Releasing J.D. Salinger's manuscripts would violate a recluse's privacy

Like the football captain who wants to redefine "no" for his prom date, literary historians are arguing to preserve and maintain the 15 manuscripts found in J.D. Salinger's safe—even though Salinger explicitly ordered the manuscripts burned in his will.

Although the thought of casting secret words of a literary hero into a fire is heart-wrenching, any true fan of Salinger knows turning away from the manuscripts is the right thing to do—because no means no.

Did you ever secretly and guiltily thumb through Kurt Cobain's diary in Barnes & Noble? Remember how incredibly shitty you felt when you read how he much hated being in the public eye? Remember a deep sense of irony smacking you in the face?

Man. That sucked. Look to the right for a picture of a kitty to cheer you up.

Aww.

Cobain wrote in a diary so his thoughts would remain a secret—not published without his consent and sold into the hell-center of corporate America—to a bookstore that does the same thing to Shakespeare that Hitler did to Charlie Chaplin's mustache.

Which is exactly what will happen to Salinger, despite arguments that Salinger's works are more valuable to the literary canon than they are to Salinger—he's dead, after all. So is the canon brigade also going to raid wastebaskets for manuscripts thrown out by authors during the writing process in case they, too, are works of genius?

Salinger once said: "There is a marvelous peace in not publishing. Publishing is a terrible invasion of my privacy. I like to write. I love to write. But I write just for myself and my own pleasure."

And that's the way he felt—strongly. Fifty years without one publication indicates the severity of Salinger's idealistic position. And the manuscripts in Salinger's safe are a diary of sorts—a private exchange of ideas between Salinger and paper.

He gave up his freedom to hide away from people. He squirreled himself away for 50 years. He fought biographies, sequels to his book written by other authors, film interpretations of his work—all to maintain his privacy.

The people in his town were so aggressive in the fight for his protection that they collectively lied for him and misdirected straggling granola-munching trustafarians from his home for half a century.

We might love Salinger, but he didn't give a shit about us.

Please. I know it's hard. I die inside knowing I will never read those manuscripts.
But if the manuscripts are ever published, don't buy them, or look at them, or see the movie. Redirect unbridled nosiness to those celebrities who want it—and leave the weird geniuses alone.