Quotes from Stephen King

don't give me what I ask for, give me what I need...

Certain empty houses that seemed to stare like the faces of people suffering from terrible mental illness. An empty barn on the outskirts of town, the hayloft door swinging open and closed on rusty hinges, first disclosing darkness, then hiding it, then disclosing it again.

Some part of me knew from the first that what I wanted was not reality but myth.

Murder is the worst kind of pornography, murder is let me do what I want taken to its final extreme.

Hallorann saw a grave sort of beauty there that had been missing on the day he had first met her, some nine months ago. Then she had still been mostly girl. Now she was a woman, a human being who had been dragged around to the dark side of the moon and had come back able to put the pieces back together. But those pieces, Hallorann thought, they never fit just the same way again. Never in this world.

If stone-sober people can fuck like they're out of their minds -- can actually be out of their minds while caught in that throe -- why shouldn't writers be able to go bonkers and still stay sane?

In case you didn't know it, friend, the Weather Bureau can post tornado warnings, but when it comes to telling exactly when and where they'll touch down, they don't know fuck-all.

Here is something I learned in Empis: good people shine brighter in dark times.

The person healed has an obligation to then ask why— to meditate on God's will, and the extraordinary lengths to which God has gone to realize His will.

You doom yourselves, Susannah. You seem positively bent on it, and the root is always the same: your faith fails you, and you replace it with rational thought. But there is no love in thought, nothing that lasts in deduction, only death in rationalism.

Hapscomb's Texaco sat on Number 93 just north of Arnette, a pissant four-street burg about 110 miles from Houston.

I remember something my mother used to say. The Devil can quote scripture

she knew that shadows could be dangerous. They could have teeth.

Here I am, ninety years old and ready for the cooling board, using a brand new Macintosh computer, and there you sit, twenty-two and gorgeous, fresh as a new peach, yet scrawling on a yellow legal pad like an old maid in a Victorian romance.

I always like to see enlightened parents like that; it gives me hope for the future.

Under the California desert and subsidized by the taxpayers' money, someone had finally invented a chain letter that really worked. A very lethal chain letter.

You always know the truth, because when you cut yourself or someone else with it, there's always a bloody show.

The world is falling down around our ears, and all these people care for is talking about fucking to women in short skirts and men with their shirts hanging open

When you need Stayfree MaxiPads to absorb the expectorants produced by your insulted body, you are in serious fucking trouble.

Having a breakdown was like breaking a vase and then gluing it back together. You could never trust yourself to handle that vase again with any surety. You couldn't put a flower in it because flowers need water and water might dissolve the glue. Am I crazy, then?

Your hair is Winter fire January embers My heart burns there too

In the end, all things, even the Beams, serve the Dark Tower. Did you think you would be any different?

The record changer clicked; another record dropped down. In the sudden, brief silence, she heard something within her turn over. Perhaps only her soul. It was nine-fifteen.

He is too young to have learned to hate himself yet, but that seed is already there; given time, it will grow, and bear bitter fruit.