. The reasons were quite obvious, but I will not go into them in an ordinary, sociable letter to one’s family. With the passage of time, I am getting used to this stuff; and your son Buddy, as you have very ample reason to know, is no man’s fool, de- spite his charming, tender age on the surface. However, for a young, attractive, bitter, lonely mother with all the municipal advantages of swanky, patrician, facial features, great monetary wealth, unlimited entrée, and bejewelled fingers to show this kind of social disappoint- ment in full view of her young son, a callow child already cursed with a nervous and lonely bladder, is fairly inexcusable and hopeless. Hopeless is too broad, but I see no solution on the horizon to damna- ble and subtle matters of this kind. I am working on it, to be sure, but one must of necessity consider my youth and quite limited experience in this appearance.
Read the full text here: https://kaizenology.wordpress.com/2014/06/18/hapworth-16-1924-j-d-salinger/
By J.D. Salinger
SOME comment in advance, as plain and bare as I can make it: My name, first, is Buddy Glass, and for a good many years of my life— very possibly, all forty-six—I have felt myself installed, elaborately wired, and, occasionally, plugged in, for the purpose of shedding some light on the short, reticulate life and times of my late, eldest brother, Seymour Glass, who died, committed suicide, opted to discontinue living, back in 1948, when he was thirty-one.
I intend, right now, probably on this same sheet of paper, to make a start at typing up an exact copy of a letter of Seymour’s that, until four hours ago, I had never read before in my life. My mother, Bessie Glass, sent it up by registered mail.
This is Friday. Last Wednesday night, over the phone, I happened to tell Bessie that I had been working for several months on a long short story about a particular party, a very consequential party, that she and Seymour and my father and I all went to one night in 1926. This last fact has some small but, I think, rather marvellous relevance to the letter at hand. Not a nice word, I grant you, “marvellous,” but it seems to suit.
No further comment, except to repeat that I mean to type up an exact copy of the letter, word for word, comma for comma. Beginning here.
May 28, 1965
Camp Simon Hapworth
Hapworth Lake
Hapworth, Maine
Hapworth 16, 1924, or quite
in the lap of the gods!!
DEAR BESSIE, LES, BEATRICE, WALTER, AND WAKER:
I WILL write for us both, I believe, as Buddy is engaged elsewhere for an indefinite period of time. Surely sixty to eighty per cent of the time, to my eternal amusement and sorrow, that magnificent, elusive, comical lad is engaged elsewhere! As you must know in your hearts and bowels, we miss you all like sheer hell. Unfortunately, I am far from above hoping the case is vice versa. This is a matter of quite a little humorous despair to me, though not so humorous. It is entirely disgusting to be forever achieving little actions of the heart or body and then taking recourse to reaction. I am utterly convinced that if A’s hat blows off while he is sauntering down the street, it is the charming duty of B to pick it up and hand it to A without examining A’s face or combing it for gratitude! My God, let me achieve missing my beloved family without yearning that they miss me in return! It requires a less wishy-washy character than the one available to me. My God, however, on the other side of the ledger, it is a pure fact that you are utterly haunting persons in simple retrospect! How we miss every excitable, emotional face among you! I was born without any great support in the event of continued absence of loved ones. It is a simple, nagging, humorous fact that my independence is skin deep, unlike that of my elusive, younger brother and fellow camper.
