Quotes from Stephen King

There's no tonic like an old friend.

He was in that mostly empty-headed state of grace which is sometimes such fertile soil ; it's the ground from which our brightest dreams and biggest ideas (both good and spectacularly bad) suddenly burst forth, often full-blown.

Black is the absence of light, but white is the absence of memory, the color of can't remember.

Coming back to where you grew up is like doing some crazy yoga trick, putting your feet in your own mouth and somehow swallowing yourself so there's nothing left; it can't be done, and any sane person ought to be fucking glad it can't . . .

Sometimes death is natural, a mercy that puts an end to suffering. But all too often it comes as an assassin, full of senseless cruelty and lacking any vestige of compassion.

He removed his unvaluable valuables and dumped his shirt, pants, and skivvies into a letter slot.

There are no atheists in the foxholes, I've been told, and precious few agnostics in the Intensive Care ward.

This is dying - I know because I've done it before.

remember Stephen King's First Rule of Writers and Agents, learned by bitter personal experience: You don't need one until you're making enough for someone to steal ... and if you're making that much, you'll be able to take your pick of good agents.

Darkness loves him. He dances with it like a lover and the moon comes up over the purple hill and what was sweet smells sour. Smells like poison.

Things with the power to scare the living shit out of you on a thundery midnight in most cases seem only interesting in the bright light of a summer morning.

It's the people who aren't scared who die young.

This was a fact so simple that it defied logic. It bypassed logic.

When people begin to lose hope, there's bound to be explosions.

and I still feel that hate today, when so many other feelings have been burned out of my heart.

Nothing was eternal, except maybe for the mind of God, and even at thirteen I had my doubts about that.

There'll be water if God wills it

The woman from Room 217 was there, as he had known she would be.

the porch was empty. They had gone back inside. It was as if the Overlook had swallowed them.

Reality was a drunk buying a lottery ticket, cashing out to the tune of seventy million dollars, and splitting it with his favorite barmaid. A little girl emerging alive from a well in Texas where she'd been trapped for six days. A college boy falling from a fifth-floor in Cancun and only breaking his wrist. Reality was Ralph.

I'm afraid to go to sleep. I'm afraid my dead friends will come to me, and that seeing them will kill me.

Opinion is politics, and politics is an evil which has caused many a fellow to be hung while he's still young and pretty.

Could she lay hope to rest or did she have to carry it yet awhile longer?

When asked, "How do you write?" I invariably answer, "One word at a time," and the answer is invariably dismissed. But that is all it is. It sounds too simple to be true, but consider the Great Wall of China, if you will: one stone at a time, man. That's all. One stone at a time. But I've read you can see that motherfucker from space without a telescope.