It’s hard to love the sport without being, also, deeply aware of what a bestial exhibition it is. It’s uncivilized, dirty, corrupt, and ought to be against the law. It’s a racket that refuses to be rehabilitated, and a volatile, exhilarating vice.

Before I say anything about Slawenski’s compelling but adoring biography of Salinger, I have a question: does anyone really, really understand just why Seymour Glass blows his brains out at the end of  “A Perfect Day for Bananafish”?