I’m not sure how old I was when I encountered my mom’s tattery paperback copy of Nine Stories by J.D. Salinger. It may have even been my dad’s which would make me pre-five. I still have it, 35+ years later. Inside the front cover is penciled in large spidery block letters:
W R I T E N B Y H A N N A H
I wrote that.
Here’s one of my favorite stories in that collection. Warning: it’s incredibly sad. Rereading it I see where my love for crushing pathos and rapid fire dialogue comes from. Salinger’s last published story was in 1965. A lifetime ago. Why would he do that.
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