While bearing in mind that my loss of you is very acute today, hardly bearable in the last analysis, I am also snatching this stunning opportunity to use my new and entirely trivial mastery of written construction and decent sentence formation as explained and slightly enriched upon in that small book, alternately priceless and sheer crap, which you saw me poring over to excess during the difficult days prior to our departure for this place. Though this is quite a terrible bore for you, dear Bessie and Les, superb or suitable construction of sentences holds some passing, amusing importance for a young fool like my- self! It would be quite a relief to rid my system of fustian this year. It is in danger of destroying my possible future as a young poet, private scholar, and unaffected person. I beg you both, and perhaps Miss Overman, should you drop by at the library or run into her at your lei- sure, to please run a cold eye over all that follows and then notify me immediately if you uncover any glaring or merely sloppy errors in fundamental construction, grammar, punctuation, or excellent taste. Should you indeed run into Miss Overman quite by accident or design, please ask her to be merciless and deadly toward me in this little mat- ter, assuring her amiably that I am sick to death of the wide gap of embarrassing differences, among other things, between my writing and speaking voices! It is rotten and worrisome to have two voices. Also please extend to that gracious, unsung woman my everlasting love and respect. Would to God that you, my acknowledged loved ones, would cease and cut out thinking of her in your minds as a fuddy duddy. She is far from a fuddy duddy. In her disarming, modest way, that little bit of a woman has quite a lot of the simplicity and dear fortitude of an unrecorded heroine of the Civil or Crimean War, perhaps the most moving wars of the last few centuries. My God, please take the slight trouble to remember that this worthy woman and spinster has no comfortable home in the present century! The current century, unfortunately, is a vulgar embarrassment to her from the word go! In her heart of hearts, she would zestfully live out her remaining years as a charming, intimate neighbor of Elizabeth and Jane Bennet, continually being approached by those unequally delicious heroines of “Pride and Prejudice” for sensible and worldly advice. She is not even a librarian at heart, unfortunately. At all events, please offer her any generous specimen of this letter that does not look too personal or vulgar to you, prevailing upon her at the same time not to pass too heavy judgment on my penmanship again. Frankly, my penmanship is not worth the wear and tear on her patience, dwindling energies, and very shaky sense of reality. Also frankly, while my penmanship will im- prove a little as I grow older, looking less and less like the expression of a demented person, it is mostly beyond redemption. My personal instability and too much emotion will ever be plainly marked in every stroke of the pen, quite unfortunately.
Bessie! Les! Fellow children! God Almighty, how I miss you on this pleasant, idle morning! Pale sunshine is streaming through a very pleasing, filthy window as lie forcibly abed here. Your humorous, ex- citable, beautiful faces, I can assure you, are suspended before me as perfectly as if they were on delightful strings from the ceiling! We are both in very satisfactory health, Bessie sweetheart. Buddy is eating quite beautifully when the meals are stomachable. While the food it- self is not atrocious, it is cooked without a morsel of affection or in- spiration, each string bean and simple carrot arriving on the camper’s plate quite stripped of its tiny, vegetal soul. The food situation could change in a trice, to be sure, if Mr. and Mrs. Nelson, the cooks, man and wife, a very hellish marriage from casual appearances, would only dare to imagine that every boy who comes into their mess hall is their own beloved child, regardless of from whose loins he sprang in this particular appearance. However, if you had the racking opportunity of chatting for a few minutes with these two persons, you would quite know this is like asking for the moon. A nameless inertia hangs over those two, alternating with fits of unreasonable wrath, stripping them of any will or desire to prepare creditable, affectionate food or even to keep the bent silverware on the tables spotless and clean as a whistle. The sight of the forks alone often whips Buddy into a raw fury. He is working on this tendency, but a revolting fork is a revolting fork. Also, past a certain important, touching point, I am far from at liberty to tamper with that splendid lad’s furies, considering his age and stunning function in life.
On second thought, please do not say anything to Miss Overman about my penmanship. It is best for her daily and hourly position to dwell or harp on my rotten penmanship to her heart’s content. I am inutterably in that good woman’s debt! She has been meticulously trained by the Board of Education. Quite unfortunately, my rotten penmanship, cou- pled with the subject of the late hours I enjoy keeping, are very often the only grounds for discussion she finds thoroughly comfortable and familiar. I do not yet know where I have failed her in this respect. I suspect I got us off on quite the wrong foot when I was younger by allowing her to think I am a very serious boy simply because I am an omnivorous reader. Unwittingly, I have left her no decent, human no- tions that ninety-eight per cent of my life, thank God, has nothing to do with the dubious pursuit of knowledge. We sometimes exchange little persiflages at her desk or while we are stepping over to the card catalogues, but they are very false persiflages, quite without decent bowels. It is very burdensome to us both to have regular communica- tion without bowels, human silliness, and the common knowledge, quite delightful and enlivening in my opinion, that everybody seated in the library has a gall bladder and various other, touching organs un- der their skin. There is much more to the question than this, but I cannot pursue it profitably today. My emotions are too damnably raw today, I fear. Also the precious five of you are innumerable miles from this place and it is always too damned easy to fail to remember how little I can stand useless separations. While this is often a very stimulating and touching place, I personally suspect that certain chil- dren in this world, like your magnificent son Buddy as well as myself, are perhaps best suited to enjoying this privilege only in a dire emer- gency or when they know great discord in their family life. But let me quickly pass on to more general topics. Oh my God, I am relishing this leisurely communication!
