Hothouse

By Eduardo Rincon

On its surface, J.D. Salinger’s “A Perfect Day for Bananafish” is, in essence, a story about nothing in particular. A phone conversation, a swim in the ocean, an altercation in an elevator—there’s not much plot here, and hardly a memorable action until the story’s sudden climactic finale. But it’s precisely in these mundanities, these one-on-one conversations between characters that Salinger crafts a harrowing portrait of a man struggling to adjust to life in his own post-war world. Doing his best Hemingway impression, Salinger relies almost exclusively on dialogue that is tactfully (and sparingly) supplemented by subtle actions to indirectly construct Seymour Glass’ broken psyche, piece by inferred piece. Indeed, Seymour is the story’s main focus, but hardly its protagonist. He is entirely missing from its first half, presented instead as the nebulous subject of a conversation between Muriel and her mother who is characterized solely by clues drawn from this dialogue. Even when Seymour does enter the narrative, his development and characterization are reliant not on his actions or even his own thoughts, but rather on his conversations with those around him. Seymour’s playful, innocuous interactions with the young Sybil point to his deep alienation and nostalgia for the simpler times of childhood—especially when taken in stark contrast with his unprovoked outburst with the woman on the elevator. By forsaking traditional plot structure, Salinger creates a jagged, dialogue-heavy narrative that reflects the shattered mental state that Seymour hides behind his everyday activities. It is not by analyzing or even peering into Seymour’s psyche, but by inferring from humdrum exchanges that the story creates a troubling and effective portrait of post-war malaise. 

In the story’s first act, Salinger keeps Seymour completely in the background and uses the phone call between Muriel and her mother—through all its interruptions and trivialities—to gradually and indirectly reveal Seymour’s deep sense of alienation from those around him. Throughout their conversation, both women appear to care for Seymour’s well-being; however, their dialogue reveals a degree of self-absorption that relegates his struggles to just another superficiality. Take, for example, the way Seymour is introduced: when her mother asks who drove the two, Muriel replies with a simple “He did,” further adding that “he drove very nicely. I was amazed” (1). Despite her mother’s worry, Muriel responds with annoyed nonchalance and presents Seymour to the reader as a nameless figure. His existence is reverentially implied, not explicitly stated. Even with limited context, it’s clear that something is the matter with this “he.” And yet, Muriel immediately deflects her mother’s concern, practically infantilizing him by claiming to be “amazed” by his ability to drive “very nicely.” This bit of dialogue alludes to Seymour’s instability by bringing his motor functions into question, but he remains nameless as Muriel goes on to interrupt her mother with growing irritability, defending Seymour as one might defend a child. Indeed, she only begins mentioning him by name when stating that “Seymour told Daddy that he’d pay for [the car],” pointing to her superficiality and lack of concern for Seymour beyond his material benefits, so to speak (1). 

From there, the two discuss Seymour’s deteriorating mental health with growing urgency, but these concerns fall on deaf ears—on both sides. The mother fears Seymour may “completely lose control of himself” and Muriel describes her husband as “pale and all” (2, 3). But immediately, they devolve into petty, materialistic non-conversation as Muriel changes the subject: “Anyway, after Bingo night, [the psychiatrist] and his wife asked me if I wouldn’t join them for a drink. So I did. His wife was horrible. You remember that awful dinner dress we saw in Bonwit’s window” (3)? Upon mentioning the psychiatrist at the hotel, Muriel’s mind immediately goes to judging his wife based on her outfit as she looks to altogether avoid Seymour as a topic of conversation. And her mother, despite her previous concerns, gives in and entertains this triviality. Simply put, Muriel is obstinately convinced that Seymour is just fine while her mother sees him as a threat to her daughter. Throughout the phone call, neither listens to the other; the mother’s fear of Seymour is met with irritated insouciance, and Seymour’s troubled state—alluded to yet never truly discussed—takes a backseat to trifling, materialistic commentary. In this minimalist, dialogue-heavy storytelling, Salinger maintains an Olympian distance from his narrative, keeping Seymour ambiguous and defenseless in the conversation to create and communicate the sense of alienation and distance within him.

The story then takes a jarring turn, both in setting and in tone, as Sybil and Seymour’s playful interactions take center stage. In contrast with the phone call’s rushed and hostile mood, this segment sees Seymour genuinely connecting with the young Sybil through innocuous and even wholesome conversation, which Salinger includes to express Seymour’s longing for a return to innocence. Sybil is, of course, a little girl, but Seymour speaks to her with a degree of respect and comfort reminiscent of real, healthy friendship:

“Then the young man picked her up and laid her down on her stomach to float.

