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Sometimes I see me dead in the rain.

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
Rain
Dead
Sometimes

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How that name comes up. Mixing memory and desire
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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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I just hope that one day - preferably when we’re both blind drunk - we can talk about it.
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If I were God, I certainly wouldn't want people to love me sentimentally. It's too unreliable.
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The connection was so bad, and I couldn’t talk at all during most of the call. How terrible it is when you say I love you and the person at the other end shouts back ‘What?
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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 ignored the flashes of lightning all around me. They either had your number on them or they didn't.
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She wrote to him fairly regularly, from a paradise of triple exclamation points and inaccurate observations.
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It's funny. All you have to do is say something nobody understands and they'll do practically anything you want them to.
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In my mind, I'm probably the biggest sex maniac you ever saw.
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Give me an honest con man any day.
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Franny was staring at the little blotch of sunshine with a special intensity, as if she were considering lying down in it.
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People never believe you.
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Each of his phrases was rather like a little ancient island, inundated by a miniature sea of whiskey.
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probably for every man there is at least one city that sooner or later turns into a girl. how well or how badly the man actually knew the girl doesn’t necessarily affect the transformation. she was there, and she was the whole city, and that’s that
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who wants flowers when youre dead? nobody.
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Were most of your stars out? Were you busy writing your heart out?
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There isn't anyone anywhere who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. Don't you know that? Don't you know that goddam secret yet? And don't you know — listen to me, now — don't you know who that Fat Lady really is? . . . Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It's Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.
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I don't even know what I was running for—I guess I just felt like it.
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You never even worried, with Jane, whether your hand was sweaty or not. All you knew was, you were happy. You really were.
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