Stephen King Quotes - Page 12

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.

Things conceived by minds and made by hands can never be quite the same, even if they try their best to be identical, because they're never the same from day to day or even moment to moment.

I have spent a good many years since―too many, I think―being ashamed about what I write. I think I was forty before I realized that almost every writer of fiction or poetry who has ever published a line has been accused by someone of wasting his or her God-given talent. If you write (or paint or dance or sculpt or sing, I suppose), someone will try to make you feel lousy about it, that's all.

The last good time always comes

Am I weird?""Yeah. But so what? Everybody's weird.

Even the company of the mad was better than the company of the dead.

In a book, all would have gone according to plan... but life was so fucking untidy — what could you say for an existence where some of the most crucial conversations of your life took place when you needed to take a shit, or something? An existence where there weren't even any chapters?

Tim stared at the steel rod in the gloved hand. "Is that a magic wand?"The Covenant Man appeared to consider. "I suppose so. Although it started life as the gearshift of a Dodge Dart, America's economy car, young Tim.""What's America?""A kingdom filled with toy-loving idiots. It has no part in our palaver.

I think it was the first real pain I ever felt in my life...It wasn't what I thought it would be at all. It didn't put an end to me as a person. I think...it gave me a basis for comparison, finding out you could still exist inside the pain, in SPITE of the pain.

Symbolism exists to adorn and enrich, not to create an artificial sense of profundity.

Remember, Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.

I think that real friendship always makes us feel such sweet gratitude, because the world almost always seems like a very hard desert, and the flowers that grow there seem to grow against such high odds.

She can't help it,' he said. 'She's got the soul of a poet and the emotional makeup of a junkyard dog.

What you love, you must love all the harder because someday it will be gone.

He had been (Thinking? Praying?) It was all the same thing.

How does it happen that a writer who's not even very good - and I can say that, I've read four or five of his books - gets to be in charge of the world's destiny? Or of the entire universe's?"If he's not very good, why didn't you stop at one?"Mrs. Tassenbaum smiled. "Touché. He is readable, I'll give him that - tells a good story...

Yeah, but what if you went back and killed your own grandfather?"He stared at me, baffled. "Why the fuck would you do that?

Grief is like a drunken house guest, always coming back for one more goodbye hug.

Take the dead from the dead, the old proverb said; only a corpse may speak true prophecy.

When Annie's treatin, you best be eatin.

When you’re still too young to shave, optimism is a perfectly legitimate response to failure.

The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.

Then, for no reason I could tell you, I tossed the spool again, even though Elaine had asked me not to. Maybe only because, in a way, him chasing a spool was like old people having their slow and careful version of sex - you might not want to watch it , you who are young and convinced that, when it comes to old age, an exception will be made in your case, but they still want to do it.

...staring into thin air at thosethings only cats can see (Doctro Sleep)

They were close to the end of the beginning . . .

Do they see the lethal insanity of a race to the brink of oblivion, and then over the edge? Apparently not. If they did, surely they wouldn't be racing to begin with. Or is it a simple failure of imagination? One doesn't like to think such a rudimentary failing could bring about the end, yet...

The 3 types of terror: The Gross-out: the sight of a severed head tumbling down a flight of stairs, it's when the lights go out and something green and slimy splatters against your arm. The Horror: the unnatural, spiders the size of bears, the dead waking up and walking around, it's when the lights go out and something with claws grabs you by the arm. And the last and worse one: Terror, when you come home and notice everything you own had been taken away and replaced by an exact substitute. It's when the lights go out and you feel something behind you, you hear it, you feel its breath against your ear, but when you turn around, there's nothing there...

You ought to sue that son of a whore

Quiet people have the loudest minds.

I was tired of just letting things happen to me and then feeling bad about them.

One of his followers murmured agreement, but another quietly slipped away. Now there was Norton and four others. Maybe that wasn't so bad. Christ Himself could only find twelve.

Some stuff has to be done even if there is a risk. That's the first important thing I ever found out I didn't find out from my mother

To his way of thinking, the only thing more natural than death was sex.

Wanting more is just a recipe for heartache.

When you write, you want to get rid of the world, do you not? Of course you do. When you're writing, you're creating your own worlds.

Description is what makes the reader a sensory participant in the story. Good description is a learned skill,one of the prime reasons you cannot succeed unless you read a lot and write a lot. It's not just a question of how-to, you see; it's a question of how much to. Reading will help you answer how much, and only reams of writing will help you with the how. You can learn only by doing.

Love didn't grow very well in a place where there was only fear, just as plants didn't grow very well in a place where it was always dark.

If there's to be damnation, she had said, let it be of my choosing, not theirs. He knew a little about damnation himself… and he had an idea that the lessons, far from being done, were just beginning.

The woman had looked into the abyss and then walked out across it.

It was never for you, Annie, or all the other people out there who sign their letters “Your number-one fan.” The minute you start to write all those people are at the other end of the galaxy, or something. It was never for my ex-wives, or my mother, or for my father. The reason authors almost always put a dedication on a book, Annie, is because their selfishness even horrifies themselves in the end.

Some werewolves are hairy on the inside.

He will be with his friends, and that always feels like coming home.

Energy has a way of dissipating, you know; what can be done when you're eleven can often never be done again.

What are you?''I'm the Turtle, son. I made the universe, but please don't blame me for it; I had a bellyache.

And when there are enough outsiders together in one place, a mystic osmosis takes place and you're inside.

If there are ten thousand medieval peasants who create vampires by believing them real, there may be one–probably a child–who will imagine the stake necessary to kill it. But a stake is only stupid wood; the mind is the mallet which drives it home.

I see things, that's all. Write enough stories and every shadow on the floor looks like a footprint; every line in the dirt like a secret message.

Alone. Yes, that's the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym.

You know what talent is? The curse of expectation. As a kid you have to deal with that, beat it somehow. If you can write, you think God put you on earth to blow Shakespeare away. Or if you can paint, maybe you think--I did--that God put you on earth to blow your father away.

Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink. Drink and be filled up.

He felt gladness roar through his soul.

I looked at what he built, and to me it explained the stars.

I am what you might call a rambling man, and America is my beat.

Any thoughts of guilt, any feelings of regret, had faded. The desert had baked them out.

And perhaps the greatest blessing was that we never knew how short the time was.

It don't matter if you believe in God Nick, he believes in you.

For years I dreamed of having the sort of massive oak slab that would dominate a room...

If a man dethrones God in his heart, Satan must ascend to His position.

Luck's the word those with poor hearts use for ka...

Never will you talk to me like that again.