It's all there. An existence in its unity. The joyful torment of a writer struggling, as always, with his dreams and with the world that resists them.
His name was François Baudot. He was an old friend I scarcely saw in the last months, but whose suicide at the age of 60 moves me deeply.
Salinger gave my generation a permission to write about our lives, our very ordinary adolescent times. He gave us our voice, our right to be serious in our own postwar, perhaps over-privileged, tones.