Quotes from Stephen King

I never read the paper myself. Why bother? It's the same old shit day in and day out, dictators beating the ching-chong out of people weaker than they are, men in uniforms beating the ching-chong out of soccer balls or footballs, politicians kissing babies and kissing ass.

And, instead of pelting these babbling idiots with their own freshly toasted marshmallows, everyone else sitting around the fire is often nodding and smiling and looking solemny thoughtful.

Ellie wept for the very intractability of death, its imperviousness to argument.

I felt as conspicuous as a baby whale in a goldfish pond.

Can a dead buck with good insurance make a little dough?

Will you share khef with me, and share this water?' 'Yes.' 'Drink, bondsman.' Jake did. Then, before Roland could kiss him, he dropped the cup, flung his arms about the gunslinger's neck, and whispered fiercely into his ear: 'Roland, I love you.' 'I love you, too,' he said, and released him. Outside, the wind gusted again. Jake waited for something to howl – perhaps in triumph – but nothing did.

Horror's a worm that needs to be coughed out before it breeds.

Friends come in and out of your life like waiters in a restaurant.

The more you find, the wronger it gets.

Right now all he wanted was to get out of this awful place where reality had worn so thin.

This situation is not quite beyond saving, but should you carry on much further - should you give voice to such thoughts - it will be.

It's a wholly illogical but nonetheless powerful belief that things will change for the better in a new place; that the urge to self-destruct will magically disappear.

In the end, daughter of pandora that I am, my curiosity got the best of me. I wish it hadn't.

Most people are fitted with Lead Boots when they are just little kids and have to wear them all their lives. These Lead Boots are called A CONSCIENCE. I have none, so I can soar high above the heads of the Normal Crowd.

The things of the world fell by the wayside, you lost your speed and your eyesight and your fucking Electric Boogaloo, but literature was eternal

Not a wind, not even a high, exactly, but an elevation. A sense that you had gone beyond yourself and could go farther still.

You'd think that the ability to write lucid prose would be the bottom line for any publishing novelist, but it is not so... You would expect that proofreaders and copy editors would pick this sort of stuff up even if the writers of such embarrassing English do not, but many of them seem as illiterate as the writers they are trying to bail out.

Sometimes he makes us live.

the past is history, the future's a mystery

Here's something else I believe: if you're going into a very dark place—like Wilf James's Nebraska farmhouse in "1922"—then you should take a bright light, and shine it on everything. If you don't want to see, why in God's name would you dare the dark at all?

Looking back on it, Sloat wasn't sure how he had tolerated Phil Sawyer for as long as he had. His partner had never played to win, not seriously; he had been encumbered by sentimental notions of loyalty and honor, corrupted by the stuff you told kids to get them halfway civilized before you finally tore the blindfold off their eyes.

And, you know, I hope you have some fun with this book. Nosh and nibble at the corners or read the mother straight through, but enjoy. That's what it's for, as much as any of the novels. Maybe there will be something here to make you think or make you laugh or just make you mad. Any of those reactions would please me. Boredom, however, would be a bummer.

No es una hoja de papel lo que hace a un hombre. Ni la cárcel lo que le deshace.

Please, always you.