People had an illogical, self-serving rationale when it came to interpreting the behavior of others.

Look at Picasso. O’Neill. Tennessee Williams. Capote. Were these shiny happy people spreading sunshine? No. Only the greatest of personal demons can force you to do powerful work.

Within every elaborate lie, a kernel of truth.

I haven't always been a writer and I suppose I tiptoed around the idea of writing full time, because it's so isolating.

...I couldn't let go of the thought that it had, in fact, been he, restless and moody Heathcliff. Day after day, he floated through all the Wal-Marts in America, searching for me in a million lonely aisles.

His characters are ravaged, beaten. They walk through infernos and emerged charred doves.

In America, people of a certain age ask, 'Where were you when Kennedy was shot?' In my house you were more likely to be asked, 'Where were you when you first read 'The Catcher In The Rye?