If you can't, or won't, think of Seymour, then you go right ahead and call in some ignorant psychoanalyst. You just do that. You just call in some analyst who's experienced in adjusting people to the joys of television, and Life magazine every Wednesday, and European travel, and the H-bomb, and Presidential elections, and the front page of the Times, and God knows what else that's gloriously normal.

It's partly true, too, but it isn't all true. People always think something's all true.

I mean it's very hard to meditate and live a spiritual life in America. People think you're a freak if you try to.

If you sat around there long enough and heard all the phonies applauding and all, you got to hate everybody in the world, I swear you did.

I suspect that money is a far greater distraction for the artist than hunger.

I don't even know what I was running for—I guess I just felt like it.

Don't hate me because I can't remember some person immediately. Especially when they look like everybody else, and talk and dress and act like everybody else.