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He lay back, put his arm over his eyes, and tried to hold onto the anger, because the anger made him feel brave. A brave man could think. A coward couldn't.

Stephen King

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Stephen King
Age: 77
Born: 1947
Born: September 21
Actor
Author
Columnist
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Film Director
Journalist
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Science Fiction Writer
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Portland
Maine
Stephen Edwin King
Richard Bachman
John Swithen
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Think
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Anger

More quotes by Stephen King

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When his life was ruined, his family killed, his farm destroyed, Job knelt down on the ground and yelled up to the heavens, 'Why god? Why me?' and the thundering voice of God answered, 'There's just something about you that pisses me off.'
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It's Merry Christmas at our house. Whatever it is at yours, have a happy one. And be good to somebody.
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I guess when you turn off the main road, you have to be prepared to see some funny houses.
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This inhuman place makes human monsters.
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I did spend years as an addict, so I know that world, although I wish I didn't.
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It is, after all, the dab of grit that seeps into an oyster's shell that makes the pearl, not pearl-making seminars with other oysters.
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I've given up thinking - it keeps getting me into trouble.
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They were still all beautiful and there was still enchantment and wonder, but she had crossed a line and now the fairy tale was green with corruption and evil.
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The mystery of the universe is not time but size.
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There came a time when you realized that moving on was pointless. That you took yourself with you wherever you went.
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Belief in the supernatural or belief in wild talents like precognition and telepathy and telekinesis and things like that, it seems to me that belief in those things is just very, very freeing.
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Do you believe in an afterlife? the gunslinger asked him as Brown dropped three ears of hot corn onto his plate. Brown nodded. I think this is it.
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Like anything else that happens on its own, the act of writing is beyond currency. Money is great stuff to have, but when it comes to the act of creation, the best thing is not to think of money too much. It constipates the whole process.
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he looked to her like an absurd twentieth-century Hamlet, an indecisive figure so mesmerized by onrushing tragedy that he was helpless to divert its course or alter it in any way.
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We fool ourselves so much we could do it for a living.
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Good writing is often about letting go of fear and affectation. Affectation itself, beginning with the need to define some sorts of writing as 'good' and other sorts as 'bad' is fearful behavior.
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But there's one thing I'm sure about. An opening line should invite the reader to begin the story. It should say: Listen. Come in here. You want to know about this.
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a cloud-congested caul that is alternately red, orange, vermilion, purple. Sometimes the clouds break apart in great, slow rafts, letting through beams of innocent yellow sunlight that are bitterly nostalgic for the summer that has gone by.
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If you liked being a teenager, there's something really wrong with you.
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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.
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