Incredible. J.D. Salinger's letters are up on display in the Morgan Library & Museum in NYC -- a gorgeous library founded by Pierpont Morgan (and one of the most magical places for lunch or coffee in midtown).
In a way, you gotta feel bad for the guy. Completely private and a recluse... always wanting to be left alone. In fact, his friendship with his best friend ended when his friend asked Salinger to autograph a copy of Catcher in the Rye (FYI, autographed copies now auction for $100,000+). So what happens? Salinger gets mad at his best friend. His best friend gets mad right back... and sells his correspondences to a collector, who then sells it to a Vanderbilt heir, whose widow donates them to the museum.
Only two months after Salinger's death in January (at the age of 91), these letters are now on display at the Morgan Library. And as much as I feel sorry for the guy given how private he was, how can you not see them?? Man oh man do I wish I were in NY.
The little snippets I've read sound incredible, and totally fitting the author of Catcher in the Rye (which I've read five times). Letter #1 is my favorite:
May 22, 1951
Salinger writes from London, detailing his experiences sharing drinks with a Vogue model he met on the ship. (“No real fun, though.”) Later, he hangs out with Laurence Olivier (“a very nice guy”) and his wife, Vivan Leigh, whom he calls “a charmer.” Salinger finds himself at a party—where he accidentally snorts gin up his nose—with the Australian ballet dancer Robert Helpmann, described as a “sinister looking pansy” and argues with Enid Starkie about Kafka. He also goes to see a play, and compares the theater in New York City to that in London’s West End. “The audiences here are just as stupid as they are in New York, but the productions are much, much better,” he writes to his “Buddyroo,” Mitchell.
Salinger writes from London, detailing his experiences sharing drinks with a Vogue model he met on the ship. (“No real fun, though.”) Later, he hangs out with Laurence Olivier (“a very nice guy”) and his wife, Vivan Leigh, whom he calls “a charmer.” Salinger finds himself at a party—where he accidentally snorts gin up his nose—with the Australian ballet dancer Robert Helpmann, described as a “sinister looking pansy” and argues with Enid Starkie about Kafka. He also goes to see a play, and compares the theater in New York City to that in London’s West End. “The audiences here are just as stupid as they are in New York, but the productions are much, much better,” he writes to his “Buddyroo,” Mitchell.
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