Because there really is a second world. It exists because people refuse to believe it’s there.
I jerk off left-handed, he thought, at least that’s something.
We see her go through dangerous mood-swings, but I tried never to come right out and say “Annie was depressed and possibly suicidal that day” or “Annie seemed particularly happy that day.“If I have to tell you, I lose. If, on the other hand, I can show you a silent, dirty-haired woman who compulsively gobbles cake and candy, then have you draw the conclusion that Annie is in the depressive part of a manic-depressive cycle, I win.
As the light swayed above him and the shadows danced and flapped, he began to swing the cane, bringing it down again and again, his arm rising and falling like a machine.
Screw you and the horse you rode in on.
At thirteen I wanted monsters that ate whole cities, radioactive corpses that came out of the ocean and ate surfers, and girls in black bras who looked like trailer trash.
As his arms went around her, she wondered how much of the human race understood about hugging- how good it was, and how a person could want to do it for hours on end. She supposed some did understand, but doubted that they were in the majority. To fully understand about hugging, maybe you had to have missed a lot of it.
Maybe there’s something there, but I’m betting it’s not God as any church understands Him. Look at the babble of conflicting beliefs and you’ll know that. They cancel each other out and leave nothing.
What’s a self-respecting amusement park without a ghost?
There’s an old joke about Alzheimer’s: the good news is that you meet new people every day. Sanderson has discovered the real good news is that the script rarely changes. It means you almost never have to improvise.
To fully understand about hugging, maybe you had to have missed a lot of it.
I’d hate to think our whole planet was being judged by Texas.
The ass of a man is the piston that drives the world, and you have a good one. In my prime, I would have corked it with my thumb and then eaten you alive. Preferably by the pool of Le Meridien in Monte Carlo, with an admiring audience to applaud my frontside and backside efforts.
I wonder if Stephen King ever uses dreams in his writing. You know, as yeast to make the plot rise.
This was it, he knew it, was sure of it, this was the door which would take him back –.
There is a frightening, sickening ease – and a clear attraction – to the way in which things can be blown apart. The hard job is bringing things together again.
Why are they crying so far apart?
He looks like anybody you see on the street. But when he grins, birds fall dead off telephone lines. When he looks at you a certain way, your prostate goes bad and your urine burns. The grass yellows up and dies where he spits. He’s always outside. He came out of time. He doesn’t know himself.
The teenage lead singer counted off, and the band launched into a hot version of “Ooh, My Head,” the old Ritchie Valens song – and not really so old in the summer of ’61, although Valens had been dead for almost two years.
Nietzsche: if you keep your focus, eventually your focus will keep you. Sometimes without parole.