I think J.D. Salinger is correct in granting no interviews, and in making no speeches

Then Carol slipped her arm under her neck, and all the length of their bodies touched fitting as if something had prearranged it. Happiness was like a green vine spreading through her, stretching fine tendrils, bearing flowers through her flesh. She had a vision of a pale white flower, shimmering as if seen in darkness, or through water. Why did people talk of heaven, she wondered

Perhaps it was freedom itself that choked her.

The justice I have received, I shall give back.

What was it to love someone, what was love exactly, and why did it end or not end? Those were the real questions, and who could answer them?

January. It was all things. And it was one thing, like a solid door. Its cold sealed the city in a gray capsule. January was moments, and January was a year. January rained the moments down, and froze them in her memory: [...]Every human action seemed to yield a magic. January was a two-faced month, jangling like jester's bells, crackling like snow crust, pure as any beginning, grim as an old man, mysteriously familiar yet unknown, like a word one can almost but not quite define.

One situation – maybe one alone – could drive me to murder: family life, togetherness.