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At school, I was so obsessed with The Catcher in the Rye that I started to dress like Holden Caulfield. In the novel, Holden buys a red hunting hat in New York, after he loses all his goddam fencing gear on the goddam subway. I never lost all my goddam fencing gear, nor did I ever possess any goddam fencing gear, but I did resolve to get myself a red hunting hat, which Holden wears all the goddam time.
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SHOP ASSISTANT: How long have you been paintballing? YOUNG RICHARD: Why would you assume I paintball? SHOP ASSISTANT: I suppose I took the red target on your cap as an indication … YOUNG RICHARD: That I was a paintballer separated from the group, now hopelessly lost? SHOP ASSISTANT: … YOUNG RICHARD: Well, I’m not. SHOP ASSISTANT: … YOUNG RICHARD: I’m clearly an avid reader of post-war American literature.
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Here’s a Times obituary you’ll never read: ‘As great a rock star as he was, he was perhaps an even greater husband.’ No one who achieved anything was ‘there’ for someone else. They were elsewhere. Achieving.
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Donna reiterates both her love and her willingness to be Cleveland-based. He asks her how on earth could any woman be happy in Cleveland? ‘Because you’re in Cleveland,’ she fires back, like the loveliest machine gun in the world. Is there anything more romantic than someone’s willingness to remain in a place that is demonstrably unsatisfactory?
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