I wasn't actually aware he was still alive: when an author like that goes into reclusive hiding, most sensitive literature fans get the hint. (Alright, so I wanted to stalk him, go and bang on his door, and then cry about the broken record and how I always judge people by how they clip their fingernails, but I've not yet made it to America.) It was strange to suddenly be reminded of him, however, as he had been preying on my mind anyway. I was reading The Collector, by John Fowles, which very much has the same vibe as Catcher does, not simply the lonely male protagonist but the tone of skewed and warped perceptions, and a deep oppressive feeling stemming both from the situations of the characters and their own trapped, introspective mindsets.
Ironically the main character in The Collector is compared to Holden Caulfield by his captive, and is convinced, by her, to read the book, although he is unimpressed. Book within a book, it's all very clever. Could be seen to be labouring the point somewhat considering I had drawn those conclusions anyway, but it's part of the beauty of the story that the increasingly sociopathic captor of a young woman entirely fails to see how he could be similar to this other powerful example of alienation.
Also interestingly, the entire novel is set in Lewes, so I may well be grabbing my bike by the handlebars and my Ordnance Survey map by the plastic outer bit, and having a scour of the countryside. If I think I find the cottage I'll GoogleMap it up here.
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