When J.D. Salinger decided to cut all ties with this world in the Eighties, I was delighted. One of my favorite writers in the Sixties, he struck me as capable of wonders in the spiritual realm. When he passed away nearly a decade ago, I hoped he had reached enlightenment in the meanwhile (“J.D. Salinger: A Letter to The Economist,” February 7, 2010). But I was rather disappointed when I learned recently that he had written a great deal in his seclusion. In fact, he had spent all of his remaining years writing. According to the news, his son and his third and last wife are now preparing a whole bunch of new books to his name. Even more, Salinger had purportedly entrusted them with the mission of making all of his unpublished writings available to the public. In short, I was deluded about enlightenment. Not even decades of steadfast seclusion could put Salinger on the right path. In retrospect, he was just a writer. My condolences to all the hopefuls around the world.