The majority of young campers here, you will be glad to know, could not possibly be nicer or more heartrending from day to day, particu- larly when they are not thriving with suspicious bliss in cliques that insure popularity or dubious prestige. Few boys, thank God with a bursting heart, that we have run into here are not the very salt of the earth when you can exchange a little conversation with them away from their damn intimates. Unfortunately, here as elsewhere on this touching planet, imitation is the watchword and prestige the highest ambition. It is not my business to worry about the general situation, but I am hardly made of steel. Few of these magnificent, healthy, sometimes remarkably handsome boys will mature. The majority, I give you my heartbreaking opinion, will merely senesce. Is that a pic- ture to tolerate in one’s heart? On the contrary, it is a picture to rip the heart to pieces. The counsellors themselves are counsellors in name only. Most of them appear slated to go through their entire lives, from birth to dusty death, with picayune, stunted attitudes towards every- thing in the universe and beyond. This is a cruel and harsh statement, to be sure. It fails to be harsh enough! You think I am a kind fellow at heart, is that not so? God reward me with hailstones and rocks, I am not! No single day passes that I do not listen to the heartless indif- ferences and stupidities passing from the counsellors’ lips without se- cretly wishing I could improve matters quite substantially by bashing a few culprits over the head with an excellent shovel or stout club! I would be less heartless, I am hoping, if the young campers themselves were not so damned heartrending and thrilling in their basic nature. Perhaps the most heartrending boy within sound of my ridiculous voice is Griffith Hammersmith. Oh, what a heartrending boy he is! His very name brings the usual fluid to my eyes when I am not exer- cising decent control over my emotions; I am working daily on this emotional tendency while I am here, but am doing quite poorly. Would to God that loving parents would wait and see their children at a practical age before they name them Griffith or something else that will by no means ease the little personality’s burdens in life. My own first name “Seymour” was quite a gigantic, innocent mistake, for some attractive diminutive like “Chuck” or even “Tip” or “Connie” might have been more comfortable for adults and teachers wont to address me in casual conversation; so I have some acquaintance with this petty problem. He, young Griffith Hammersmith, is also seven; however, I am his senior by a brisk and quite trivial matter of three weeks. In physical bulk, he is the smallest boy in the entire camp, being still smaller, to one’s amazement and sadness, than your magnificent son Buddy, despite the gross age difference of two years. His load in this appearance in the world is staggering. Please consider the following crosses this excellent, droll, touching, intelligent lad has to bear. Re- sign yourselves to ripping your hearts out by the roots!
A) He has a severe speech impediment. It amounts to far more than a charming lisp, his entire body stumbling at the brink of conversation, so counsellors and other adults are not pleasantly diverted.
B) This little child has to sleep with a rubber sheet on his bed for ob- vious reasons, similar to our own dear Waker, but quite different in the last analysis. Young Hammersmith’s bladder has given up all hope of soliciting any interest or favor.
C) He has had nine (9) different tooth brushes since camp quite opened. He buries or hides them in the woods, like a chap of three or four, or conceals them beneath the leaves and other crap under his bungalow. This he does without humor or revenge or private relish. There is quite an element of revenge in it, but he is not at liberty to en- joy his revenge to the hilt or get any keen satisfaction out of it, so to- tally has his spirit been dampened or quite smothered by his relatives. The situation is thoroughly subtle and rotten, I assure you.
