I just finished watching Shane Salerno's documentary, Salinger. It has left
me at once troubled, motivated and hopeful; hopeful that with the right blend
of intention, immersion into his work, consistent, heart-sourced writing and
those mystic siddhis that years of yoga practice have offered me, I
might be able to communicate with him telepathically over time and space; much
like he claims to have communicated with his first, ex-Nazi wife. That detail,
the Nazi one, may not be so important – except that it highlights the marked,
man-making trait of flat-out unwavering allegiance to not giving a F what
people, what a misshapen and misguided society might believe to be right or
wrong; an allegiance, moreover, to a transcendent code that, given some
of his actions to the contrary, could only be truly understood and appreciated
by a minority.
Indeed, his seeming contradictions are enough to set page-loads
of questions after him, though departed he may be from this mortal coil. That's the part that troubled me:
that the media, fans, writers, reporters, all felt the need to question him, to
hound him with questions, nay – with insignificant questions. When faced
with such a mind, a spirit, a being; if you're going to take the effort to go
after him, wouldn't there at least be a "How's your heart?",
"How's your life going?" rapport? Perhaps there had been, but as the
documentary painted it, his enigma drew out the crazed and demanding vs. kindred
seeking-souls. Though the truth is, the world we face (or would it be the world which
faces us?) really is our mirror.
His contradictions were just indicators, signs pointing to some deeper
truth, a bigger question begging to be asked, one I don't believe he pretended
to have the answer to, but was at least astute and interested enough to uncover
and present to the world for the unpacking. That is, "Don't you see what a
waste this all is?" And then, “So, what’s golden?” What frustrated me some
is that, instead of asking him about the root cause for and therefore, solution to, The Catcher in the Rye
(which in truth, could only be Salinger’s own inner state), his hounds wanted
to know what to do about their own lives, their own writing careers, how to
manage their own frail and suspicious conceptions of self. This newly revealed
conception of self and society, by the grace of Salinger’s cutting observation
and commentary, caused many to lose their grip on life as they thought they’d
known it, leaving newly disillusioned (some might even say awakened) souls foundering amidst and fighting
against the foggy motives of a superficial, lie-filled world, just like Holden Caufield.
But I do understand that to stand face-to-face with a writer, an artist, a being
of incalculable depth and intelligence, one who has so suddenly invested you (and
so many of your generation) with the utmost meaning, is debilitating on a
critical, frontal-lobe-level.
This artistic process of projecting one’s psychology onto a character (or a
work), sending it into the world to come head-to-head with similar experiences
and perceptions contained in receivers, who in a moment of utter mercy and
open-armed acceptance, look into that long-sought for mirror, reveals the
essence of the primum, the primal, the original exchange. Therein, his
occupation with Vedantic teachings doesn't surprise me in the least. Indeed, it reassures
me that his talent wasn't a clever fluke, but instead a studied and soulful
stream stemming from the artery of eternal knowledge, of timeless truth, of
ecstatic bliss. And like many connected voices who, almost besides themselves,
cannot but tap into the thoughtsphere to hungrily (even manically) draw out the
marrow for the times, he had this higher understanding before he even knew what
it was. Via his commitment to his craft, his dharma, he was led back to the
spring, the fountainhead.
Which brings me to Roark. Howard Roark, Ayn Rand’s protagonist who refused
to sell out. I couldn't help but marvel at and find joy in their parallels: the indefatigable
commitment to the creative act as the
path, the goal and the reward; the rigorous dedication, self-control, and
determination to remain 100% integral, or at least the attempt to. Perhaps the
figure falls somewhere at 98.6%. But could you ever measure integrity? Even
those bold enough to strive for perfection, for total integrity in purpose and
execution must realize the sheer madness, vanity and self-indulgence it
requires, thereby nullifying any possible arrival at such an unwieldy apex. Yet
most men (and women) of significance are fiercely uncompromising. And the best
of them, a rare breed if there ever was, never have their own interests at the
center of their integrity, have instead built a wall of growing greens around
higher principles meant to serve a core of love, beneficial to all who come in
contact with them, keepers of the most precious commodity. The warrior surely
can be understood to be he who, despite his raging gift, chooses to remain unexploited,
protected from the selfishly motivated (no doubt existing within himself as well) by a buffer of nature as they buy-in to
what may appear to the uninitiated as strange ways.
Which is where Salinger’s contradiction came in. After sharing the most intimate parts of himself through his story telling, he turned around and held fast to his
privacy; to his right to unequivocally own his life and mind and time. He insisted on being published in the most celebrated and widely respected journals. And when he got his praise, dancing with a world ready to throw
their arms around him and toss him to the heights, he glimpsed a bigger
picture, and backed out; recommitted himself to a deeper dedication, one detached from the
rabid recognition that comes with great talent. Nevertheless, he allowed a select few
to penetrate those walls. He exchanged countless letters with young women (girls, really). They
kept him soft-hearted. I would imagine, connected to some sense of innocence
and purity that only a war-torn soldier (aren't we all?) could seek with such fantasy-tinged
desperation and consistent need as he.
Which leads me to his overriding need for absolute control. He was in love with
a striking and intelligent girl. At the same time, he was let off the hook from military
service, considered unfit. If that’s not some sense of fate, then I don’t
know what is. I'm sure he saw the acceptance of this rejection as utterly fatalistic. Perhaps the real fate was, in all actuality, his self-created destiny, his obstinate, hard-working
character (he was a Capricorn, after all). He insisted on going to war. He
eventually got his wish, and lost his lover. What could compel such a hard-nosed
insistence on calling the shots, on demanding another, what some may consider
lesser, hand of cards? Was it inspiration he was seeking; knowing that through war
and the head-on confrontation of death one is assuredly on the path to emerge
on the other side? It’s a truly beautiful, if not awe-inspiring understanding
of duality: to know that if you go so far in one direction, you will come out
on the other end, moreover, having culled some hefty fodder (certainly the most precious of
resources for artists) along the way.
A divine play, is it not? And oh, to live on that level of consciousness!
The thrilling thing about biographies for me, for most of us I'd imagine, is
the opportunity to view a life in its entirety, to glean the bigger picture
without being mired in a myopic scene or temporary drama as we may often find
ourselves in our own daily lives. There's a free-handed ease in approaching
the drawing out of another's life from start to finish. And with that comes a
sense that I too, that we all, can take our lives into consideration on this
scale and play out the stages with full-faith and commitment to a cause – should
we be so lucky to grasp one as all-important, as transformative as JD Salinger
had.
