What would you like to call yourself — a writer or a story-teller? I would like to call myself Jeronimo Pinto. I call myself Jerry Pinto. I have been called many things. I try not to use labels because the descriptive degenerates into the prescriptive and the prescriptive becomes restrictive.
Two years ago, I was invited to a dinner party in New York. It took place on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, in a penthouse apartment. Our host was not merely rich: she had a name that through long association with money had itself become a shorthand for wealth. The dinner was being held in honor of a writer, by now old and famous, on the publication of his latest and perhaps final book. And because the book was about Africa, and because as a man ages his thoughts circle around questions of legacy, the writer, who was not himself African, had requested, in lieu of a normal book launch, a quiet dinner with a group of young African writers. This was how I came to be invited.
Kept under lock and key, JD Salinger's three unpublished stories have now escaped online, to a mixed response from fans
What a tease, this guy was. In an era when people (myself included) cannot seem to even wait for a few days before 'publishing' what they write (in the most generous interpretation of the word publish), how does one judge this guy who wanted stuff he wrote to be published half a centuary after his death.
A stream of fiction and stories written by reclusive author J.D. Salinger will be published between 2015 and 2020, according to a new biography about the writer of The Catcher in the Rye, who died in 2010.
The first one I saw was on the corner of West 36th St and Sixth Avenue: a racing bicycle, painted completely white (tyres, saddle, spokes--everything) and chained to a street sign ("Left Lane Must Turn Left").