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Wherever you write is supposed to be a little bit of a refuge, a place where you can get away from the world. The more closed in you are, the more you're forced back on your own imagination.

Stephen King

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Stephen King
Age: 77
Born: 1947
Born: September 21
Actor
Author
Columnist
Director
Film Director
Journalist
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Teacher
Television Producer
Writer
Portland
Maine
Stephen Edwin King
Richard Bachman
John Swithen
Away
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Closed
Littles
Forced
Back
Wherever
Little
Supposed
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Imagination
Write

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The place where you made your stand never mattered. Only that you were there... and still on your feet.
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no one dies happy, you can only die well
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What Jack didn't understand was that no matter where he went, the same asshole got off the plane.
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We make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones.
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Did it [cocaine] for about eight years. Not a terribly long time to be an addict I guess, but it is longer than World War II.
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Want to know the best thing about teaching? Seeing that moment when a kid discovers his or her gift. There's no feeling on earth like it.
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It's a poorboy sanditch,' Roland said. 'With lots of mayo, whatever that is. I'd want a sauce that didn't look quite so much like come, myself, but may it do ya fine.
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Families, when a child is born Want it to be intelligent. I, through intelligence, Having wrecked my whole life, Only hope the baby will prove Ignorant and stupid. Then he will crown a tranquil life By becoming a Cabinet Minister.
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The only wat to get better at writing is to write. And read.
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Don't look back, never look back. How often do people tell themselves that after an experience that is exceptionally good (or exceptionally bad?)? Often, I suppose. And the advice usually goes unheeded. Humans were built to look back that's why we have tat swivel joint in our necks.
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It is the tale, not he who tells it.
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He could feel the pores of his body open like a million mouths and slurp the water in like a sponge.
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Words create sentences sentences create paragraphs sometimes paragraphs quicken and begin to breathe.
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...belief has a second edge. If there are ten thousand medieval peasants who create vampires by believing them real, there may be one - probably a child - who will imagine the stake necessary to kill it. But a stake is only stupid wood the mind is the mallet which drives it home.
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Paul Edgecomb: What do you want me to do John? I'll do it. You want me to let you walk out of here and see how far you get? John Coffey: Now why would you want to do a foolish thing like that? Paul Edgecomb: When I die and I stand before God awaiting judgment and he asks me why I let one of HIS miracles die, what am I gonna say, that it was my job?
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When the dawn was still long hours away, bad thoughts took on flesh and began to walk. In the middle of the night thoughts became zombies.
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What we like to think of ourselves and what we really are rarely have much in common.
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It's been quite a while since I was really afraid that there was a boogeyman in my closet, although I am still very careful to keep my feet under the covers when I go to sleep, because the covers are magic, and if your feet are covered, it's like boogeyman Kryptonite.
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There are things of such darkness and horror—just, I suppose, as there are things of such great beauty—that they will not fit through the puny human doors of perception.
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One only wishes Wayne LaPierre and his NRA board of directors could be drafted to some of these scenes, where they would be required to put on booties and rubber gloves and help clean up the blood, the brains, and the chunks of intestine still containing the poor wads of half-digested food that were some innocent bystander's last meal.
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