Stephen King Quotes
You are the grim, goal-oriented ones who will not believe that the joy is in the journey rather than the destination no matter how many times it has been proven to you.
Has it ever occurred to you...that parents are nothing but overgrown kids until their children drag them into adulthood? Usually kicking and screaming?
He was lonely but did not find loneliness in any way a bad or ignoble thing.
When his life was ruined, his family killed, his farm destroyed, Job knelt down on the ground and yelled up to the heavens, "Why god? Why me?" and the thundering voice of God answered, There's just something about you that pisses me off.
Again and again it ends this way. There are quests and roads that lead ever onward, and all of them end in the same place. Upon the killing ground.
There had been a shadow on his face, but there were shadows on all faces now.
Ninety-five percent of people who walk the earth are simply inert. One percent are saints, and one percent are assholes. The other three percent are people who do what they say they can do.
The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.
I always wanted to know how the world looked when your head was on backwards and upside down.
There were fields and rivers and mists in the morning. But that's only pretty. My mother used to say that.., and that the only real beauty is order and love and light.
People think that I must be a very strange person. This is not correct. I have the heart of a small boy. It is in a glass jar on my desk.
The greatest mystery the universe offers is not life but Size. Size encompasses life, and the Tower encompasses Size.
No one ever does live happily ever after, but we leave the children to find that out for themselves.
Get busy living or get busy dying.
It was a matter of pride. A gunslinger knows pride - that invisible bone that keeps the neck stiff.
I think that we're all mentally ill. Those of us outside the asylums only hide it a little better - and maybe not all that much better after all.
Good books don't give up all their secrets at once.
If a book is not alive in the writer's mind, it is as dead as year-old horse shit even if words continue to march across the page.
Harry Potter is about confronting fears, finding inner strength and doing what is right in the face of adversity. Twilight is about how important it is to have a boyfriend.
The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of because words diminish your feelings - words shrink things that seem timeless when they are in your head to no more than living size when they are brought out.
Books are the perfect entertainment: no commercials, no batteries, hours of enjoyment for each dollar spent. What I wonder is why everybody doesn't carry a book around for those inevitable dead spots in life.
The universe offers a paradox too great for the finite mind to grasp. As the living brain cannot conceive of a nonliving brain - although it may think it can - the finite mind cannot grasp the infinite.
"Do you believe in an afterlife?" The gunslinger asked him as Brown dropped three ears of hot corn onto his plate.
Brown nodded. "I think this is it."
If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.
The eyes were damned, the staring, glaring eyes of those who see but do not see, eyes ever turned inward to the sterile hell of dreams beyond control, dreams unleashed, risen out of the stinking swamps of the unconscious.
You can approach the act of writing with nervousness, excitement, hopefulness, or even despairâ the sense that you can never completely put on the page what's in your mind and heart. You can come to the act with your fists clenched and your eyes narrowed, ready to kick ass and take down names. You can come to it because you want a girl to marry you or because you want to change the world. Come to it any way but lightly. Let me say it again: you must not come lightly to the blank page.
Size defeats us. For the fish, the lake in which he lives is the universe. What does the fish think when he is jerked up by the mouth through the silver limits of existence and into a new universe where the air drowns him and the light is blue madness? Where huge bipeds with no gills stuff it into a suffocating box and cover it with wet weeds to die?
Even if the torture stops, I'll die. And you'll die too, for when love leaves the world, all hearts are still. Tell them of my love and tell them of my pain and tell them of my hope, which still lives. For this is all I have and all I am and all I ask.
The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.
There is joy and also pain
but the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.
Pretty plain, loony-sane
The ways of the world all will change
and all the ways remain the same
but if you're mad or only sane
the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.
We walk in love but fly in chains.
Could it be that everything we can perceive from the infinitesimal virus to the distant Horsehead nebula, is contained in one blade of grass. .. a blade that may have existed for only a day or two in an alien time-flow? What if that blade should be cut off by a scythe? When it began to die, would the rot seep into our own universe and our own lives, turning everything yellow and brown and desicated? Perhaps it's already begun to happen. We say the world has moved on; maybe we really mean that it has begun to dry up. Think how small such a concept of things makes us, gunslinger!