BookEnds

The elusive and beloved author of “The Catcher in the Rye”, “Franny and Zooey”, and “Nine Stories”, died Wednesday at his home in Cornish N.H., at the age of 91. The New York Times ran a detailed and fitting obituary.

Salinger is perhaps best known as the creator of one of the most caustic and endearing anti-heroes in all of literature, Holden Caulfield, though his meticulous depictions of the eccentric Glass family consumed both  a novel, “Franny and Zooey”, and several stories. He was a veteran of both the Battle of the Bulge and the Normandy landings in the Second World War, a good friend of famed New Yorker magazine editor William Shawn, a husband to two wives, and a father to two children. He was also a writer whose work has had enormous cultural repercussions; an author who, with one book and one character, captured and distilled adolescence for generations of readers. In 1953, two years after the publication of the bestselling “Catcher”, he retreated from New York to New Hampshire, where he lived in seclusion for the rest of his life.

It’s not for me to sum up or expound Salinger’s talent and contributions to the literary world  — nor, I think, would Salinger like it if I did. I have a feeling that he would despise the long-winded, grandly-gestured tributes dripping with high praise that will naturally (and rightfully) follow his passing. I can only speak of my reaction to his work, as someone who has adored both “Catcher” and “Franny and Zooey”, not only for their memorable characters, but for the style with which Salinger introduced them onto the page, giving them fresh, arresting voices of their own. Those stories have made me shriek with laughter — like the scene of Zooey Glass reprimanding his mother from behind a shower curtain — or fill with compassion; despite all his faults (or perhaps because of them), there were many times in reading “Catcher” that I wanted to hug Holden Caulfield.

There’s a post on The Guardian book blog that wonderfully sums up our dilemma about celebrating Salinger: with so little of his life in public, it’s hard to know just how to honor his death. Perhaps what he’d like best, and what we all ought to do, is to go back to his work: to read it again, and remember.

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January 25, 2010 marks the 251st birthday of the Scottish poet Robert Burns, author of “Auld Lang Syne” and “My luv’s like a red, red rose.” Each year, the anniversary is commemorated with the celebration of Burns Night, a traditional holiday in Scotland and the UK.  Burns Night festivities usually honor the bard of Scotland with a combination of food, song and poetry. The host will serve a dish of haggis with bagpipe music, a whisky toast, and the recitation of Burns’ famous “Address to a Haggis.” The dinner concludes with readings of his poetry and, of course, the singing of Auld Lang Syne.

Alas, for Americans wishing to honor the poet, Burns Night celebrations lack a wee bit of authenticity – haggis has been banned in the United States for over twenty years, due to health concerns about its contents. The dish, which mixes sheep innards with oatmeal and spices, will soon be legal here, thanks to the planned reversal of the longstanding ban by the U.S. department of agriculture, and ending the neccessity for smuggled or “bootleg” haggis, or indeed an apparently substandard version made with beef.

Nevertheless, even without haggis at present, we can still honor Robert Burns, for auld lang syne.

“In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.” – George Orwell

Today marks the 60th anniversary of George Orwell’s death. He was born Eric Arthur Blair in Motihari, India, on June 25 1903, and died in London on January 21, 1950, at the age of forty-six. For the last three years of his life, he suffered from tuberculosis – a condition that was undoubtedly not helped by his habits of smoking and drinking, or the year he spent living on cold, wet Scottish island of Jura.

Orwell is predominantly known for his fervently political work; in particular, “1984″ and “Animal Farm.” He admitted that most of his life’s writing was penned with political intent, “against totalitarianism and for democratic socialism.” I often wonder what Orwell would make of today’s world; how the likes of Google, Twitter and Facebook would feature into his bleak, Big Brother-dominated world of “1984″, or how he would react to the financial crisis and the ongoing debate over health care in this country. Doubtless, whatever his political opinions would be, he would have no hesitation in tackling them with his fiercely prolific typewriter.

Though we are generally more familiar with his novels, Orwell wrote an astonishing number of essays, with content that ranged from the political to the seemingly commonplace (on the best sort of English pub, or how to make a nice cup of tea – a subject close to my own heart). I’ve read many of his essays and am enamored of his clear prose and direct style; he begins the essay “England Your England“, written during the London Blitz in 1941, thus: “As I write, highly civilized human beings are flying overhead, trying to kill me.” My favorite, though, is his candid “Why I Write.”

