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I do not aim with my hand he who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his father. I aim with my eye. I do not shoot with my hand he who shoots with his hand has forgotten the face of his father. I shoot with my mind. I do not kill with my gun he who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father. I kill with my heart.

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
Father
Aim
Hands
Gun
Heart
Forgotten
Mind
Kill
Gunslinger
Hand
Shoots
Face
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Kills
Eye
Shoot

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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.
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I want to write about spiders. To me, this is the one theme that cuts right across and scares just about everybody. Spiders, to me, are just about the most horrible, awful things that I can think about. I think everyone is afraid of spiders.
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At nineteen, it seems to me, one has a right to be arrogant time has usually not begun its stealthy and rotten subtractions. It takes away your hair and your jump-shot, according to a popular country song, but in truth it takes away a lot more than that.
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Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.
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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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It wasn't just love that held people together. There was secrets, and the price you paid to keep them.
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A library is a place where you can live a thousand lives. So why are you waiting when you could be living? Visit your library today.
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Writers write. That's all it is. It is as simple, and as complex, as that.
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I didn't want to even stand next to any high rise building as long as I lived... I didn't even want to go over a bridge.
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Guys like Henry and his buddies were an accident waiting to happen the little kids' version of floods or tornadoes or gallstones.
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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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Was it pretty? Your country. . .your land? It was beautiful, the gunslinger said. There were fields and forests and rivers and mists in the morning. But that's only pretty. My mother used to say that the only real beauty is order and love and light.
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I am the literary equivalent of a Big Mac and fries.
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The muses are ghosts, and sometimes they come uninvited.
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I was built with a love of the night and the unquiet coffin.
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His name is Legion. He is the king of nowhere.
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It's hard for me to believe that people who read very little (or not at all in some cases) should presume to write and expect people to like what they have written.
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The thing under my bed waiting to grab my ankle isn't real. I know that, and I also know that if I'm careful to keep my foot under the covers, it will never be able to grab my ankle.
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The redness was going out of the light now, the remains of the day were a fading pink, the color of wild roses.
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Money can't buy off the lightning.
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