摘抄

it was about this little kid that wouldn't let anybody look at his goldfish because he'd bought it with his own money. it killed me.
the whole team ostracized me the whole way back on the train. it was pretty funny, in a way.
if i get a chance to remember that kind of stuff, i can get a good-by when i need one-at least, most of the time i can.
it was that kind of a crazy afternoon, terrifically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were disappearing every time you crossed a road.
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.
she just liked the way they looked when they were all in the back row.(下棋）
almost every time somebody gives me a present, it ends up making me sad,
the girls i like best are the ones i never feel much like kidding.
i'd probably to go down to the can and sneak a cigarette and watch myself getting tough in the mirror.
it made me feel sort of sad when i hung it up. i thought of her going in a store and buying it, and nobody in the store knowing she was a prostitute and all.
guys that always talk about how many miles they get to a gallon in their goddam cars.
you should've seen the way they said hello. you'd have thought they hadn't seen each other in twenty years.
take most people, they're crazy about cars. they worry if they get a little scratch on them, and they're always talking about how many miles they get to a gallon.
it's full of phonies, and all you do is study so that you can learn enough to be smart enough to be able to buy a goddam Cadillac some day, and you have to keep making believe you give a damn if the football team loses, and all you do is talk about girls and liquor and sex all day, and everbody sticks together in these dirty little goddam cliques.
i mean they're all right if they go around saving innocent guys' lives all the time, and like that, but you don't do that kind of stuff if you're a lawyer. all you do is make a lot of dough and play golf and play bridge and buy cars and drink Martinis and look like a hot-shot.
he didin't even give a damn if his coat got all bloody.
then, all of a sudden, i started to cry. i couldn't help it, i did it so nobody could hear me, but i did it. it scared hell out of old Phoebe when i started doing it, and she came over and tried to make me stop, but once you get started, you can't just stop on a goddam dime.
the mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one.
and i'd let D.B. come out and visit me for a while if he wanted a nice, quiet place for his writing, but he couldn't write any movies in my cabin, only stories and books.
don't ever tell anybody anything. if you do, you start missing everybody.