I can bear to tell you no more-- only that they comforted each other as
well as they could, and, as you probably know from your own bitter
experience, that is never quite good enough.
For God's sake, Larry, grow up. Develop a little self-righteousness. A lot of that is an ugly thing, God knows, but a little spread over all your scruples is an absolute necessity!
Outside, the engine-sound of the Desperation police-cruiser grew fatter and closer. A little farther off, the coyotes howled. To David that howling had begun to sound like the laughter of lunatics after the keepers have decamped the asylum.
His words faded, because here were the switches Dan was looking for. The special switches, the ones with the red handles ...
Shine on, he thought, and pulled them all.
And he had begun to feel then what he was feeling now: the complex and awful mental and physical interaction that is the beginning of acceptance, and the only counterpart to that feeling is rape.
Teddy, Vern, Chris: I don't shut up. I grow up. And when I look at you, I throw up. Aghhh! Gordie: And then your mom goes around the corner and she licks it up.
The worst thing you can try to do is to steer the story once it gets going. You just kind of follow along and see where it goes. That's the fun.
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.
When you ask me what I'm afraid of, I'd say I still go to see ghost movies when I get a chance or some sort of supernatural being, but it doesn't scare me as it scared me when I was a child.
The object of fiction isn't grammatical correctness but to make the reader welcome and then tell a story.... Writing is seduction. Good talk is part of seduction.
If life teaches anything at all it teaches that there are so many happy endings that the man who believes that there is no God needs his rationality called into serious question.
Belief in the supernatural or belief in wild talents like precognition and telepathy and telekinesis and things like that, it seems to me that belief in those things is just very, very freeing.
On a couple of occasions I've shocked myself. Pet Sematery was appalling when it first came out on to the page.
I'm not much good at telling stories. That sounds like a paradox, but it's not; it's the reason I write them down.
I think reality is thin, you know, thin as lake ice after a thaw, and we fill our lives with noise and light and motion to hide that thinness from ourselves.
He would write it for the reason he felt that all great literature, fiction and nonfiction, was written: truth comes out, in the end it always comes out. He would write it because he felt he had to.
For a woman a man will do many things that he'd turn his back on in an instant when alone; things he'd back away from, nine times out of ten, even when drunk adn with a bunch of his friends egging him on.
He was a romantic in his own harsh way…yet he was also realist enough to know that some times love actually did conquer all.
There's a saying -- Write what you know. It's bad advice if you take it as an unbreakable rule, but good advice if you use it as a foundation.
Waiting rooms were made for books-of course! But so are theater lobbies before the show, long and boring checkout lines, and everyone's favorite, the john.
You cannot friend a hawk, they said, unless you are a hawk yourself, alone and only a sojourner in the land, without friends or the need of them.
The redness was going out of the light now, the remains of the day were a fading pink, the color of wild roses.
Because things like this you can only ssay once. And you either get it wrong or right, it's the end either way, because it's too hard to ever try to say again.
If you're just starting out as a writer, you could do worse than strip your television's electric plug-wire, wrap a spike around it, and then stick it back into the wall. See what blows, and how far. Just an idea.
Try any goddam thing you like, no matter how boringly normal or outrageous. If it works, fine. If it doesn't, toss it. Toss it even if you love it.
Only God gets it right the first time and only a slob says, Oh well, let it go, that's what copyeditors are for.
Sometimes you have to go on when you don't feel like it, and sometimes you're doing good work when if feels like all you're managing is to shovel shit from a sitting position.
I want to make you laugh or cry when you read a story ...or do both at the same time. I want your heart, in other words. If you want to learn something, go to school.
Can I be blunt on this subject? If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.
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.
I work to loud music -- hard-rock stuff like AC DC, Guns 'n Roses, and Metallica have always been particular favorites -- but for me the music is just another way of shutting the door.
Sure, we need the gypsies. we always have. because if you don't have someone to run out of town once in a while, how are you going to know you yourself belong there?
It was always a pleasure to write. I can never think of a time when I just hacked something out to fulfil a contract or meet a deadline. I might have hacked things out, but it was always stuff I loved.
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.
How many times, over how many years, had he--a grown man--asked for the mercy of another chance? He was suddenly so sick of himself, so revolted, that he could have groaned aloud.
As infants, our first victory comes in grasping some bit of the world, usually our mother's fingers. Later we discover that the world, and the things of the world, are grasping us, and have been all along.
They are surprised that he did it, though, which shows you that the male mind expects very little in the way of altruism from it's fellows.
Later, going home, I realized they didn't look alike at all; what made them seem to was the aftermath of stress and the lingering of sorrow. It's strange how pain marks our faces, and makes us look like family.
Late last night and the night before, tommyknockers, tommyknockers knocking on my door. I wanna go out, don't know if I can 'cuz I'm so afraid of the tommyknocker man.
