J.D. Salinger

"When I was all set to go, when I had my bags and all, I stood for a while next to the stairs and took a last look down the goddam corridor. I was sort of crying. I don't know why. I put my red hunting hat on, and turned the peak around to the back, the way I liked it, and then I yelled at the top of my goddam voice, "Sleep tight, ya morons!" I'll bet I woke up every bastard on the whole floor. Then I got the hell out. Some stupid guy had thrown peanut shells all over the stairs, and I damn near broke my crazy neck."

Listen, if you're not going to be a nun or something, you might as well laugh.

It's partly true, too, but it isn't all true. People always think something's all true.

I privately say to you, old friend... please accept from me this unpretentious bouquet of early-blooming parentheses: (((()))).

That's the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty, even if they're not much to look at, or even if they're sort of stupid, you fall in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are. Girls. Jesus Christ. They can drive you crazy. They really can.

I can be quite sarcastic when I'm in the mood.

I thought what I'd do was, I'd pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes. That way I wouldn't have to have any goddam stupid useless conversations with anybody. If anybody wanted to tell me something, they'd have to write it on a piece of paper and shove it over to me. They'd get bored as hell doing that after a while, and then I'd be through with having conversations for the rest of my life. Everybody'd think I was just a poor deaf-mute bastard and they'd leave me alone . . . I'd cook all my own food, and later on, if I wanted to get married or something, I'd meet this beautiful girl that was also a deaf-mute and we'd get married. She'd come and live in my cabin with me, and if she wanted to say anything to me, she'd have to write it on a piece of paper, like everybody else

That's the whole trouble. When you're feeling very depressed, you can't even think.

John Keats / John Keats / John / Please put your scarf on.

Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.

There is a marvelous peace in not publishing ... I like to write. I love to write. But I write just for myself and my own pleasure.

It’s history. It’s poetry.

Did you see more glass?

The thing is, it's really hard to be roommates with people if your suitcases are much better than theirs — if yours are really <i>good</i> ones and theirs aren't. You think if they're intelligent and all, the other person, and have a good sense of humor, that they don't give a damn whose suitcases are better, but they do. They really do.

«مَتی، تو الآن دخترِ کوچیکی هستی. اما هیچ‌کی دختربچه و پسربچه نمی‌مونه - مثلِ خودِ من. یه‌هو دختربچه‌ها ماتیک می‌زنن و پسربچه‌ها ریش می‌تراشن و سیگار می‌کشن. پس خیلی گذراست؛ روزگارِ بچگی رو می‌گم. امروز ده سالته، تو برف می‌دویی می‌آی منو ببینی، و حاضری با من تو خیابون اسپرینگ سُر بخوری؛ فردا بیست‌ساله می‌شی و پسرا می‌آن تو اتاق نشیمن منتظر می‌شن تا حاضر شی و با هم برین بیرون. یه‌هو می‌بینی باید به دربونا انعام بدی، فکرِ گرونی و ارزونیِ لباسات باشی و با دوستات واسه ناهار قرار بذاری و همه‌ش فکر کنی چرا یه مردِ درست و حسابی واسه‌ت پیدا نمی‌شه. همیشه همین‌جور بوده. ولی مَتی حرفِ من -اگه حرفی داشته باشم- اینه که سعی کن مطابقِ تواناییا و آرزوهات زندگی کنی. اگه به مردم قولی می‌دی کاری کن بفهمن از تهِ دل داری قول می‌دی. اگه تو کالج با یه دخترِ خنگ هم‌اتاق شدی، سعی کن کاری کنی بیشتر بفهمه. اگه بیرونِ سینما واسّادی و یه پیرزن میاد بهت آدامس بفروشه، اگه یه دلاری داری همه‌شو بهش بده -ولی فقط یه طوری این‌کارو بکن که بهش برنخوره. درستش اینه، بچه‌جون. خیلی چیزا می‌تونم بهت بگم بگم مَت، ولی نمی‌دونم حرفام درسته یا نه. تو خیلی کوچولویی، ولی حرفمو می‌فهمی. بزرگ که بشی دخترِ باهوشی می‌شی. اگه دختر باهوش و باحالی نشی می‌خوام اصلا بزرگ نشی. تو باید عالی باشی، مَت.