ACT Reading Jun. 2016 72F - Passage III

Passage A by Joanna Smith Rakoff

I knew I suppose, that Salinger was a recluse, but

I didn't understand the extent of his removal from soci­-

ety, in general, and the realms of literature and publish-

ing, specifically. Nor did I understand-naive as this
₅ sounds-the cultlike devotion of his fans.

At Harold Ober Associates, a literary agency, we

were Salinger's gatekeepers-charged with protecting

his life and work. We had to believe that Salinger's pri-

vacy was the most important thing in the world, to be
₁₀ protected at all costs.

During my first months on the job, Salinger

remained a comfortably abstract concept. Then, in June,

he called, anxious to speak to Phyllis Westberg, the

company's president. My stomach lurched a little when
₁₅ I realized that it was Salinger, for real, on the other end

of the phone.

It turned out something momentous was afoot in

Salingerland: Eight years earlier, a small publisher in

Alexandria, Virginia, had written to him, asking
₂₀ whether they might put out a book consisting solely of

Salinger's novella Hapworth 16, 1924, which had

appeared in The New Yorker magazine in 1965. To the

shock of Phyllis, Salinger had, after years of thought,

decided that this "fellow in Virginia" could publish
₂₅ Hapworth. Suddenly, he was calling all the time, anx­-

ious about the details of this new deal, which seemed

like it might mark a tentative re-entry into the world

he'd abandoned 30 years earlier. Ober, just as suddenly,

seemed charged with a frenetic energy. Phyllis bustled
₃₀ around the office and had long conversations with

Salinger, going over the details of the new book, from

the cloth of the binding to the font to the paper stock.

She asked him about the publisher, a retired professor,

whom Salinger seemed to like very much, to Phyllis'
₃₅ surprise. It was not often, I supposed, that Salinger took

a shine to someone new. In a way, I realized, the

Virginia publisher was simply one of the fans whose

letters I fielded one who had managed to break through

the wall of Ober's protectorate and prove to Salinger
₄₀ that, yes, they really were kindred spirits.

The Hapworth book never materialized. The pub­-

lisher gave an interview about Salinger to a local maga­-

zine, and Salinger decided his new friend was a phony

after all.

Passage B by Roger Lathbury

₄₅ It was 1988, and I had written to J. D. Salinger

with a proposal: I wanted my tiny Virginia publishing

house, Orchises Press, to publish his novella Hapworth

16, 1924. And Salinger himself had improbably written

in reply, saying that he would consider it. I was
₅₀ ecstatic, even if I doubted that he'd proceed. And then,

silence.

Eight years went by. In May of 1996, I received a

letter from Phyllis Westberg saying that Mr. Salinger

would soon write to me.

₅₅ Why had he said yes? I think he chose me because

I didn't chase him. I had left him alone for eight years;

I wasn't pushy in the commercial way he found

offensive.

Two weeks later a full-page letter arrived, and it
₆₀ took my breath away. Chatty, personal, it expressed

Salinger's high pleasure in finding a way to put out

Hapworth.

Well into discussions about the deal, I unwittingly

made the first move that would unravel the whole thing.
₆₅ I applied for Library of Congress Cataloging in Publi­-

cation data.

It sounds innocent. CIP data are the information

printed on the copyright page. The filings are public

information, but I didn't imagine that anyone would
₇₀ notice one among thousands.

Then I made another, bigger mistake. What I know

now, but did not then, was that CIP listings are not only

public but also appear on Amazon.com. Someone spot­-

ted Hapworth there, and his sister was a reporter for a
₇₅ local paper in Arlington. She telephoned.

It seems clear now how everything happened. She

asked me basic questions. Foolishly-if reasonably-I

answered most of them. I thought I could control

myself, but my ego came into play. Anyway, what harm
₈₀ could it do? This was a tiny paper.

Then someone at The Washington Post saw it and

called. I refused to speak at first, then answered a few

questions, nervously.

After the story appeared in the Post, my phone
₈₅ nearly exploded. Newspapers, magazines, television

stations,book distributors, strangers, foreign publish­-

ers, movie people. South Africa, Catalonia, Australia.

The only one who didn't call me was Salinger.

I couldn't proceed without him, because we still had
₉₀ too many details unsettled.

I yearned to write to Salinger, but I knew that it

would do no good. He must have been furious with me,

for betraying him by leaking news to the press, or even

confirming it. I could no longer be trusted. I had proven
₉₅ myself part of the crass, opportunistic world that

Salinger's heroes disdain.