Man may have been made in the image of God, but human society was made in the image of His opposite number, and is always trying to get back home.
I just didn't want her to get hurt. I thought she was going to be. But everyone gets their share, don't they? Sure. Pow, in the nose. Pow, in the eye. Pow, below the belt, down you go, and the ref just went out for a hot dog.
And as a writer, one of the things that I've always been interested in doing is actually invading your comfort space. Because that's what we're supposed to do. Get under your skin, and make you react.
There's a Mr. Hyde for every happy Jekyll face, a dark face on the other side of the mirror.
There's a Mr. Hyde for every happy Jekyll face, a dark face on the other side of the mirror. The brain behind that face never heard of razors, prayers, or the logic of the universe. You turn the mirror sideways and see your face reflected with a sinister left-hand twist, half mad and half sane.
Why does everyone think that I am a cruel and insensitive man? I mean, come on, I have kids... on my desk in little jars!
Hemingway sucks. If I set out to write that way, it would have been been hollow and lifeless because it wasn't me.
Drive away and try to keep smiling. Get a little rock and roll on the radio and go toward life with all the courage you can find and all the belief you can muster. Be true, be brave, stand.
He looked to her like an absurd twentieth-century Hamlet, an indecisive figure so mesmerized by onrushing tragedy that he was helpless to divert its course or alter it in any way.
How to Draw a Picture (XII) Know when you're finished, and when you are, put your pencil or your paintbrush down. All the rest is only life.
It seems to occur to few of the attendees of a writing retreat that if you have a feel you just can't describe, you might just be, I don't know, kind of like, my sense of it is, maybe in the wrong fucking class.
In many ways, Eulah-Beulah prepared me for literary criticism. After having a two-hundred-pound babysitter fart on your face and yell Pow!, The Village Voice holds few terrors.
Bloom never pissed me off because there are critics out there, and he's one of them, who take their ignorance about popular culture as a badge of intellectual prowess.
Most people are optimists, although they may claim they are not. People who call themselves realists are often the biggest optimists of all.
Forced to define 'irrational subconscious,' I would say that it is a small padded room inside all of us, where the only furnishing is a small card table, and the only thing on the card table is a revolver loaded with flexible bullets.
Some tears have to be cried no matter what the hour- until they are, they simply rave and burn inside.
I start work around 8 a.m. and usually finish around noon. If there's more to do, I do it in the late afternoon, although that isn't prime time for me.
Before it occurred to me that I might actually need an agent, I had generated well over three million dollars' worth of income, a good deal of it for the publisher.
It's how we see the world that keeps the darkness beyond at bay. Keeps it from pouring through and devouring us. I think all of us might know that, way down deep.
He was a clot looking for a place to happen, a splinter of bone hunting a soft organ to puncture, a lonely lunatic cell looking for a mate -- they would set up housekeeping and raise themselves a cozy little malignant tumor.
When an imaginative person gets into mental trouble, the line between seeming and being has a way of disappearing.
It's ironic to think that behaviors we consider neurotic are actually holding the word in place -- but sooner or later whatever protection they offer decays.And it's so much work.So damn much work.
Roland had taught him that self-deception was nothing but pride in disguise, an indulgence to be denied.
What really bugs Henry about Barry, he supposes, is Barry's complacency. His inner assurance that there is no need to change his self-destructive behavior, let alone search for its roots.
She looks like the type that might freak out. It's something in the eyes, Frannie. It says if you shoot my sacred cows, I'll shoot yours.
Writing is like being in a dream state or under self-directed hypnosis. It induces a state of recall that -- while not perfect -- is pretty spooky.
I denied Discordia and regret nothing; I have spat into the bodiless eyes of the Crimson King and rejoice; I threw my lot with the gunslinger and the White and never once questioned the choice.
A successful novel should interrupt the reader's life, make him or her miss appointments, skip meals, forget to walk the dog.
I started to submit when I was twelve, and obviously at that time they weren't good enough, and I suppose in my heart of hearts I knew it. But you have to start sooner or later, you have to dig in.
Reading in bed can be heaven, assuming you can get just the right amount of light on the page and aren't prone to spilling your coffee or cognac on the sheets.
There should be no telephone in your writing room, certainly no TV or videogames for you to fool around with. If there's a window, draw the curtains or pull down the shades unless it looks out at a blank wall.
He had never been a social man. He had shunned causes with contempt and disgust. They were for pig-simple suckers and people with too much time and money on their hands.
I have no plans to get an iPad. I know it will do more things than my Kindle, but I don't want more things. If I want other stuff -- movies, TV shows, weather forecasts, the forthcoming Josh Ritter album -- I have my Mac.
All you imagined, no matter how wild it might seem, was no more than a disguised version of what you already knew.
And the most terrifying question of all may be just how much horror the human mind can stand and still maintain a wakeful, staring, unrelenting sanity.
