The New Yorker, June 6, 1959; containing Seymour: An Introduction.
I wonder if by January 21, 2011, if we're still alive by then, there will be any announcement about old Jerry. The fifteen to twenty to fifty novels locked in the safe, the autobiography Lillian Ross once mentioned as a project he had speculated about with her...will a year be enough for the Harold Ober Associates to get their act together?
At the very least, that cursedly faithful organization must make some sort of announcement on the anniversary of the man's death to let the faithful know if we have a reason to keep living or not. Twelve months should be sufficient time to work out the rights, the will, the probate or whatever its called process. It was about a year after David Foster Wallace's death that we got the ambiguous news about the publication of the unfinished "The Pale King" sometime in the near future.
Or did Salinger pen some insane will requesting 25 years of silence before publication, like Eugene O'Neill with A Hard Day's Journey Into Night? (O'Neill's wife violated his wishes after two years).