“So, what, you got cigarette burns, too?" Gitanes said. Chip showed his palm, "It's nothing." "Self-inflicted. You pathetic American.""Different kind of prison" Chip said.”

“Chip said it was his piano hands - one ain't never doing the same thing as the other.”

“Writers, it is said, all carry a chip of ice in their hearts”

“I got tears in my eyes, but they were not the crying kind, they were just the kind that show you your body agrees so much with what your mind just said.”

“Kat and I talked about Jacob in our own private code."Are you baking cookies yet?" she said. That was standard for : have you fucked?"Oh yeah. We've made a couple dozen by now.""What kind?" In other words, was Jacob any good."Chocolate-chip," I said. "And he not only likes to bake them, he likes to eat them, too.""Congratulations.”

“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.”