And so, here’s to George: fearless soldier, compassionate chronicler, brilliant writer.

It has to be one of the coolest literary rituals ever. And one particularly
fitting the honoree.

Every year, on Edgar Allan Poe’s birthday, a mysterious figure shows up in
the dark, early morning hours and leaves three roses and a half-full bottle
of cognac at the writer’s grave in Baltimore.

Poe fans come from far and wide to shiver in the cold and wait for the “Poe
Toaster” to arrive.

But this past Tuesday, Poe’s 201st birthday, the Toaster didn’t show for the
first time in at least 60 years. The disappointment had some Poe fanatics
ready to surrender to the pendulum.

Check out the AP story.

I’m sure there are other traditions like this. I’m aware of the annual
Bloomsday celebrations, although I’ve always been too chicken to try reading
“Ulysses”; and when I went to New Orleans several years ago, I had just
missed the “Stella!” shouting contest at the annual Tennessee Williams
festival. I also know that if ever in Key West, you have to go visit the
descendants of Hemingway’s six-toed cat.

But that’s about it as far as my knowledge of literary traditions is
concerned.

Anyone know any others?

Sherlock Holmes' sitting room in Baker St.

I finally went to see the new Sherlock Holmes adaptation with no small amount of trepidation. For years, Holmes and I have been very well acquainted and I was afraid my clear, well-defined image of a character I so loved would be muddled and abused by watching the film. I walked into the movie theater slightly nervous, and came out…pleasantly surprised.

There is no doubt that Robert Downey Jr. plays a very different Sherlock — one without the hawk-like nose, questionable drug addiction and cat-like cleanliness of appearance. I knew within the first fifteen seconds of the film that this was not my Sherlock, the vision of which is very meticulously imagined in my mind. Still, that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy Downey’s clever acting, or Jude Law’s surprisingly good turn as Watson, and the interesting banter between them, which I think was a bit limited and overshadowed by the looming heaviness of the action scenes. Downey was, as always, fascinating to watch, playing up Holmes’ eccentricity and lending his character a more whimsical air, which nicely counterbalanced Jude Law’s stolid but unstuffy Watson. I was also pleased to see that Law’s performance elevated Watson out of the dim and stodgy stereotype that has so plagued the poor fellow.

Despite the changes wrought in Sherlock by the film, I was surprised by the details that still rang true from the original stories. The deduction that a pocket watch with a scratched keyhole must belong to a drunken man was lifted straight from Conan Doyle’s pages, and the scene of Holmes engaging in bare-knuckle boxing had it’s roots in “The Sign of the Four”, in which Holmes greets a former boxing champ turned bodyguard with fond reminisces of their match against each other. There were even a few sprinklings of familiar Sherlock-isms; Downey lazes around his (uncharacteristically) sloppy Baker Street rooms and moans, “My mind rebels at stagnation.” Sadly, there were fewer lines in the script that allowed Downey to show the full extent of his character’s fierce intelligence, or the amusing mixture of arrogance and impatience with which Holmes often regards those of lesser intellectual powers.

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I picked up Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood this summer and slowly worked my way through most of it, only to leave it lying unattended by my bedside for months.

Not that it isn’t a gripping tale. The non-fiction, which details the murder of a family of four in rural Kansas, often has the same appeal as a good horror flick. Before the bloody deed is done, it’s easy to get wrapped up in the suspense: the only question is how the victims, Mr. Clutter and his family, will be snuffed out.

My problem came after Kansas detectives bag Perry Smith and Dick Hickock, Mr. Clutter’s twisted assailants. Perhaps my disinterest can be blamed on having seen Philip Seymour Hoffman’s brilliant turn as the author in the 2005 film Capote. Unfortunately, I know how this story is going to end.

That aside, I’ve got a bigger bone to pick with Capote, and it has to do with good old-fashioned journalism. Capote’s claim to fame was his ability to conjure vivid, true-to-life scenes from actual events. The author himself called In Cold Blood a “nonfiction novel,” and laid claim to its total veracity.

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