The death of J. D. Salinger has been on people’s minds as of late.  His stories and the mysterious man who wrote them have been contemplated by an untold number of Americans (and no doubt foreigners as well) at one point or another during their lifetimes.  I am not one to reread many books from my adolescence, and in fact I have only read The Catcher in the Rye and Nine Stories once each.  I first picked up Catcher in the Rye when I was thirteen or so and was in a rented house on the coast of South Carolina with family.  The book was not mine, belonging instead to the unseen owners of the house, but it’s red cover drew me to it like nothing else.  Knowing only a little of the importance of the book I made the choice to steal the copy, one which my adolescent self later regretted.  I didn’t actually begin to read it until later that summer on a family trip.  One afternoon while reading the book as I sat in the shade of a porch I was called to do some kind of chore (what I can’t remember).  At that moment an older woman, whose identity I no longer recall except that I remember her being strong and respected (some family friend, I think), called out: “Wait, he’s reading The Catcher in the Rye!”  It was decided that it would be best for me to stay engrossed in the novel rather than get up and do some work.  I remember thinking how I had never seen an adult give such deference to a novel.  The meaning was clear: the act of reading that book is one that all young teenage Americans should live.  I finished the novel that day.