He, young Griffith Hammersmith, follows your two eldest sons around quite a bit, often pursuing us into every nook and cranny. He is excellent, touching, intelligent company when he is not being hounded by his past and present. His future, I am fairly sick to death to say, looks abominable. I would bring him home with us after camp is over in a minute, with complete confidence, joy, and abandon, were he an orphan. He has a mother, however, a young divorcée with an exquisite, swanky face slightly ravaged by vanity and self-love and a few silly disappointments in life, though not silly to her, we may be sure. One’s heart and pure sensuality go out to her, we have found, even though she does such a maddening, crappy job as a mother and woman. Last Sunday afternoon, a stunning day, utterly cloudless, she popped by and invited us to join her and Griffith for a spin in their imposing, ritzy Pierce-Arrow, to be followed by a snack at the Elms before returning. We regretfully declined the invitation. Jesus, it was a frigid invitation! I have heard some stunning, frigid invitations in my time, but this one quite took the cake! I am hoping you would have been slightly amused by her utterly false, friendly gesture, Bessie, but I doubt it; you are not old enough, sweetheart! Not too deep in Mrs. Hammersmith’s transparent, slightly comical heart, she was keenly disappointed that we are Griffith’s best friends in camp, her mind and admirably quick eye instantaneously preferring Richard Mace and Donald Wiegmuller, two members of Griffith’s own bunga- low and more to her taste. The reasons were quite obvious, but I will not go into them in an ordinary, sociable letter to one’s family. With the passage of time, I am getting used to this stuff; and your son Buddy, as you have very ample reason to know, is no man’s fool, de- spite his charming, tender age on the surface. However, for a young, attractive, bitter, lonely mother with all the municipal advantages of swanky, patrician, facial features, great monetary wealth, unlimited entrée, and bejewelled fingers to show this kind of social disappoint- ment in full view of her young son, a callow child already cursed with a nervous and lonely bladder, is fairly inexcusable and hopeless. Hopeless is too broad, but I see no solution on the horizon to damna- ble and subtle matters of this kind. I am working on it, to be sure, but one must of necessity consider my youth and quite limited experience in this appearance.
Read the full text here: https://kaizenology.wordpress.com/2014/06/18/hapworth-16-1924-j-d-salinger/
January 16, 2025
Το "Hapworth 16,1924" είναι το τελευταίο δείγμα γραπτού που μας άφησε ο Salinger πριν αποσυρθεί από το δημόσιο βίο και γίνει reclusive..Δημοσιεύθηκε στη New Yorker αρχικά σαν σύντομη ιστορία και ουσιαστικά είναι ένα γράμμα που στέλνει ο Σιμουρ Γκλας στους γονείς του από την κατασκήνωση που βρίσκεται με τον αδερφό του ,Μπάντι . Α, επίσης ο Σιμουρ είναι 7 ετών ενόσω γράφει αυτό το γράμμα το οποίο μιλά για απλά θέματα όπως η θρησκεία ,η οικογένεια ,η ζωή κλπ ,πράγμα καθόλου παράξενο για τον Σιμουρ που ήδη έχουμε δει πως υπήρξε ένα παιδί θαύμα με γνώσεις που ουδεμία σχέση έχουν με παιδιών ανάλογης ηλικίας . Ο Σίμουρ λοιπόν ζητά από τη μαμά και τον μπαμπά να του στείλουν ένα σκασμό βιβλία να διαβάσει από το Δον Κιχώτη έως βιβλία γιόγκα και sir Arthur Conan Doyle..
Είναι μια παράξενη νουβέλα ,αλλά απόλυτα απολαυστική και αυτή όπως όλα τα γραπτά του Salinger και απόλυτα συνεπής στο πνεύμα της οικογένειας Γκλας ..
🌟🌟🌟/5 αστερια
Είναι μια παράξενη νουβέλα ,αλλά απόλυτα απολαυστική και αυτή όπως όλα τα γραπτά του Salinger και απόλυτα συνεπής στο πνεύμα της οικογένειας Γκλας ..
🌟🌟🌟/5 αστερια
October 4, 2023
a young jackass of the first water
March 27, 2015
Hapworth is like an unpolished gem. Most people will stumble over it countless times, never giving it a second glance. But eventually someone sees its potential, picks it up, takes it home, and with the utmost care, begins the painstaking process of cleaning, polishing and sculpting it until its beauty shines brightly.
At face value, there isn't much to see in Hapworth. Its reward lies in understanding its function. This is neither a gripping tale, nor a self-contained piece. It's merely an exaggerated vignette about a character whom the writer hopes you already know. It's pure characterization - literary psychology. There's no plot, no purpose other than saying "now do you understand why he's so weird [and suicidal] later in life?" What seven-year-old is even conscious of his death, let alone know the means by which it will happen? A tragically flawed one, of course.
While Holden may be the most famous of Salinger's characters, Seymour is certainly his most covered character.
It would do any author good to write a long short story taking place during the childhood of said character, if only for the author's own purposes of getting to know why the character is the way he/she is. And although Hapworth 16, 1924 is neither essential to understanding Seymour, nor particularly engaging as a piece, it plays an indispensable role in creating a well-rounded depiction of such a tragic and mysterious young man.
