A Perfect Day For Bananafish by J.D. Salinger, 1948
The magic trick:
Letting the reader hear second-hand about Seymour for a few pages before actually meeting him in the story
So here we go – a week for me to clear up perhaps my most glaring short story blindspot. I read The Catcher In The Rye when I was 22 or so. I remember really liking it for a couple months. I couldn’t tell you what happens. I remember it more as an attitude than an actual story. I also remember being a little embarrassed that it had such an effect on me at such an age. Even then I think I knew it was an immature story for teenagers.
Anyway, I know many friends – to say nothing of all the writers and critics – have sworn by Salinger’s Nine Stories. So let’s try it out.
I started with “A Perfect Day For Bananafish,” a very famous story of course. And deeply troubling. I’m actually surprised it was so immediately plugged into the canon, it being so blatantly and disturbingly suggestive of pedophilia during the beach scene.
The writing is showy and quick and marvelous in that kind of immature way that I remember of Catcher. The main trick is the way we hear about Seymour for several pages before we meet him in the story. He’s a key point of discussion during the opening phone call between Seymour’s wife, Muriel, and her mother. We’re given a strong opinion of Seymour from his mother in law before he shows up in the story’s second half.
What that second half – the aforementioned beach scene – is supposed to do to change the reader’s opinion of Seymour, I’m not entirely sure. But it’s a fascinating way to split a character in half and let the reader make up their own mind.
And that’s quite a trick on Salinger’s part.
The selection:
“There’s a psychiatrist here at the hotel,” said the girl.
“Who? What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. Rieser or something. He’s supposed to be very good.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Well, he’s supposed to be very good, anyway.”
“Muriel, don’t be fresh, please. We’re very worried about you. Your father wanted to wire you last night to come home, as a matter of f–”
“I’m not coming home right now, Mother. So relax.”
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