One of the darkest days I experienced as an editor was working on a sequel. A dank, depressing and frankly ridiculous book, Cosette or the Time of Illusion – a risible sequel to Les Miserables – was an aberration made worse by the fact the heirs of Victor Hugo wanted the book banned. The court case in France rumbled on for weeks – and if they'd have called me as a witness, I'd have gladly testified in Hugo's favour. Never have I felt so sullied even by the thought of a book – that was until I read about 60 Years Later Coming Through the Rye.
Its gum-tighteningly awful title can only hint at the disaster lurking within its pages. Written by the improbably named John David California, 60 Years Later Coming Through the Rye, is a "sequel" to The Catcher in the Rye, taking up the story of the world's most celebrated non-wizard teenager when he is 76. I feel dirty just writing that sentence down, and I hope everyone connected with the project – and especially you, Mr California – feels the same about what they're about to pump into this already diseased and corrupted world.
For the record, I am no huge fan of The Catcher in the Rye. In fact, to me, it's nothing more than a great opening line spoiled by 200-odd pages of sebum squeezing. But that's not to say I can't understand the affection in which it's held. For many people I know, it occupies a very special place in their heart; a book that is simultaneously a comfort, a challenge and a nostalgia hug. For such readers, interfering with their memories of that book must be as horrifying as discovering that your first love is now married to the kid who bullied the hell out of you at school. It's just plain wrong.
What I find fascinating is the sheer brass balls of the man. At what point did he decide that he, above all others, was perfectly placed to re-imagine one of the classic characters of 20th-century literature? Even if the thought occurred to you, wouldn't you give it a wide berth? Wouldn't any self-respecting author – published or not – simply say no? I mean what's he got lined up next? Ulysses II: A New Day? Lolita Goes to College? The Crying of Lot 50?
Some of the worst experiences I've ever had in books have been with sequels. Notwithstanding the Cosette nightmare, there's Birthday by Alan Sillitoe, a novel as sedentary as Saturday Night and Sunday Morning was electrifying; Closing Time by Joseph Heller – which wasn't as bad as people made out, but still stank like 30-year-old garbage; and, perhaps most damagingly, Billy Liar on the Moon.
Billy Liar always spoke more plainly to me than Holden Caulfield, which is why I found Billy Liar on the Moon one of the worst books ever written. Drab, bland and devoid of all of the things that made the original the perfect teenage novel, Keith Waterhouse's sequel feels and reads like the desperate act of a creative bankrupt. But at least Waterhouse wrote the original: what's California's excuse?
60 Years Later Coming Through the Rye might be brilliant. It could be that missing Salinger novel that so many people have craved. Or it might be a flimsy, cheap, attention-seeking piece of opportunistic schlock clinging with whitened knuckles to the coattails of literary greatness. Either way – and I think we've all got a pretty good idea of how it's likely to turn out – I think Holden would appreciate the irony of there now being a phoney Caulfield in the literary universe ...