I felt so lonesome, all of a sudden. I almost wished I was dead.
How old are you? I asked her. "Old enough to know better." she said.
I don't suppose a writing man ever really gets rid of his old crocus-yellow neckties. Sooner or later, I think, they show up in his prose, and there isn't a hell of a lot he can do about it.
Get your dirty stinking moron knees off my chest.
How do you know you're going to do something, untill you do it?
I kept picturing all these little kids in this big field of rye... If they're running and they don't look where they're going, I have to come out from somewhere and catch them.