But if God made the world, then God made the drink. And that is also His will. Ka, Roland thought.
Sometimes, Dolores, sometimes you have to be a high-riding bitch to survive. Sometimes, being a bitch is all a woman has to hang onto.
You learn best by reading a lot and writing a lot, and the most valuable lessons of all are the ones you teach yourself.
When he raised his hand to wipe his chin, the card clutched in it had no longer been yellow. This time it was a dirty but still bright orange.
That stays, the bright cameo of all we were and all we believed as children, all that shone in our eyes even when we were lost and the wind blew in the night.
I'm going out for a bottle of champagne. We're going to get bombed.
It's a monster,' Richie said flatly. ‘Some kind of monster. Some kind of monster right here in Derry. And it's killing kids.
He looked back at them, and Eddie saw something he had never expected to see in his life—not even if that life stretched over a thousand years. Roland of Gilead was weeping.
You can lead a whore to culture, but you can't make her think. Freddi.
But people like Henry never did. People like Henry always came back, because people like Henry knew how to use trust. It was the only thing people like Henry did know how to use. First they changed trust into need, then they changed need into a drug, and once that was done, they – what was Eddie's word for it? – push. Yes. They pushed it.
And now I've got a fever, Marty, only it's a fever you can't damp down with aspirin, and I've got a shortness of breath the goddamned aspirator won't touch, because that shortness of breath isn't in my throat or my lungs—it is around my heart.
Callahan spat out the word "fucking" in a kind of desperate snarl, as men do when vulgarity has become for them a kind of linguistic court of last resort.
The two most beautiful words in any language are : I forgive.
The snake said nothing in return. Snakes do not need to justify their behavior.
There was a big old St. Bernard went rabid downstate a couple of years ago and killed four people.
I may look like Froggy the Gremlin, but in truth I'm Prince Fuckin Charming.
The world is falling down around our ears, and all these people care for is talking about fucking to women in short skirts and men with their shirts hanging open.
A song on the radio can bring back the past with fierce (if mercifully transitory) immediacy: a first kiss, a good time with your buddies, or an unhappy life-passage.
But you have to remember, Fran, she's too old to change, but you are getting old enough to understand that.
The town cares for devil's work no more than it cares for God's or man's. It knew darkness. And darkness was enough.
So okay― there you are in your room with the shade down and the door shut and the plug pulled out of the base of the telephone. You've blown up your TV and committed yourself to a thousand words a day, come hell or high water. Now comes the big question: What are you going to write about? And the equally big answer: Anything you damn well want.
The Black Angel came up from the roots and down from the branches. Her fingers are death and her hair is full of cobwebs and dream is her kingdom.
Yes he was, M-O-O-N, that spells my main man. I miss him awful. But I'm going to see him in heaven.
And she sees that the moonlight is losing its orange glow. It has become buttery, and will soon turn to silver.
Cat were the gangster of the animal world, living outside the law and often dying there.
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.
Cartography. A watershed is an area of land, usually mountains or forests, that drains into a river. History is also a river. Wouldn't you say so?
If it's all true, then we're in the citadel of unbelief, where nightmares are dispatched with Lysol and scalpels and chemotherapy rather than with stakes and Bibles and wild mountain thyme.
I slapped her across the face. I didn't think about it, I just did it, and few things in my adult life have given me so much pleasure.
I believe the first draft of a book — even a long one — should take no more than three months…Any longer and — for me, at least — the story begins to take on an odd foreign feel, like a dispatch from the Romanian Department of Public Affairs, or something broadcast on high-band shortwave duiring a period of severe sunspot activity.
What we’ve got here is a lunatic genius ghost-in-the-computer monorail that likes riddles and goes faster than the speed of sound. Welcome to the fantasy version of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
I want him to know the game is over. No more Castles. The real gunslingers are here. Let's see if he can deal with them.
In our world you got your mystery and suspense stories . . . your science fiction stories . . . your Westerns . . . your fairy tales. Get it? Yes, Roland said. Do people in your world always want only one story-flavor at a time? Only one taste in their mouths? I guess that's close enough, Susannah said. Does no one eat stew? Roland asked.
I hope you liked them, Reader; that they did for you what any good story should do--make you forget the real stuff weighing on your mind for a little while and take you away to a place you've never been. It's the most amiable sort of magic I know.
Let me tell you something my friend. Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope can drive a man insane.
Later, with strange galaxies turning in slow gavotte overhead, neither thought the act of love had ever been so sweet, so full.
When you were building that all-important stairway to heaven, you couldn't just stand around with your hammer in your hand.
The perception of a child who has not yet learned to protect itself by developing the tunnel vision that keeps out ninety percent of the universe.
Pride was the belt you could use to hold up your pants even after your pants were gone.