J.D. Salinger

Do you know what I was smiling at?

You wrote down that you were a writer by profession. It sounded to me like the loveliest euphemism I had ever heard. When was writing ever your profession? It’s never been anything but your religion. Never.

I’m a little overexcited now. Since it is your religion, do you know what you will be asked when you die? Let me tell you first what you won’t be asked.

You won’t be asked if you were working on a wonderful, moving piece of writing when you died. You won’t be asked if it was long or short, sad or funny, published or unpublished.   

You won’t be asked if you were in good or bad form while you were working on it.  You won’t even be asked if it was the one piece of writing you would have been working on if you had known your time would be up when it was finished—I think only poor Soren K. (Kierkegaard) will get asked that. 

I’m so sure you’ll only get asked two questions: Were most of your stars out? Were you busy writing your heart out? If only you knew how easy it would be for you to say yes to both questions.

Lana sings Leonard.

Chelsea Hotel No.2

Aún huele a humo.

Our love is like a hot summer day, where you're miserable and you don't wanna go out but you still sweat even while inside. You can't think straight, you don't wanna move or do anything, you're cranky all the time, but still you know that on those cold winter days all you can do is wish it was summer again.  That's what our love is like.

Saliste de mi vida. Desapareciste como el humo, pero así como el humo, aunque no puedo verte, sé que sigues en el aire. Puedo olerte y te puedo sentir en mis pulmones con cada respiración. Te fuiste, aunque francamente no sé si en verdad alguna vez estuviste. Te fuiste– porque creer que sí estuviste es lo único que puedo hacer– pero tan sólo físicamente. En los demás sentidos sigues aquí, y para bien o para mal, esa parte de ti quizás nunca se marche.  Esa parte que en verdad cuenta.  La que llevo conmigo a donde vaya y de la que quizás nunca podré deshacerme.  

I may have been miserable and I might not have been thinking straight, but now it smells like smoke and it reminds me of how much I wish it was summer again.  If only for a day.