‘Don’t you ever wear a bathing cap or anything?’ he asked.

‘Don’t let go,’ Sybil ordered. You hold me, now.’

‘Miss Carpenter. Please. I know my business,’ the young man said. ‘You just keep your

eyes open for any bananafish. This is a perfect day for bananafish’” (6).

Unlike Muriel, Seymour does not patronize the young girl in his dialogue with her. Rather, he does the opposite: he meets her halfway, treating her with the respect of a fellow adult while maintaining the playfulness and curiosity of a child. Their dialogue just radiates with the exact innocence and simplicity of childhood that Seymour desires. Yet again, nothing actually happens to indicate this, nor does Salinger take us inside the mind of his protagonist to tell us; after all, Seymour and Sybil simply take a swim and talk about made-up fish. But therein lies the thematic crux of the story: the pair’s conversation is mundane, yes, but far from empty; they display mutual trust in each other, as well as a natural rhythm that indicates a genuine connection. Compared to the vapid nature of Muriel and her mother, Seymour is drawn to the childhood innocence of Sybil—not in any sort of predatory way, of course, but really more in a tragic one. He finds himself disillusioned with the post-war world around him, alienated from his loved ones as he clings to the comfort and security of earlier times that Sybil embodies. He is truly a bananafish out of water, as it were. 

It’s also important to note that Seymour is never mentioned by name again, neither by Sybil nor by Salinger in his limited narration. In fact, Salinger only makes his main character known by way of a humorous reference from Sybil: “‘See more glass, said Sybil Carpenter, who was staying at the hotel with her mother. ‘Did you see more glass’” (4)? Of course, this a pun on the name Seymour Glass, and on the one hand, it works to highlight the young girl’s childish playfulness. But as the lone reference to Seymour, it creates even more distance between Salinger and the narrative—and more importantly, between Seymour and the world around him. Notice how Sybil is formally introduced with her full name; Seymour, on the other hand, is simply “the young man” from here on out. Even when present and active in the story, Seymour is nameless, his very identity hinted at by the inference of a pun. Beneath this lengthy, innocuous dialogue, Salinger creates a portrait of a man scarred by war who longs for the solace of days gone by.

This solace that Sybil provides for Seymour, however, is merely fleeting, and it vanishes as soon as Seymour finds himself alone once again. As he returns to his room, he chooses to pick a fight with a female guest in the elevator for, apparently, no reason at all:

“‘I see you’re looking at my feet,’ he said to her when the car was in motion.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said the woman.

  ‘I said I see you’re looking at my feet.’ […]

  ‘If you want to look at my feet, say so,’ said the young man. ‘But don’t be a God-damned

  sneak about it” (7). 

This altercation is both redundant and rather uneventful; it’s essentially a back-and-forth of the same two phrases, and it ends as quickly as it began. But taken in immediate contrast with Seymour’s interactions with Sybil, it’s a clear manifestation of his trauma and disillusionment with the world. His tone here is a far cry from the cheerfulness and innocence he showed moments earlier. Seymour’s remarks are hostile, and most importantly, unprovoked. The woman on the elevator acts as a foil to Sybil and her innocence, a representation of the “real world” that Seymour feels so alienated from. And for this reason, Seymour feels threatened by the woman, choosing to accuse her of something as trivial as looking at his feet. To Seymour, however, it’s not so trivial, as he perceives this to be a transgression: “‘I have two normal feet and I can’t see the slightest God-damned reason why anybody should stare at them,’ said the young man” (7). On the surface, he seems to be simply lashing out, perhaps due to some personal insecurities; but in a deeper sense, Seymour reveals the true extent of his post-war trauma. He wants to be normal and for those around him to see him as such, but instead he feels scrutinized and judged “for no God-damned reason.” With Sybil gone, he is forced back into the reality that he’s so dissatisfied with. Through this unprovoked altercation, Salinger indirectly communicates Seymour’s feelings of alienation and frustration with the world that culminate in the story’s tragic ending.

At its core, “A Perfect Day for Bananafish” is a tale of three conversations. In each, Salinger employs a Hemingway-esque, minimalist narrative style to explore Seymour’s broken psyche through heavy, humdrum dialogue. Through this narrative distance, Salinger keeps the reader out of Seymour’s mind and instead relies on experiences and interactions to communicate its main theme of post-war malaise. But beyond this central theme, Salinger offer commentary on another that is more universal: that the human experience, in its more straightforward form, is itself made up of humdrum, mundane moments. And like his narrative construction, it’s up to the beholder to deduce and decide wherein lies the meaning.