Give me a story that just makes me unreasonably vigilant. Keep me up till five only because all your stars are out, and for no other reason.

The rest, with very little exaggeration, was books. Meant-to-be-picked-up books. Permanently-left-behind books. Uncertain-what-to-do-with books. But books, books. Tall cases lined three walls of the room, filled to and beyond capacity. The overflow had been piled in stacks on the floor. There was little space left for walking, and none whatever for pacing.

Do you know what I was smiling at? You wrote down that you were a writer by profession. It sounded to me like the loveliest euphemism I had ever heard. When was writing ever your profession? It's never been anything but your religion.

I'm sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody.

It's not too bad when the sun's out, but the sun only comes out when it feels like coming out.

Were most of your stars out? Were you busy writing your heart out?

The catcher in the rye... that's all I really want to be.