It was April 23, 1972 and a young girl named Joyce Maynard was publishing an essay in the prestigious magazine ‘The New York Times’, titled “An Eighteen year old looks back on life”.
Meanwhile, in Cornish, New Hampshire, J.D Salinger, as usual, was at his home reading his correspondence. His Newspapers, fan letters, bills, and magazines formed a tiny mountain on the bureau. On top of that mountain, full of the most informal literature, there was the article. A very shy Joyce Maynard was on the cover, and immediately he felt curious about what an eighteen year old girl had to say about life.
Meanwhile, in Cornish, New Hampshire, J.D Salinger, as usual, was at his home reading his correspondence. His Newspapers, fan letters, bills, and magazines formed a tiny mountain on the bureau. On top of that mountain, full of the most informal literature, there was the article. A very shy Joyce Maynard was on the cover, and immediately he felt curious about what an eighteen year old girl had to say about life.
“This is actually interesting”, he said to himself. He took a piece of paper and started to write a letter where he told her that she was a very good writer, but also, that she had to be careful with fame and publicity, because they could really ruin a writer’s life. Before saying goodbye he added, “Your ego is your worst enemy”.
When Maynard received the letter she could not believe it, although she was the only one in her class that had not read before Salinger’s famous novel “The Catcher In The Rye”. But the fact that one of the greatest writers of the 20Th century was sending her a letter and congratulating her because of something she had written, really impressed her. She wrote him back. He answered. And after twenty five letters she was dropping out of Yale university to live with him.
For almost a year, to Joyce, her life was that house. Every morning she would sit in the same sofa to watch J.D religiously write several novels that he would never publish in his life. He once said in an interview that for him there was a marvelous peace in not publishing ... he liked to write. He loved to write. That everything he ever wrote was just for himself and for his own pleasure.
At first things were perfect, they had each other and that was all that mattered. But after ten months, defects began to show, and they didn’t seem so perfect anymore. However, Joyce was still in a bubble full of idealizations. But J. D wasn’t so naive (after all, he was 53 at the time). Until one day, walking on the beach, he said to her that their relationship was over, and still looking at the Atlantic, he added the last words he ever said to her: “Go home, take your stuff out of the house before I return. And you know what? I'm sorry I noticed you. You do not even know how to write”. So, alone and sad, she took off, and never came back.
From its beginning things were not right. She abandoned lots of things for him, and in return he felt enormously let down by her. Anyone who dares to write about them knows that this is not a happy love story.