Come to a book as you would come to an unexplored land. Come without a map. Explore it, and draw your own map.... A book is like a pump. It gives nothing unless first you give to it.
Not every book has to be loaded with symbolism, irony, or musical language, but it seems to me that every book-at least every one worth reading-is about something.
I gradually realized that I was seeing another example of creative ebb, another step by another art on the road that may indeed end in extinction.
Tell him he's wrong. Tell him that even if he's right about waiting, he's right for the wrong reasons, and that makes him all the way wrong.
Energy has a way of dissipating, you know; what can be done when you're eleven can often never be done again.
Teaching school is like having jumper cables hooked to your brain, draining all the juice out of you.
'Life's too short for this shit,' he had announced to his empty apartment, and that had been the end of the great whiskey experiment.
Television is all right, I've nothing against it, but I don't like how it turns you away from the rest of the world and toward nothing but its own glassy self. In that one way, at least, radio was better.
I believe that the combination of pencil and memory creates a kind of practical magic, and magic is dangerous.
You pay for what you get, you own what you pay for... and sooner or later whatever you own comes back home to you.
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.
No good friends, no bad friends; only people you want, need to be with. People who build their houses in your heart.
It's Merry Christmas at our house. Whatever it is at yours, have a happy one. And be good to somebody.
What sad, short lives humans live! Each life a short pamphlet written by an idiot! Tut-tut, and all that.
We fall from womb to tomb, from one blackness and toward another, remembering little of the one and knowing nothing of the other ... except through faith.
Don't let the sun go down without saying thank you to someone, and without admitting to yourself that absolutely no one gets this far alone.
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.
Home is watching the moon rise over the open, sleeping land and having someone you can call to the window, so you can look together. Home is where you dance with others, and dancing is life.
Remember in elementary school you were told that in case of fire you have to line up quietly in a single file from smallest to tallest? What is the logic in that? What, do tall people burn slower?
To the champ, everything is serious business. I'm hoping that he'll live long enough to learn that in this world that is a very dangerous attitude.
She is a cat with a burning tail, an ant under a microscope, a fly about to lose its wings to the curious plucking fingers of a third-grader on a rainy day, a game for bored children with no bodies and the whole universe at their feet.
If you've ever been homesick, or felt exiled from all the things and people that once defined you, you'll know how important welcoming words and friendly smiles can be.
Danny strolled to the town common, sat on one of the benches in Teenytown and took one of the bottles out of the bag, looking down on it like Hamlet with Yorick's skull.
He thought that fat boys were probably only allowed to love pretty girls inside. If he told anyone how he felt (not that he had anyone to tell), that person would probably laugh until he had a heart-attack.
The wide corridor up the centre of E Block was floored with linoleum the colour of tired old limes, and so what was the Last Mile at other prisons was called the Green Mile at Cold Mountain.
There was murder, there was rape, there were unspeakable practices, and all of them were for the good, the bloody good, the bloody myth, for the grail, for the Tower.
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.
Dead fields under a November sky, scattered rose petals brown and turning up at the edges, empty pools scummed with algae, rot, decomposition, dust.
But people love a hypocrite, you know----they recognize one of their own, and it always feels so good when someone gets caught with his pants down and his dick up and it isn't you.
A cat won't curry favor even if it's in their best interests to do so. A cat can't be a hypocrite. If more preachers were like cats, this would be a more religious country.
It was, he supossed, one of the adventages of having married a doctor- you could shove the kid at your husband whenever the kid seemed to be dying.
For men, I think, love is a thing formed of equal parts lust and astonishment. The astonishment part women understand. The lust part they only think they understand.
The eyes were damned, the staring, glaring eyes of one who sees but does 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.
If we don't have each other, we go crazy with loneliness. When we do, we go crazy with togetherness.
The inmates made jokes about the chair, the way people always make jokes about things that frighten them but can't be gotten away from.
There was a grove of cottonwoods clustered around an old water pump. Their leaves danced and rustled, their shadows racing along across the ground in the moonlight.
So where do the ideas-the salable ideas-come from? They come from my nightmares. Not the night-time variety, as a rule, but the ones that hide just beyond the doorway that separates the conscious from the unconscious.
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 writer must have a good imagination to begin with, but the imagination has to be muscular, which means it must be exercised in a disciplined way, day in and day out, by writing, failing, succeeding and revising.
The writer must have a good imagination to begin with, but the imagination has to be muscular, which means it must be exercised in a disciplined way, day in and day out, by writing, failing, succeeding and revising."
The Writer's Digest Interview: Stephen King andamp; Jerry B. Jenkins (Jessica Strawser, Writer's Digest, May/nJune 2009).
You learn best by reading a lot and writing a lot, and the most valuable lessons of all are the ones you teach yourself.
I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright.
On the horizon, a jagged nightmare mountain-range loomed out of the rain; the sterile peaks seemed to bite at the gray sky like fangs.
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?