When it started not to hurt, it started not to matter.
Goddam life, I say, if you can’t laugh you might as well laugh anyway. That’s my goddam attitude, and I’ll stick by it; this ain’t a sad world unless you’re sane.
Before he said I was too old for stories.” “A person’s never too old for stories, Bill. Man and boy, girl and woman, never too old. We live for them.” “Do you say so?” “I do.
Confession may or may not be good for the soul, but it’s undoubtedly soothing to the nerves.
Thee’s a good man, Roland of Gilead.” He considered this, then slowly shook his head. “All my life I’ve had the fastest hands, but at being good I was always a little too slow.” She.
Roland felt an unaccustomed sorrow rise up from his heart. Time was a face on the water, and like the great river before them, it did nothing but flow.
It seemed right to do it this way, because the rite of passage is a magic corridor and so we always provide an aisle – it’s what you walk down when you get married, what they carry you down when you get buried. Our corridor was those twin rails, and we walked between them, just bopping along toward whatever this was supposed to mean.
That smile was dangerous, she thought – a quicksand smile if ever there was one. Easy to wander in; perhaps more difficult to wander back out.
In the dark, rationality seemed stupid and logic a dream. In the dark he thought with his skin.
We was used to each other in the way I s’pose two old bats can get used to hangin upside-down next to each other in the same cave, even though they’re a long way from what you’d call the best of friends.
Those in the grip of a strong drug – heroin, devil grass, true love – often find themselves trying to maintain a precarious balance between secrecy and ecstasy as they walk the tightrope of their lives. Keeping one’s balance on a tightrope is difficult under the soberest of circumstances; doing so while in a state of delirium is all but impossible.
Misery suffered did not justify misery to come.
Some nightmares never completely ended.
Free, free, free... necromancer, I love you.
The truth has to come out, that’s the basis of art. But that’s not to say the world must see it. Be brave. Don’t be afraid to draw the secret things. No one said art was always a zephyr; sometimes it’s a hurricane. Even then you must not hesitate or change course. Because if you tell yourself the great lie of bad art – that you are in charge – your chance of the truth will be lost. The truth isn’t always pretty.
I was just following orders. The people elected me. But who elected the people?
That ain’t Chanel Number Five I smell comin from the direction of your butt, is it?
He’s not my biggest fan right now. He’s probably even deleted me from his Facebook page.
Life is a tiger you have to grab by the tail, and if you don’t know the nature of the beast it will eat you up.
Writing about yourself seems to be a lot like sticking a branch into clear river-water and rolling up the muddy bottom.