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All is forgotten in the stone halls of the dead. These are the rooms of ruin where the spiders spin and the great circuits fall quiet, one by one.

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
Stone
Stones
Forgotten
Circuits
Quiet
Spin
Rooms
Spiders
Dead
Ruin
Fall
Halls
Great
Ruins

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He remembered waking up once, listening to the wind, thinking of all the dark and rushing cold outside and all the warmth of this bed, filled with their peaceful heat under two quilts, and wishing it could be like this forever.
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Just the act of cooking made her feel better, because cooking was life.
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There is no Idea Dump, no Story Central, no Island of the Buried Bestsellers good stories seem to come quite literally from nowhere, sailing at you right out of the empty sky.
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By and large... the good's an illusion, little fables folks tell themselves so they can get through their days without screaming too much.
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Panic is highly contagious, especially in situations when nothing is known and everything is in flux.
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A cat won't curry favor even if it's in their best interests to do so. A cat can't be a hypocrite. If more preachers were like cats, this would be a more religious country.
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Human Nature Baby, grab it and growl.
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Write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open. Your stuff starts out being just for you, in other words, but then it goes out. Once you know what the story is and get it right — as right as you can, anyway — it belongs to anyone who wants to read it. Or criticize it.
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You discarded most of the lies along the way but held on to the one that said life mattered.
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No one ever does live happily ever after, but we leave the children to find that out for themselves.
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He's a very nice man and all that, easy to get along with, fun, he never makes me cry. But is that love? I mean, is that all there is to it? Even when you learned to ride your two-wheeler, you had to fall off a few times and scrape both knees. Call it a rite of passage. And that was just a little thing.
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Invitation to Dance- It’s a Dance. And sometimes they turn the lights off in this ballroom. But we’ll dance anyway, you and I. Even in the Dark. Especially in the Dark. May I have the pleasure?
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What I'm saying is that I'm trying to find rational reasons to explain irrational feelings, and that's neveer a good sign.
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Writing isn't about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it's about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It's about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy.
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Time apparently did nothing but blunt grief’s sharpest edge so that it hacked rather than sliced.
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It's a mystery. That's the first thing that interests me about the idea of God. If there is one, it's mysterious and powerful and awesome to even consider the concept, and you have to take it seriously.
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