If you really want to know the truth, J.D. Salinger was an indolent goddam fraud.
After sponging off his well-off, indulgent parents as a serial washout, this Salinger misfit sponged an entire adult life as the beneficiary of unearned privilege from a crappy novel about some indolent goddam fraud whining about unearned privilege.
When he wasn't writing a crappy novel, which was basically his entire goddam life, this phony bastard was interrupting his weird, antisocial ways only to conduct a series of weird, loser relationships with creepily younger woman. Salinger was the kind of guy who lived with his parents in his 30s, then, in his 50s, would talk a nice, intelligent, awe-struck and immature 18-year-old girl into his bed, bang her for part of a year, then move on. A real creep. I mean, anybody could see it.
Face it. The only people who bought Salinger's novel were school district purchasing clerks, acting on orders from goddam English department administrators adopting the previous semester's reading list by rote for 50 years . . . because kids can't complain about the crap they're assigned to read, and even if they complain, who cares?
I mean, do you know anybody who ever bought a Salinger book with his own money? Anybody? I mean, other than phonies?
What a load of crap. The book and the guy, both. A real phony.