Boy, when you're dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead?

I feel overwhelmingly grateful to them, but I don't know what to do with their invisible gifts.

If you sat around there long enough and heard all the phonies applauding and all, you got to hate everybody in the world, I swear you did.

That's the whole trouble. You can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there isn't any.

You know, I'm the only one in this family who has no problems, . . . And you know why? Because any time I'm feeling blue, or puzzled , what I do, I just invite a few people to come visit me in the bathroom, and--well, we iron things out together, that's all.

That's something that annoys the hell out of me-I mean if somebody says the coffee's all ready and it isn't.

It was the last game of the year and you were supposed to commit suicide or something if old Pencey didn't win.