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Recently in Salon Books

The pissed-off muse
She dreamed of being immortalized in literature -- until he showed her his manuscript.
By Abby Ellin
[07/06/99]

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"Bucket of Tongues"
A former janitor turned literary player pens gritty tales of Scottish street life.
By Steve McQuiddy
[07/06/99]

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"The Good Times"
Sharp, staccato Scottish dialogue more macho than Mamet's fills James Kelman's new story collection.
By Todd Pruzan
[07/06/99]

Dear Mr. Blue
A bumpy ride
My taxi driver boyfriend slept with one of his fares. Can I ever trust him again?
By Garrison Keillor
[07/06/99]

Totally RIP-ed
The strange story of Lenin's embalmers and a collection of cheeky epitaphs suggest that the Reaper may not be so grim after all.
By Jonathon Keats
[07/02/99]

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"Hello, can I have J.D. Salinger's phone number?" I asked them.

"What for?"

"I just want to call him and tell him how much I liked his book."

There was a pause on the line. "You're not some kook, are you?"

"Oh no."

"OK then." The woman gave me the number. It was (603) 947-3309. I dialed the number. A man answered. "Yes?"

"Is this J.D. Salinger?"

"Yes. Who's this?"

"Um ... You don't know me, but I just finished 'The Catcher in the Rye' and I wanted to tell you how much I liked it."

"Yeah? Wow. That's really nice of you."

There was a pause. I wasn't sure what else to say. "Yeah, well, I really liked it."

Another pause. This was getting kind of awkward. I heard Salinger clear his throat. "So ... um ... Would you like to come up for a visit?"

"Gee, I don't know, Mr. Salinger. I wouldn't want to intrude."

"No no, come on up. Do you know how to get to Cornish, N.H.?"

"I'm sure I can find it."

"OK. I'll pick you up in front of the post office on Thursday at 3 p.m."

"Great. Wait a minute -- how will I recognize you?"

"I'm a big guy with a happy face."

"Yeah? Funny, that's just how I pictured you."

On Thursday I went up to Cornish and waited in front of the post office. But there was no Salinger.

Finally, a huge gray Lincoln Navigator pulled up and a tall guy in Levi's and a red plaid shirt got out. "J.B.?" he asked.

"That's me."

"Sorry I'm late. I was on the phone with a bunch of New York editors."

"They're all a goddam bunch of phonies," I said.

"You're telling me."

J.D. had to do some errands in town, so I accompanied him while he bought some magazines (Vanity Fair, Premiere, Seventeen, YM and Homeopathic Monthly) and rented some videos from the Cornish Video Shack ("Roman Holiday," "Baby Doll" and "Lolita").

On the drive up to his house we talked about stuff. As it turned out, we had a lot in common. "My name is made up of initials too," I observed.

"Yeah, it's better that way," said J.D. "It's different."

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