We’re freaks, that’s all. Those two bastards got us nice and early and made us into freaks with freakish standards, that’s all. We’re the tattooed lady, and we’re never going to have a minute’s peace, the rest of our lives, until everybody else is tattooed, too.

Why's it so sunny?" she repeated. Zooey observed her rather narrowly. "I bring the sun wherever I go, buddy," he said.

The true poet has no choice of material. The material plainly chooses him, not he it.

It's really too bad that so much crumby stuff is a lot of fun sometimes.

Your heart, Bessie, is an autumn garage.

The more expensive a school is, the more crooks it has — I'm not kidding.

Yet a real artist, I've noticed, will survive anything. (Even praise, I happily suspect.)