“On sul mõnikord kõigest villand? On sul mõnikord hirm, et kõik läheb kuradile, kui sa ise ei hakka vastu rabelema?”

“Sicché andò a finire che feci il tema sul guantone da baseball di mio fratello Allie. […] Mio fratello Allie, dunque aveva quel guantone da prenditore, il sinistro. Lui era mancino. La cosa descrittiva di quel guanto, però, era che c’erano scritte delle poesie su tutte le dita e il palmo e dappertutto. In inchiostro verde. Ce le aveva scritte lui, così aveva qualcosa da leggere quando stava ad asp...ettare e nessuno batteva. Ora è morto. Gli è venuta la leucemia ed è morto quando stavamo nel Maine, il 18 luglio del 1946. Vi sarebbe piaciuto. Aveva due anni meno di me, ma era cinquanta volte più intelligente di me. Era di un’intelligenza fantastica. […] Aveva solo tredici anni e loro volevano farmi psicanalizzare e compagnia bella perché avevo spaccato tutte le finestre del garage. Non posso biasimarli. Ho dormito nel garage la notte che lui è morto, e ho spaccato col pugno tutte quelle dannate finestre, così, tanto per farlo. Ho tentato anche di spaccare tutti i finestrini della giardinetta che avevamo quell’estate, ma a quel punto mi ero già rotto la mano eccetera eccetera, e non ho potuto. È stata una cosa proprio stupida, chi lo nega, ma io quasi non sapevo nemmeno quello che stavo facendo, e poi voi non conoscevate Allie.”

“He thinks everything sentimental is tender, everything brutal is a slice of realism...”

“this sentence I'm reading is terrific" i can be quite sarcastic when I'm in the mood. He didn't get it, though. He started walking around the room again, picking up all my personal stuff, and Stradlater's. Finally, I put my book down on the floor. you couldn't read anything with a guy like Ackley around. It was impossible. I slid way the hell down in my chair and watched old Ackley making himself at home. I was feeling sort of tired from the trip to New York and all, and I started yawning. then horsing around a little bit. Sometimes I horse around quite a lot, just to keep from getting bored. what i did was, I pulled the old peak of my hunting hat around to the front, then pulled it way down over my eyes. that way i couldn't see a goddam thing."I think I'm going blind,"I said in this very hoarse voice."Mother darling, everything's getting do dark in here." "You're nuts. I swear to God,"Ackley said. "Mother darling, give me your hand, Why won't you give me your hand?" "For Chrissake, grow up." I started groping around in front of me, like a blind guy, but without getting up or anything. I kept saying,"mother darling, why wont you give me you're hand ?" I was only horsing around, naturally.”

“For example, when Seymour told one of the twins or Zooey or Franny or even Mme. Boo Boo (who was only two years younger than myself, and often entirely the Lady), to take off his or her galoshes on coming into the apartment, each and all of them knew he mostly meant that the floor would get tracked up if they didn't and that Bessie would have to get out the mop. When I told them to take off their galoshes, they knew I mostly meant that people who didn't were slobs. It was bound to make no small difference in the way they kidded or ragged us separately.”

“You’ve got a goddamn bug today—you know that? What the hell’s the matter with you anyway?" Franny quickly tipped her cigarette ash, then brought the ashtray an inch closer to her side of the table. "I’m sorry. I’m awful," she said. "I’ve just felt so destructive all week. It’s awful. I’m horrible." "Your letter didn’t sound so goddamn destructive." Franny nodded solemnly. She was looking at a little warm blotch of sunshine, about the size of a poker chip, on the tablecloth. "I had to strain to write it," she said.”

“I was surrounded by jerks. I'm not kidding.”