The Most Important Novel of the 20th Century

The death of J.D. Salinger at the age of 91 didn't change his relationships much. No one ever saw him before, either. But it did cause a spirited debate at The Whistle & Thistle Biker Bar and Tea House about The Catcher in the Rye, during Sadness Hour yesterday.

"The most important novel of the 20th century," Bobcat Whistle proclaimed.

"Hell, no," protested Ray Don Davidson, the leader of The Heaven's Demons Biker Gang, Inc, as he scratched his armpit with his pool cue. "It's nothing compared to Bob Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance."

Jim, of the brothers Jim, at the W&T to avoid getting ready for the supper hour at the Buddy Mutts Cafe, was playing a mountain dulcimer softly in the corner. "No," he opined. "It wasn't Catcher or Zen, either one. It was Jack Kerouac's On the Road."

Pastor Patty had stopped in to be sure Del Ecklor, the secret alcoholic, was there. He only drinks alone, so as long as he's at a bar, he's okay. Pastor Patty is young, so she said, "No, it's Dave Eggers' A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius."

Astrid Withehold was sipping Earl Grey from a Vera Lace China cup in the Episcopal Ladies corner. She sniffed and stomped, which was more like a tap, one of the bone pumps that perfectly matched her linen suit and skin. "I cannot let these canards pass," she sniffed. "You Neanderthals and your ilk know nothing of literature. The death of that perverted Salinger this week has totally obscured the death of Hugh Auchincloss. His The Rector of Justin was by far the most important book of the 20th century."

"That doesn't make sense, Miz Withehold, begging your pardon," said Ray Don, scratching his other armpit, "but Mr. Auchincloss couldn't be the most important because he just wrote about real rich New York ilk. They're not like the rest of us."

Astrid tap-stomped her other pump and twirled her pearls. "But that was his genius, you Zen-stained wretch. He showed that the problems of the rich are just like those of everyone else. You can have all the money in the world and still be miserable."

"Yeah, tell it to Bernie Madoff," said the other brother Jim, who was using a chisel to let David escape from the giant persimmon he was sculpting.

"But nobody has even mentioned John Updike or Saul Bellow," said Ben "Seymour" Bottoms.

"And what about Alice Walker or Toni Morrison or Barbara Kingsolver?" his wife, Kate Bates, put in. "I still get chills from that Poisonwood Bible."

"Hell, you get chills from The Little Engine That Could," Ben laughed.

That stopped everyone cold. Before long, Bobcat and Edith, standing on a chair to augment her stature, were holding high the neon Periwinkle Persimmon Wine sign so that the impromptu conga line could use it as a tunnel. Ray Don was leading. Astrid had taken off her white gloves and grabbed the handles of his "I Brake for Bars" tee-shirt. Then came Jim, and Pastor Patty, and Jim, and Del, and Kate and "Seymour," and all the others, their hands kingpinned to the waist in front of them, legs pumping like train wheels, chanting, "I think I can. I think I can. I think I can..."

There was no longer any question about the most important novel of the 20th century.