‘What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.’
J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye, Holden Caulfield

Having just finished The Observations, an absorbing read, tea time with the author isn’t on my wish list. Jane Harris is probably a perfectly endearing friend to her inner circle, but she’s already shared a generous swath of herself in this book. That’s enough for me.

When I was a kid, William F. Buckley Jr. dropped by our living room once a week, slouched himself into a low chair with a pad of notes propped on his boney knee, and proceeded to ply his trade with erudite precision. I distinctly recall thinking, ‘I wish I knew enough about the world to be his sparring partner.’ It looked like fun. It wasn’t his ideology that lured me; it was the way he unfurled the life of the mind with his langourous repartee. Pal around with old Bill off the air? No thanks!

My reclusive genes probably guide my steps away from befriending talented greats. A checklist involving Howard Gardner’s multiple intelligences reveals (no surprise) that I’m rich in the intra-personal style of learning, happily lost in the warm arms of solitude and reflection. From this comes a certain respect for artist anonymity. The likes of Salinger and Dylan would never find me skulking around their hedges, hoping for a chat on the front stoop.

My own friends and kin, even the gregarious ones, don’t tend to be companions of my artist life either. Something about the intimate honesty of a work of fiction, which most songs are, seems to incite a strong urge in said dear ones to pretty much ignore what I rather love to do most.

A gathering of songwriters I once lead gradually morphed away from, ‘What’s the state of your artist soul?’ to, ‘How’s the family? Any gigs coming up?’ The group did hone in on lyrics and melody now and then, reminding us all we were not alone in our singular passions.

Salinger’s Caulfield fantasized about getting to know his favorite authors. Salinger the author was known to shun contact with his fans. In reality, creation’s a high lonely road. We best befriend the work itself as most of those who know us well we’ll never chance to meet.

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