Phooey, I say, on all white-shoe college boys who edit their campus literary magazines. Give me an honest con man any day.

If a body catch a body coming through the rye.

I thought what I'd do was I'd pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes.

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.

... even the most sublimely accomplished non-stop talker can't consistently please.

What I really felt like, though, was committing suicide. I felt like jumping out the window. I probably would've done it, too, if I'd been sure somebody'd cover me up as soon as I landed. I didn't want a bunch of stupid rubbernecks looking at me when I was all gory.

I have so much I want to tell you, and nowhere to begin.