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Very much authors appear frozen in time, stuck forever at the age they were when they first entered the public’s consciousness. That was even truer of J. D. Salinger than most — because he stopped publishing after 1965, because he fiercely guarded his privacy, as he remained so closely identified with the perpetual adolescent Holden Caulfield and the arrested adolescent Seymour Glass — and then the news of Salinger’s dying today was about less shocking than the fact that he was 91 years old when he died.