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It always smelled like it was raining outside, even if it wasn't, and you were in the only nice, dry, cosy place in the world.

J. D. Salinger

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J. D. Salinger
Age: 91 †
Born: 1919
Born: January 1
Died: 2010
Died: January 27
Author
Novelist
Writer
New York City
New York
Jerome David Salinger
Jerome Salinger
Even
Smelled
Always
Raining
Like
Dry
World
Rain
Outside
Wasn
Nice
Place
Cosy

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If you're not in the mood, you can't do that stuff right.
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Life is a game, boy. Life is a game that one plays according to the rules.
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I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life.
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Zooey said... It would be very nice to come home and be in the wrong house. To eat dinner with the wrong people by mistake, sleep in the wrong bed by mistake, and kiss everybody good-bye in the morning thinking they were your own family.
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Her joke of a name aside, her general unprettiness aside, she was, in terms of permanently memorable, immoderately perceptive, small-area faces, a stunning and final girl.
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And I have one of those very loud, stupid laughs. I mean if I ever sat behind myself in a movie or something, I'd probably lean over and tell myself to please shut up.
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It happens to be one of those days when I see everybody in the family, including myself, through the wrong end of a telescope.
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One day a long time from now you'll cease to care anymore whom you please or what anybody has to say about you. That's when you'll finally produce the work you're capable of.
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There are still a few men who love desperately.
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I'd never yell, Good luck! at anybody. It sounds terrible, when you think about it.
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Oh, this happiness is strong stuff.
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I'm aware that many of my friends will be saddened and shocked, or shock-saddened, over some of the chapters in 'The Catcher In the Rye.' Some of my best friends are children. In fact, all my best friends are children. It's almost unbearable for me to realize that my book will be kept on a shelf out of their reach.
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If there is an amateur reader still left in the world - or anybody who just reads and runs - I ask him or her, with untellable affection and gratitude, to split the dedication of this book four ways with my wife and children.
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Sensitive. That killed me. That guy Morrow was about as sensitive as a toilet seat.
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I prayed for the city to be cleared of people, for the gift of being alone—a-l-o-n-e: which is the one New York prayer that rarely gets lost or delayed in channels, and in no time at all everything I touched turned to solid loneliness.
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People never notice anything.
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I can’t explain what I mean. And even if I could, I’m not sure I’d feel like it.
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She was wearing a canary-yellow two-piece bathing suit, one piece of which she would not actually be needing for another nine or ten years.
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I privately say to you, old friend... please accept from me this unpretentious bouquet of early-blooming parentheses: (((()))).
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I never seem to have anything that if I lost it I'd care too much about.
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