Stephen King

Pride was the belt you used to hold your pants up when you had no pants.

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

Do I know what people say? Sure. I shrug it off. what else can you do? Stop people from talking? You might as well try to stop the wind from blowing.

The crazy people of the world...shouldn't get to win. If God won't make it better after they do have their shitty little victories, then ordinary people have to. They have to try, at least.

I know your mother lives in your head - almost everyone's mother does, I guess - but you can't let her have her way on this one

Whenever anything important happens in America, they have to gold-plate it, like baby shoes. That way you can forget it.

Dead was the gift that kept on giving. Dead, like diamonds, was forever.

Explanations are such cheap poetry.

The only wat to get better at writing is to write. And read.

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

The late afternoon sunlight, warm as oil, sweet as childhood.

Like all sweet dreams, it will be brief, but brevity makes sweetness, doesn't it?

Working on a new idea is kind of like getting married. Then a new idea comes along and you think, 'Man, I'd really like to go out with her.' But you can't. At least not until the old idea is finished.

On that gray street, with the smell of industrial smokes in the air and the afternoon bleeding away to evening, downtown Derry looked only marginally more charming than a dead hooker in a church pew.

I think that's what people most always do with the stuff they can't make out - just forget it.

Sometimes loving eyes don't see what they don't want to see.

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.

Sometimes stories cry out to be told in such loud voices that you write them just to shut them up.

When you're five and you hurt, you make a big noise in the world. At ten you whimper. But by the time you make fifteen you begin to eat the poisoned apples that grow on your own inner tree of pain.

It's only a little secret, but having a secret makes me feel better. Like a human being again.

Superstition, like true love, needs time to grow and reflect upon itself.