Billy is a bright boy, but oddly humorless. 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.
It was blurred in his memory, it had the melting, cotton-candy texture of dreams or of waking actions performed under a light haze of drugs.
She checked her Fitbit again and saw her pulse was now up to one-twenty. She chugged down the rest of her latte, anyway. Living dangerously.
The perfect schizophrenic -- if there was such a person -- would be a man or woman not only unaware of his other persona(e), but one unaware that anything at all was amiss in his or her life.
It came to seem to Louis that God, in His infinite wisdom, seemed much more generous when it came to doling out pain.
Ralph reflected for a moment on the similarities between loneliness and insomnia -- how they were both insidious, cumulative, and divisive, the friends of despair and the enemies of love.
Until this point Tiffany had assumed that abusers... must live in denial. If not, how could they go on? How could you hurt or degrade a person when you were fully cognisant of what you were doing? Well, it turned out you could.
To those readers who feel that I didn't know any better, I assert that I did ... but the temptation was simply too great to resist.
Twas something else. I had come to hate her, you see. I had come to wish her dead, and that was what held me back.
Also, I'm angry. I know life is hard, I think everyone knows that in their hearts, but why does it have to be cruel, as well? Why does it have to bite?
He walked out of nowhere toward nowhere, a man from another time who, it seemed, had reached a point of pointless ending.
Life turns on a dime.
Life turns on a dime. Sometimes towards us, but more often it spins away, flirting and flashing as it goes: so long, honey, it was good while it lasted, wasn’t it?
But it's writing, damn it, not washing the car or putting on eyeliner. If you can take it seriously, we can do business. If you can't or won't, it's time for you to close the book and do something else.
Wash the car, maybe.
All I ask is that you do as well as you can, and remember that, while to write adverbs is human, to write he said or she said is divine.
Sometimes when you're young, you have moments of such happiness, you think you're living on someplace magical, like Atlantis must have been. Then we grow up and our hearts break into two.
There was a lot they didn't tell you about death, she had discovered, and one of the biggies was how long it took the ones you loved most to die in your heart.
I was being paid to do what I loved, and there's no gig on earth better than that; it's like a license to steal.
I changed it. I had to. Do you know why? She studied him, her eyes grave. Because that was then and this is now. Because the past is gone, even though it defines the present.
Life is fair. We all get the same nine-month shake in the box, and then the dice roll. Some people get a run of sevens. Some people, unfortunately, get snake-eyes. Its just how the world is.
He supposed that even in Hell, people got an occasional sip of water, if only so they could appreciate the full horror of unrequited thirst when it set in again.
It didn´t occur to me until later that there´s another truth, very simple: greed in a good cause is still greed.
Of course they had more chains on him than Scrooge saw on Marley's ghost, but he could have kicked up dickens if he'd wanted. That's a pun, son.
A man without a sense of purpose, even one whose bank accounts are stuffed with money, is always a small man.
Outside, a gusty October breeze was combing leaves from the trees and sending them across her backyard in colorful skitters.
Kill you all! The clown was laughing and screaming. Try to stop me and I'll kill you all! Drive you crazy and then kill you all! You can't stop me!
Oh Christ, he groaned to himself, if this is the stuff adults have to think about I never want to grow up.
He felt that if he could get deep down in himself quickly enough, he would be okay, but sympathy might drive him mad.
It doesn't have to be the last good time. But sooner or later the last good time would come around. It does for all of us.
I don't want you to apologize for being rich; I want you to acknowledge that in America, we all should have to pay our fair share.
It's not the pain I'm afraid of; I know about the pain. What I'm afraid of is the end of this small, sweet dream.
I think it is beyond doubt that H. P. Lovecraft has yet to be surpassed as the twentieth century's greatest practitioner of the classic horror tale.
Don't ask me silly questions I won't play silly games I'm just a simple choo choo train And I'll always be the same. I only want to race along Beneath the bright blue sky And be a happy choo choo train Until the day I die.
'What are you?'
'I'm the Turtle, son. I made the universe, but please don't blame me for it; I had a bellyache.'
Your friend the Turtle... He died a few years ago. The old idiot puked inside his shell and choked to death on a galaxy or two. Very sad, don't you think? But also quite bizarre.
See the turtle of enormous girth, on his shell he holds the earth. If you want to run and play, come along the beam today.
Anyone who lives in Boston knows that it's March that's the cruelest, holding out a few days of false hope and then gleefully hitting you with the shit.
