J.D. Salinger is well known and widely read for his seminal book The Catcher in the Rye, but is less appreciated for his short stories, which are some of the best in American letters. Many stories are about the Glass family and almost all of the Glass family stories deal with the enigmatic Seymour, who will be featured in this post.
At first blush, Seymour appears to be an asshole. When asked (innocently) by an in-law what he’d most wish to be, Seymour replies, “a dead cat.” His interlocutor, appalled by the answer and convinced of Seymour’s assholery, asks no follow up. Why, you ask, did Seymour give this answer? Before we spoil all the fun, let’s see some more outlandish behavior.
In “A Perfect Day for Bananafish,” Seymour’s wife, Muriel, also gets the treatment. Honeymooning in Florida, Mrs. Seymour has the following exchange with her mother via telephone:
"Mother," the girl [Muriel] interrupted, "listen to me. You remember that book he sent me from Germany? You know--those German poems. What'd I do with it? I've been racking my--"
"You have it."
"Are you sure?" said the girl.
"Certainly. That is, I have it. It's in Freddy's room. You left it here and I didn't have room for it in the--Why? Does he want it?"
"No. Only, he asked me about it, when we were driving down. He wanted to know if I'd read it."
"It was in German!"
"Yes, dear. That doesn't make any difference," said the girl, crossing her legs. "He said that the poems happen to be written by the only great poet of the century. He said I should've bought a translation or something. Or learned the language, if you please."
"Awful. Awful. It's sad, actually, is what it is. Your father said last night--"
(Taken from here. Book can obviously be purchased here.
“Learned the language”?! What a son of a Bitch! He’s worse than Larry David!
Ahh, but this isn’t Twitter and we can do better.
Investigate the inscrutable and you often find treasure. Seymour is a serious poet, an aesthete, and a child prodigy. If he tells you “the poems happen to be written by the only great poet of the century,” he’s telling the truth and you should do everything in your power to read this poetry if you have any pretense of appreciating art.
His wife, unfortunately, doesn’t give a shit about art. She’s beautiful, frivolous and shallow. She’s painting her nails, reading gossip magazines, worrying about blouses and other nonsense, instead of doing Rosetta Stone lessons on German. Don’t be Muriel.
Seymour’s suggestion to “learn the language” is offhanded but earnest. He’s not fucking around. If otium is truly a state of being you are trying to achieve, as I am, you should not be fucking around either.
“Learn the language” is the ultimate call out to be about something. If Jocko had read this short story, he’d have subtitled his book “Learn the Language.”
It’s also about doing the hard work to achieve something meaningful. In 2009 the Wall Street Journal interviewed MacArthur Genius, best living American author, and top 5 writers of all time Cormac McCarthy. When they asked why he doesn’t write short stories, he replied, “I'm not interested in writing short stories. Anything that doesn't take years of your life and drive you to suicide hardly seems worth doing.” I’d argue it would take at least two years of studying a language to acquire the depth and nuance necessary to appreciate its poetry. McCarthy, in his own words, is telling you to learn the language.
The next time you find yourself making excuses about some a roadblock in your life, think about Seymour the aesthete enjoying the only great poet of the century because he bothered to learn the language.