I am a kind of paranoid in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy.

But don't tell me I'm not sensitive to beauty. That's my Achilles' heel, and don't you forget it. To me, everything is beautiful. Show me a pink sunset and I'm limp, by God.

I don't even like old cars. I'd rather have a goddam horse. A horse is at least human, for God's sake.

Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean - except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be.

God, how I still love private readers. It’s what we all used to be.

Ask her if she still keeps all her kings in the back row.

All mothers are slightly insane.