The existence of God, the why of life, was all that really only a question of glands?

An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else's.

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

But I do say that educated and scholarly men, if they’re brilliant and creative to begin with—which, unfortunately, is rarely the case—tend to leave infinitely more valuable records behind them than men do who are merely brilliant and creative. They tend to express themselves more clearly, and they usually have a passion for following their thoughts through to the end.

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.

Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.

Poets are always taking the weather so personally.