What heart I have is yours.
And maybe there had been enough tears, anyway. Which is not to say there wouldn’t be more.
Having been given so much, we reason, how could we expect not to be brought as low as Lucifer for the staggering presumption of our love?
No,′ he said. ‘I don’t think anyone dies happy... but you could die well.
We poor humans are wired up to always think the worst is gonna happen because it so rarely does.
All that money and still unable to count the blessings of her life, beginning with freedom from the paycheck.
There’s a town in Maine, Jerusalem’s Lot, and you could ask the people who lived there about the men in the black cars.
No “Dear,” no “Love, Mom.” Just a new toothbrush, new tube of toothpaste, new bottle of cologne. Sometimes, he thought, real love is silent as well as blind.
Some things just have to be true, Scott said, because they have no other choice.
Donald Trump is worse than any horror story I’ve written.
You’ve heard of Occam’s Razor, haven’t you?” It was nice to know something for sure. “It’s a basic truism sometimes known as the law of parsimony. ‘All other things being equal, the simplest explanation is usually the right one.
Tim Stoutheart was afraid, too,” I said. “But he went on. I expect you to do the same.
I am, after all, not just the novel’s creator but its first reader. And if I’m not able to guess with any accuracy how the damned thing is going to turn out, even with my inside knowledge of coming events, I can be pretty sure of keeping the reader in a state of page-turning anxiety. And why worry about the ending anyway? Why be such a control freak? Sooner or later every story comes out somewhere.
Love me. My head is so bad tonight. Love me. Love me.
They called him well preserved, but they used the term in a way that was uneasy rather than complimentary.
One of the few things I’ve learned since then about the fundamental differences between the sexes is this: men make assumptions, but women rarely do.
Then his lids closed slowly over his slightly bloodshot eyes, and Mort Rainey, who had yet to discover what true horror was all about, fell asleep.
Was it God that made magic, or was it magic that made God?
It looked to her like an image out of a Steven Spielberg science fiction movie.
And so the argument was begun, progressing more in the silences than in the speeches, like a chess game played by mail.