By Heather Robinson"It is tempting to lament that Salinger spent the last fifty years in self-imposed isolation in a cabin in Cornish, N.H., and stopped publishing in the 1960’s. But in an era of prodigious blogging (which I have dubbed “blogorrhea,” meaning lengthy, self-indulgent blogging done purely for the sake of author’s ego), and fame-seeking writers who care less about quality than slapping together something marketable, Salinger’s spare, deeply-imagined and deeply-felt works–most notably “Catcher”–shine brighter than ever. His life and death also cause me to reflect on whether all the compulsive “doing” in the world really does uplift it. Or whether the best a true artist can do is create one perfect masterpiece and leave the world alone."
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