Stephen King

I think the best stories always end up being about the people rather than the event, which is to say character-driven.

I felt lonely and content at the same time. I believe that is a rare kind of happiness.

Anyway, as the old barrelhouse song says, My God, how the money rolled in. Norton must have subscribed to the old Puritan notion that the best way to figure out which folks God favours is by checking their bank acounts.

A successful novel should interrupt the reader’s life, make him or her miss appointments, skip meals, forget to walk the dog.

The first real terror struck him then, and there was nothing supernatural about it. It was only a realization of how easy it was to trash your life. That was what was so scary. You just dragged the fan up to everything you had spent the years raking together and turned the motherfucker on.

Are you sure self-pity is a luxury you can afford, Jack?

Ninety-eight percent of what goes on in people's heads is none of their smucking business.

It wasn't just love that held people together. There was secrets, and the price you paid to keep them.

The harder you had to work to open a package, the less you ended up caring about what was inside.

Time apparently did nothing but blunt grief’s sharpest edge so that it hacked rather than sliced.

Things were going very fast now. Too fast to suit him. Fantasy and reality had merged.

One of the really bad things you can do to your writing is to dress up the vocabulary, looking for long words because you're maybe a little bit ashamed of your short ones. This is like dressing up a household pet in evening clothes. The pet is embarrassed and the person who committed this act of premeditated cuteness should be even more embarrassed.

Roland grabbed Jake and hauled him to his feet. “You came!” Jake shouted. “You really came!” “I came, yes. By the grace of the gods and the courage of my friends, I came.

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

It's hard enough for a person to keep their own socks pulled up, let alone someone else's.

We either learn to accept or we end up writing letters home with crayons.

His name is Legion. He is the king of nowhere.

Kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.

Roland could not understand why anyone would want cocaine or any other illegal drug, for that matter, in a world where such a powerful one as sugar was so plentiful and cheap.

Oh, there were all sorts of things to wonder about, but the truth was simple: here stood this door alone on an endless stretch of beach, and it was for only one of two things: opening or leaving closed.

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.