As much as anything else, it was a stare, not so paradoxically, of a privacy-lover who, once his privacy has been invaded, doesn't quite approve when the invader just gets up and leaves, one-two-three, like that.

I’ll read my books and I’ll drink coffee and I’ll listen to music, and I’ll bolt the door."

( A Boy in France : Saturday Evening Post CCXVII, March 31, 1945)

Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.

I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy.

Rudford lay on his back in the grass and watched great cotton clouds slip through the sky. Peculiarly, he shut his eyes when the sun was momentarily clouded out; opened them when the sun returned scarlet against his eyelids. The trouble was the world might end while his eyes where shut.
It did. His world, in any case.

چیزی که دنبالش می‌گشتم یه جور احساس خدافظی بود. می‌خوام بگم از خیلی مدرسه‌ها و جاهای دیگه رفته‌م بی‌این‌که بدونم دارم واسه همیشه می‌رم. از این خیلی شاکی می‌شم. به درک که خدافظیش غم‌انگیز یا ناجوره ولی وقتی دارم از جایی می‌رم دوس دارم بدونم که دارم می‌رم. آدم اگه ندونه داره واسه همیشه از جایی می‌ره احساسش از خدافظی هم بدتره.