People are mostly hot to have a discussion when you're not.
If you do something too good, then, after a while, if you don't watch it, you start showing off. And then you're not as good any more.
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.
It's not too bad when the sun's out, but the sun only comes out when it feels like coming out.
Nobody who's really using his ego, his real ego, has any time for any goddam hobbies
I can be quite sarcastic when I'm in the mood.
Sentimentality is loving something more than God does.
I don't know what good it is to know so much and be smart as whips and all if it doesn't make you happy.
Always, always, always referring every goddam thing that happens right back to our lousy little egos.
I just hope that one day - preferably when we’re both blind drunk - we can talk about it.
Where do the ducks go in the winter?
Sometimes you get tired of riding in taxicabs the same way you get tired riding in elevators. All of a sudden, you have to walk, no matter how far or how high up.
If I were a piano player, I'd play it in the goddam closet.
I mean it's very hard to meditate and live a spiritual life in America. People think you're a freak if you try to.
Boy, when you're dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead?
Keep me up till five because all your stars are out, and for no other reason…Oh dare to do it Buddy! Trust your heart. You’re a deserving craftsman. It would never betray you. Good night. I’m feeling very much over-excited now, and a little dramatic, but I think I’d give almost anything on earth to see you writing a something, an anything, a poem, a tree, that was really and truly after your own heart.
Did you ever get fed up?' I said. 'I mean did you ever get scared that everything was going to go lousy unless you did something?
We are, all four of us, blood relatives, and we speak a kind of esoteric, family language, a sort of semantic geometry in which the shortest distance between any two points is a fullish circle.
You don't know how to talk to people you don't like. Don't love, really. You can't live in the world with such strong likes and dislikes.
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.
People never notice anything.
God, how I still love private readers. It’s what we all used to be.
She wrote to him fairly regularly, from a paradise of triple exclamation points and inaccurate observations.
A confessional passage has probably never been written that didn't stink a little bit of the writer's pride in having given up his pride.
Bessie: 'Why don't you get married?' Zooey: 'I like riding in trains too much. You never get to sit next to the window anymore when you're married.
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