At times, in this and the other Glass family stories in which he describes Seymour, we get the sense that Salinger is trying to let us in on an inside joke, but ends up saying "you had to be there" over and over. It's true, Seymour is a one-of-a-kind guy, and thus warrants and requires a lot of characterization. And while Salinger gets his point across in staying true to what Seymour would do (write a 50-page letter home from camp), he asks much of his reader to follow along. This is not Salinger 101, or even 251. But for those readers who are enamored with Seymour, Buddy and the rest of the Glass family, Hapworth answers your wishes to learn more about what makes the characters tick. Similar to a young person asking his elderly grandfather what life was like when he was growing up, the story might bore you to tears, but in the end you got what you wanted and the information shed new light on a person to whom you couldn't even begin to relate.
It was not enough for Salinger that we know that Seymour is a genius - he must be a child prodigy whose abilities and wisdom in childhood surpass most learned adults.
It is because of Seymour's greater-than-reality life that Buddy feels his brother is worthy of such focus, adoration and in-depth description. Seymour is the Einstein who never got famous. Salinger harnesses the innate idolatry a boy has for his older brother, but then takes it a step further by making that older brother *in actuality* as amazing as a child's eyes sees him. Hapworth is important because it is a primary source - seven-year-old Seymour's own letter home - where Buddy can finally say "See? It's not all in my head. He really was this incredible." No wonder Buddy is so haunted by the loss of Seymour.
On this subject, Seymour mentions in his letter that his father had pointed out that Buddy is indifferent to anybody but Seymour. And while Seymour fervently refutes this claim, we think that there is some grain of truth behind Les' statement. Perhaps Seymour doth protest too much? We know that Buddy's attachment to Seymour is more like that of father/son - and with parents like theirs, it's not surprising - so the sudden loss of his pseudo-parent would thus be downright traumatizing.
At face value, there isn't much to see in Hapworth. Its reward lies in understanding its function. This is neither a gripping tale, nor a self-contained piece. It's merely an exaggerated vignette about a character whom the writer hopes you already know. It's pure characterization - literary psychology. There's no plot, no purpose other than saying "now do you understand why he's so weird [and suicidal] later in life?" What seven-year-old is even conscious of his death, let alone know the means by which it will happen? A tragically flawed one, of course.
While Holden may be the most famous of Salinger's characters, Seymour is certainly his most covered character.
It would do any author good to write a long short story taking place during the childhood of said character, if only for the author's own purposes of getting to know why the character is the way he/she is. And although Hapworth 16, 1924 is neither essential to understanding Seymour, nor particularly engaging as a piece, it plays an indispensable role in creating a well-rounded depiction of such a tragic and mysterious young man.
At times, in this and the other Glass family stories in which he describes Seymour, we get the sense that Salinger is trying to let us in on an inside joke, but ends up saying "you had to be there" over and over. It's true, Seymour is a one-of-a-kind guy, and thus warrants and requires a lot of characterization. And while Salinger gets his point across in staying true to what Seymour would do (write a 50-page letter home from camp), he asks much of his reader to follow along. This is not Salinger 101, or even 251. But for those readers who are enamored with Seymour, Buddy and the rest of the Glass family, Hapworth answers your wishes to learn more about what makes the characters tick. Similar to a young person asking his elderly grandfather what life was like when he was growing up, the story might bore you to tears, but in the end you got what you wanted and the information shed new light on a person to whom you couldn't even begin to relate.
It was not enough for Salinger that we know that Seymour is a genius - he must be a child prodigy whose abilities and wisdom in childhood surpass most learned adults.
It is because of Seymour's greater-than-reality life that Buddy feels his brother is worthy of such focus, adoration and in-depth description. Seymour is the Einstein who never got famous. Salinger harnesses the innate idolatry a boy has for his older brother, but then takes it a step further by making that older brother *in actuality* as amazing as a child's eyes sees him. Hapworth is important because it is a primary source - seven-year-old Seymour's own letter home - where Buddy can finally say "See? It's not all in my head. He really was this incredible." No wonder Buddy is so haunted by the loss of Seymour.
On this subject, Seymour mentions in his letter that his father had pointed out that Buddy is indifferent to anybody but Seymour. And while Seymour fervently refutes this claim, we think that there is some grain of truth behind Les' statement. Perhaps Seymour doth protest too much? We know that Buddy's attachment to Seymour is more like that of father/son - and with parents like theirs, it's not surprising - so the sudden loss of his pseudo-parent would thus be downright traumatizing.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 145 reviews