For joy, apparently, it was all Franny could do to hold the phone, even with both hands.

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

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

Oh, this happiness is strong stuff.

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. I know it's crazy.

Poets are always taking the weather so personally.

I don't suppose a writing man ever really gets rid of his old crocus-yellow neckties. Sooner or later, I think, they show up in his prose, and there isn't a hell of a lot he can do about it.