It has only been in the past few years … that professional literary critics have taken Salinger under their microscopes for examination. Even this belated inspection has been not so much out of interest in his search as it has in him as a species held in high regard by "The Young Generation." Surely this is of interest, but to make it the most important thing in considering Salinger is to distort the meaning of his work.

Out of my own personal experience, which is that of a student of Columbia College in the early fifties who has spent the last several years in New York, I know that Salinger is indeed regarded highly by many young people. I have heard his work discussed among my friends and acquaintances more than any other contemporary author, and I have heard enough speculation about Salinger himself to feel that there is indeed a "Salinger Myth," as there was in the twenties, though in a different way, a "Fitzgerald Myth." Certainly any myth alive in our fact-smothered era is of interest, and this one perhaps especially since its nature is so extremely different from the twenties myth. The Fitzgerald myth had its hero in Gatsby-like parties and dunkings in the fountain at Union Square; the Salinger myth has its hero living in a cabin in the woods or going to Japan to study Zen. But in both cases the work of the man is of far more importance than the myth. Limiting Salinger's work to its interest as some kind of "document" that appeals only to people of a certain age and social background is as sensible and rewarding as considering The Great Gatsby as a sociological monograph once enjoyed by a now extinct species known as "Flaming Youth."

And yet it seems to follow in the eyes of some older observers that if Salinger is indeed a myth and mentor of many young people, interest in his work is restricted to young people and that this is symptomatic of the fact that it is really childish, sentimental, adolescent, and irrelevant. (pp. 78-9)

Moral senility can come at any age, or need not come at all, and we have recently borne painful witness through the Howls of the writers of the "Beat Generation" that moral senility can afflict quite young men and women. This group dismisses the search of Salinger on the grounds that he is "slick" (he writes for The New Yorker, and as any sensitive person can tell, it is printed on a slick type of paper). But now that the roar from the motorcycles of Jack Kerouac's imagination has begun to subside, we find that the highly advertised search of the Beat has ended, at least literarily, not with love but with heroin. (pp. 80-1)

Holden, through the course of his search, is repulsed and frightened, not by what people do to him … but rather by what people do to each other, and to themselves. (p. 81)