A corner of my bedroom bookcase is devoted to J.D. Salinger's slim volumes, but winter had me thinking about the classic (and my all-time favorite) "Franny and Zooey."
In it, Lane is a Burberry-coat wearing, insufferable know-it-all who's actually very much in love with his girl, Franny.
He keeps a letter she's written in his inside coat pocket; on one occasion he runs out of places to kiss her and kisses her coat lapel. (Swoon at both of those.)
Anyway, Franny's in the middle of a full-blown spiritual breakdown, but it's the details that get me: They dine on frog's legs and Martinis, rock cashmere like sweats, and get in heated debates over Tolstoy.
The reclusive 91-year-old American author died Wednesday at his home in New Hampshire, to which he'd retired 50 years ago, shirking the literary fame he'd once craved. Rest peacefully.
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