this. “To
The New Yorker
?”
Hugh shook his head. “No, that was before her time. Dorothy would have handled that. Though I think, by that point, Salinger just gave all his stories directly to
The New Yorker
.” He sighed and shook his head as if to clear it. “The story is a letter home from camp,” he explained, his voice strangled and strange. Angry, I realized, he’s angry. “Seymour Glass, at age seven, writing to his parents from camp. Sixty pages. A
sixty-page letter home from camp
.”
“That sounds kind of postmodern,” I said, smiling.
Hugh sighed and raised his eyebrows at me. “People consider this his
worst
story. I’m not sure why he’d want to publish it as a stand-alone.” Shaking his head, he gestured toward the wall of Salinger books. “He says he doesn’t want attention. This is going to get a
lot
of attention. I don’t understand.”
“Yes,” I said, nodding, but I thought maybe, just maybe, I understood.
Maybe he’s dying
, I thought.
Maybe he’s lonely. Maybe he wants the attention now. Maybe he realized that what he thought he wanted wasn’t what he wanted at all
.
The next morning, my boss stopped at my desk before heading into her office. “Call this Orchids Press and ask for a catalog and a sample of their books.”
I nodded, but she’d already glided off across the thick carpet. From my shelf, I pulled down the
LMP—Literary Market Place
, an enormous, dictionary-sized tome, which lists the name and address of every publisher in the country, along with its staff—and sure enough, there it was: Orchises Press, Alexandria, Virginia. Publisher: Roger Lathbury, the Man Who Conquered Salinger. No other staff was listed. I took a deep breath and dialed. “Hello,” a brisk voice chirped midway through the first ring. Was this the man himself, Roger Lathbury? Suddenly I felt silly, unsure of what to say. When I identified myself as an employee of the Agency, would he not immediately realize I was calling on behalf of Salinger? For once, I wished my boss had dictated a letter. “Yes, hello,” I said finally. “Is this Orchises Press?”
“It is,” said the voice.
“I’m calling from the Agency.” Simply uttering the Agency’s name allowed me to regain my composure. “We’re expanding our submission base, and we’d love to see your most recent catalog, as well as a sample of current books.”
“Well,” the man said, “it would be my pleasure to send those materials on to you!” If he recognized the name of the Agency, he gave no indication of it. Or maybe he simply didn’t know that the Agency represented Salinger? After all, he’d written directly to Jerry.
“You did it?” my boss called the minute I hung up. I hadn’t realized that she could hear my phone conversations from her office and flushed a little, thinking what else she might have overheard over the past few months.
“Done,” I called back. There was a rustling as she got upfrom her chair and walked over to my desk. And another as Hugh joined her.
“Let’s see who they are,” she said. “We need to see what kinds of books they do, what kind of company Jerry will be in. And what the books look like. You know that will matter a lot to Jerry.”
“Really?” I asked. I’d assumed the homogeneous—and singular—style of his books had been purely Little, Brown’s choice. Publishers, I thought, took care of designing books. Writers wrote them.
“Oh boy!” cried my boss. Hugh actually laughed. “You didn’t know that? Jerry has very strong feelings about how a book should look. Not just the cover. The font. The paper. The margins. The
binding
. No illustrations on his covers. Just text. It’s all stipulated in his contracts.”
“No author photo,” added Hugh. “He almost sued his British publisher over the cover of
Nine Stories
.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” my boss cried. “He did
not
sue them. He just was unhappy about it.”
The original cover of
The Catcher
The New Yorker
?”
Hugh shook his head. “No, that was before her time. Dorothy would have handled that. Though I think, by that point, Salinger just gave all his stories directly to
The New Yorker
.” He sighed and shook his head as if to clear it. “The story is a letter home from camp,” he explained, his voice strangled and strange. Angry, I realized, he’s angry. “Seymour Glass, at age seven, writing to his parents from camp. Sixty pages. A
sixty-page letter home from camp
.”
“That sounds kind of postmodern,” I said, smiling.
Hugh sighed and raised his eyebrows at me. “People consider this his
worst
story. I’m not sure why he’d want to publish it as a stand-alone.” Shaking his head, he gestured toward the wall of Salinger books. “He says he doesn’t want attention. This is going to get a
lot
of attention. I don’t understand.”
“Yes,” I said, nodding, but I thought maybe, just maybe, I understood.
Maybe he’s dying
, I thought.
Maybe he’s lonely. Maybe he wants the attention now. Maybe he realized that what he thought he wanted wasn’t what he wanted at all
.
The next morning, my boss stopped at my desk before heading into her office. “Call this Orchids Press and ask for a catalog and a sample of their books.”
I nodded, but she’d already glided off across the thick carpet. From my shelf, I pulled down the
LMP—Literary Market Place
, an enormous, dictionary-sized tome, which lists the name and address of every publisher in the country, along with its staff—and sure enough, there it was: Orchises Press, Alexandria, Virginia. Publisher: Roger Lathbury, the Man Who Conquered Salinger. No other staff was listed. I took a deep breath and dialed. “Hello,” a brisk voice chirped midway through the first ring. Was this the man himself, Roger Lathbury? Suddenly I felt silly, unsure of what to say. When I identified myself as an employee of the Agency, would he not immediately realize I was calling on behalf of Salinger? For once, I wished my boss had dictated a letter. “Yes, hello,” I said finally. “Is this Orchises Press?”
“It is,” said the voice.
“I’m calling from the Agency.” Simply uttering the Agency’s name allowed me to regain my composure. “We’re expanding our submission base, and we’d love to see your most recent catalog, as well as a sample of current books.”
“Well,” the man said, “it would be my pleasure to send those materials on to you!” If he recognized the name of the Agency, he gave no indication of it. Or maybe he simply didn’t know that the Agency represented Salinger? After all, he’d written directly to Jerry.
“You did it?” my boss called the minute I hung up. I hadn’t realized that she could hear my phone conversations from her office and flushed a little, thinking what else she might have overheard over the past few months.
“Done,” I called back. There was a rustling as she got upfrom her chair and walked over to my desk. And another as Hugh joined her.
“Let’s see who they are,” she said. “We need to see what kinds of books they do, what kind of company Jerry will be in. And what the books look like. You know that will matter a lot to Jerry.”
“Really?” I asked. I’d assumed the homogeneous—and singular—style of his books had been purely Little, Brown’s choice. Publishers, I thought, took care of designing books. Writers wrote them.
“Oh boy!” cried my boss. Hugh actually laughed. “You didn’t know that? Jerry has very strong feelings about how a book should look. Not just the cover. The font. The paper. The margins. The
binding
. No illustrations on his covers. Just text. It’s all stipulated in his contracts.”
“No author photo,” added Hugh. “He almost sued his British publisher over the cover of
Nine Stories
.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” my boss cried. “He did
not
sue them. He just was unhappy about it.”
The original cover of
The Catcher
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