By most accounts, J.D. Salinger was an unpleasant piece of work. The NYTBR reviewer of Thomas Beller’s new biography, subtitled The Escape Artist, observes that “Salinger’s disturbing icon-sullying behavior has appeared in memoirs by his daughter (describing a selfish urine-drinking monomaniac) and by Joyce Maynard (revealing an unsavory penchant for women so young we really do have to call them girls).”
He asks, “what is Beller trying to do here, anyway? He’s trying to understand. His treatment of Salinger’s obsession with secrecy as well as the media’s obsession with Salinger’s obsession with secrecy is a marvel of calm and clarity. Beller has no interest in shooting down his iconic prey or placing him, stuffed, on a shelf to worship and defend. Instead, he is listening. And looking. And thinking. The result is both lyrical and precise, a writer’s experience of another writer’s letters and stories, handwriting, hallways and editors, women and girls, family, finances, trauma and enduring legacy.”
All well and good, but it only raises the perennial question of where understanding becomes exoneration and where criticism must go beyond explanation to judgment.
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