Sensitive. That killed me. That guy Morrow was about as sensitive as a toilet seat.

You're lucky if you get time to sneeze in this goddam phenomenal world.

People are mostly hot to have a discussion when you're not.

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.

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

As nearly as possible in the spirit of Matthew Salinger, age one, urging a luncheon companion to accept a cool lima bean, I urge my editor, mentor and (heaven help him) closest friend, William Shawn, genius domus of The New Yorker, lover of the long shot, protector of the unprolific, defender of the hopelessly flamboyant, most unreasonably modest of born great artist-editors to accept this pretty skimpy-looking book.

This is God's universe, buddy, not yours, and he has the final say about what's ego and what isn't.