Explore Quotes by Stephen King

And she sees that the moonlight is losing its orange glow. It has become buttery, and will soon turn to silver.

Was there ever a trap to match the trap of love?

Without story books is like a person with no soul.

I do have one slightly crooked wheel upstairs, but everything else is ticking along just four-o, thank you very much.

Good books don't give up all their secrets at once.

It would perhaps not be amiss to point out that he had always tried to be a good dog. He had tried to do all the things his MAN and his WOMAN, and most of all his BOY, had asked or expected of him. He would have died for them, if that had been required. He had never wanted to kill anybody. He had been struck by something, possibly destiny, or fate, or only a degenerative nerve disease called rabies. Free will was not a factor.

Fault always lies in the same place: with him weak enough to lay blame.

It is the tale, not he who tells it.

Any word you have to hunt for in a thesaurus is the wrong word. There are no exceptions to this rule.

All is forgotten in the stone halls of the dead. These are the rooms of ruin where the spiders spin and the great circuits fall quiet, one by one.

you must not come lightly to the blank page.

Hapscomb's Texaco sat on Number 93 just north of Arnette, a pissant four-street burg about 110 miles from Houston.

I do not aim with my hand; he who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his father. I aim with my eye. I do not shoot with my hand; he who shoots with his hand has forgotten the face of his father. I shoot with my mind. I do not kill with my gun; he who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father. I kill with my heart.

You said 'God is cruel' the way a person who's lived his whole life on Tahiti might say 'Snow is cold'. You knew, but you didn't understand." He stepped close to David and put his palms on the boy's cold cheeks. "Do you know how cruel your God can be, David. How fantastically cruel?

Time slowed and reality bent; on and on the eggman went.

Invitation to Dance- It’s a Dance. And sometimes they turn the lights off in this ballroom. But we’ll dance anyway, you and I. Even in the Dark. Especially in the Dark. May I have the pleasure?

A short story is a different thing all together - a short story is like a kiss in the dark from a stranger.

So do we pass the ghosts that haunt us later in our lives; they sit undramatically by the roadside like poor beggars, and we see them only from the corners of our eyes, if we see them at all. The idea that they have been waiting there for us rarely crosses our minds. Yet they do wait, and when we have passed, they gather up their bundles of memory and fall in behind, treading in our footsteps and catching up, little by little.

the look of the sky as the day's blue blood runs out of its cheek.

The water was glassy and calm, still candy-colored in the afterglow of sunset.

Her body was wrapped in shadows like moth wings, like rose-petals.