It always smelled like it was raining outside, even if it wasn't, and you were in the only nice, dry, cosy place in the world.

If I were a piano player, I'd play it in the goddam closet.

The trouble with girls is, if they like a boy, no matter how big a bastard he is, they'll say he has an inferiority complex, and if they don't like him, no matter how nice a guy he is, or how big an inferiority complex he has, they'll say he's conceited. Even smart girls do it.

Or you'd just passed by one of those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them. I mean you'd be different in some way—I can't explain what I mean. And even if I could, I'm not sure I'd feel like it.

In every school I've gone to, all the athletic bastards stick together.

People are mostly hot to have a discussion when you're not.

It's one of those places that are supposed to be very sophisticated and all, and the phonies are coming in the window.

Liberate yourself from my vice-like grip!

What I really felt like, though, was committing suicide. I felt like jumping out the window. I probably would've done it, too, if I'd been sure somebody'd cover me up as soon as I landed. I didn't want a bunch of stupid rubbernecks looking at me when I was all gory.