Looking up at that starry sky gave him the creeps: it was too big, too black. It was all too possible to imagine it turning blood-red, all too possible to imagine a Face forming in lines of fire.
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.
The thing under my bed waiting to grab my ankle isn't real. I know that, and I also know that if I'm careful to keep my foot under the covers, it will never be able to grab my ankle.
He peered into the pack and saw two or three more pieces. He could eat them now, but it might be better to wait.
If you have given up your heart ... you have already lost. A heartless creature is a loveless creature, and a loveless creature is a beast.
It's hard to let go. Even when what you're holding onto is full of thorns, it's hard to let go. Maybe especially then.
People don't get better, they just get smarter. When you get smarter you don't stop pulling the wings off flies, you just think of better reasons for doing it.
Come to the book as you would come to an unexplored land. Come without a map. Explore it and draw your own map.
Schizoid behavior is a pretty common thing in children. It's accepted, because all we adults have this unspoken agreement that children are lunatics.
The concept of dreaming is known to the waking mind but to the dreamer there is no waking, no real world, no sanity; there is only the screaming bedlam of sleep.
And people who don't dream, who don't have any kind of imaginative life, they must… they must go nuts. I can't imagine that.
My heart's with you, Bill, no matter how it turns out. My heart is with all of them, and I think that, even if we forget each other, we'll remember in our dreams.
But now the joy is gone and the sadness is back, the sadness feels like something deserved, the price of some not-quite-forgotten betrayal.
When the reader hears strong echoes of his or her own life and beliefs, he or she is apt to become more invested in the story.
Lying in the bed that had once held two, Lisey thought alone never felt more lonely than when you woke up and discovered you still had the house to yourself. That you and the mice in the walls were the only ones still breathing.
Seven, Richie thought. That's the magic number. There has to be seven of us. That's the way it's supposed to be.
Time takes it all, whether you want it to or not.
Time takes it all whether you want it to or not, time takes it all. Time bares it away, and in the end there is only darkness. Sometimes we find others in that darkness, and sometimes we lose them there again.
A short story is a different thing altogether -- a short story is like a quick kiss in the dark from a stranger.
If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot.
If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There's no way around these two things that I'm aware of, no shortcut.
Making people believe the unbelievable is no trick; it's work... Belief and reader absorption come in the details: An overturned tricycle in the gutter of an abandoned neighborhood can stand for everything.
Kids, fiction is the truth inside the lie, and the truth of this fiction is simple enough: the magic exists.
Both Rowling and Meyer, they're speaking directly to young people. … The real difference is that Jo Rowling is a terrific writer and Stephenie Meyer can't write worth a darn. She's not very good.
If I kept saying it; if I kept reaching out. My accident really taught me just one thing: the only way to go on is to go on. To say 'I can do this' even when you know you can't.
They went in. And did not pass Go. And did not
collect two hundred dollars.
They went directly to bed.
All places are the same unless your mind changes. There's no magic place to get your mind right. If you feel like shit, everything you see looks like shit.
When I'm working I work every day, three, four hours, and I try to get those six pages and I try to get them faily clean.
I go out to my little office, where I've got a manuscript, and the last page I was happy with is on top. I read that, and it's like getting on a taxiway. I'm able to go through and revise it and put myself -- click -- back into that world.
It was sweet and lovely, that smile, perhaps the more so because it wasn't complicated by much in the way of thought.
You needn't die happy when your time comes, but you must die satisfied, for you have lived your life from the beginning to the end.
But it is. It's something you need, and that's a long way from nothing. If you need it, Eddie, we need it. What we don't need is a man who can't let go of the useless baggage of his memories.
We like to think about how smart we are. But I think talent as a writer is hard-wired in, it's all there, at least the basic elements of it. You can't change it any more than you can choose whether to be right handed or left handed.
Wherever you write is supposed to be a little bit of a refuge, a place where you can get away from the world. The more closed in you are, the more you're forced back on your own imagination.
People want to know why I do this, why I write such gross stuff. I like to tell them I have the heart of a small boy... and I keep it in a jar on my desk.
A lot of us grow up and we grow out of the literal interpretation that we get when we're children, but we bear the scars all our life. Whether they're scars of beauty or scars of ugliness, it's pretty much in the eye of the beholder.
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.
You can't deny laughter; when it comes, it plops down in your favorite chair and stays as long as it wants.
I watched Titanic when I got back home from the hospital, and cried. I knew that my IQ had been damaged.