Stephen King

But this wealth of information produced little or no insight.

As it happened, all three of us turned out to be real writers--a coincidence almost too large to be termed mere coincidence in a society where literally tens of thousands (maybe hundreds of thousands) of college students aspire to the writer's trade and where bare hundreds actually break through.

They say that loving eyes can never see, but that's a fool's axiom. Sometimes, they see too much

It is, after all, the dab of grit that seeps into an oyster's shell that makes the pearl, not pearl-making seminars with other oysters.

Love is what moves the world, I've always thought...it is the only thing which allows men and women to stand in a world where gravity always seems to want to pull them down...bring them low...and make them crawl.

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.

Perfect paranoia is perfect awareness.

Whatever came to mind, whatever came to hand, I would read.

It's a long way back to Eden, Sweetheart, so don't sweat the small stuff.

you can, you should, and if you’re brave enough to start, you will.

He was one of those quite rare adults who communicate with small children fairly well and who love them all impartially--not in a sugary way but in a businesslike fashion that may sometimes entail a hug, in the same way that closing a big business deal may call for a handshake.

How else could he go on, except with merciful incomprehension held before him like a shield? How could anyone?

When you write you tell yourself a story. When you rewrite you take out everything that is NOT the story.

Time takes it all, whether you want it to or not.

Your job isn't to find these ideas but to recognize them when they show up.

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

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.

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.

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