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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.

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
Children
Wife
Splits
Way
Asks
Dedication
World
Four
Runs
Running
Affection
Left
Gratitude
Stills
Anybody
Amateur
Still
Reader
Reads
Book
Ways
Split

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I feel overwhelmingly grateful to them, but I don't know what to do with their invisible gifts.
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Pencey was full of crooks. Quite a few guys came from these wealthy families, but it was full of crooks anyway. The more expensive a school is, the more crooks it has - I'm not kidding.
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What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.
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If there's one thing I hate, it's the movies. Don't even mention them to me.
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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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Poets are always taking the weather so personally. They're always sticking their emotions in things that have no emotions.
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That's the whole trouble. You can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there isn't any.
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It isn't very serious, I have this tiny little tumor on the brain.
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Sleep tight, ya morons!
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His eldest sister (who modestly prefers to be identified here as a Tuckahoe homemaker) has asked me to describe him as looking like 'the blue-eyed Jewish-Irish Mohican scout who died in your arms at the roulette table at Monte Carlo.
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It's not too bad when the sun's out, but the sun only comes out when it feels like coming out.
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Who in the Bible besides Jesus knew--knew--that we're carrying the Kingdom of Heaven around with us, inside, where we're all too goddam stupid and sentimental and unimaginative to look?
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She said she knew she was able to fly because when she came down she always had dust on her fingers from touching the light bulbs.
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I know he's dead! Don't you think I know that? I can still like him, though, can't I? Just because somebody's dead, you don't just stop liking them, for God's sake--especially if they were about a thousand times nicer than the people you know that're alive and all.
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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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Sentimentality is loving something more than God does.
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Sometimes I see me dead in the rain.
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You can't exist in this world with such strong likes and dislikes.
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It's so silly. All you do is get the heck out of your body when you die. My gosh, everybody's done it thousands of times. Just because they don't remember, it doesn't mean they haven't done it.
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I ignored the flashes of lightning all around me. They either had your number on them or they didn't.
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