I think it was someone else. I think it was an outsider.
You’re a dangerous fool who should be sent west,” he told the unconscious man. “You have forgotten the face of your father.
Her eyes had taken on a dull, sullen cast. He hated that look, but he also liked it just fine. It was the right look, the one that said the kindling was burning well, and soon the bigger logs would start to catch.
It was safer to walk softly, and surer to ask instead of telling.
On the other side of Mid-World, Roland of Gilead, the last gunslinger, had drawn this divided woman to him and had created a third, who was far better, far stronger, than either of the previous two.
The need to recreate the myth of coherence may be one of the reasons why history exists in the first place. Never.
Gone to serve the Great Ones, in the Null. No death, no light, no rest.
But nothing had ever spoiled it, somehow. It could be spoiled, he knew that, but in spite of the reputed fragility of the creative act, it had always been the single toughest thing, the most abiding thing, in his life – nothing had ever been able to pollute that crazy well of dreams: no drink, no drug, no pain.
Memory has a way of slipping a few gears after sixty-five, when people round the third turn start down the home stretch. He.
Kill if you will, but command me nothing!’ the gunslinger roared. ‘You have forgotten the faces of those who made you!
In the bush you sometimes had to do something wrong to prevent an even greater wrong. Behavior like that shows that you’re in the wrong place to start with, no doubt, but once you’re in the soup, you just have to swim.
The truth, first encountered on that day, was this: there was a well inside her, the water in that well was poisoned, and when he goosed her, William had sent a bucket down there, one which had come up filled with scum and squirming gluck.
The best part, though, was hearing my mother’s voice. It was like having her again, coming out from far inside me. It hurt, of course, but more often than not the best things do, I’ve found. You wouldn’t think it could be so, but-as the oldtimers used to say – the world’s titled, and there’s an end to it.
I find that the more I dislike adults, the more apt I am to call them Sir. “What?
And what would they find on sale? His sanity? Could be. Half-Price. Smoke and Water Damage. Everything Must Go.
Find the hole in the paper.
I don’t believe in curses, you know. Nor in ghosts or anything precisely supernatural. But I do believe that emotions and events have a certain... lingering resonance. It may be that emotions can even communicate themselves in certain circumstances, if the circumstances are peculiar enough... the way a carton of milk will take the flavour of certain strongly spiced foods if it’s left open in the refrigerator.
When some people were in distress, you wanted to enfold them and say there-there as you patted them on the back. With others you wanted to slap them a hard one across the chops and tell them to man up.
Oh my fadder and I are one, ” she said, “just me, just him, and dear, if you are wise you will run, run back to where you came from, run quickly, because to stay will mean worse than your death. No one who dies in Derry really dies. You knew that before; believe it now.
But you have to remember, Fran, she’s too old to change, but you are getting old enough to understand that.