Quotes about Stephen King

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Money talks, bullshit walks.

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I'll see you.'
He grinned. 'Not if i see you first.

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Oh Christ, he groaned to himself, if this is the stuff adults have to think about I never want to grow up

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The feel of the sticky wetness down there when she moved made her grimace. God, she wanted to get cleaned up. In a hurry.

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Sometimes when you're young, you have moments of such happiness, you think you're living on someplace magical, like Atlantis must have been. Then we grow up and our hearts break into two.

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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.

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All I ask is that you do as well as you can, and remember that, while to write adverbs is human, to write he said or she said is divine.

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Writers remember everything...especially the hurts. Strip a writer to the buff, point to the scars, and he'll tell you the story of each small one. From the big ones you get novels. A little talent is a nice thing to have if you want to be a writer, but the only real requirement is the ability to remember the story of every scar.
Art consists of the persistence of memory.

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Writing does not cause misery, it is born of misery.

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...and still the hands did their trick, like over-eager dogs that want to do their rolling—over trick for you not once or twice but all night.

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If a book is not alive in the writer's mind, it is as dead as year-old horse-shit

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I deal in lead! Roland called, and Eddie felt goose-bumps pebble his arms.

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She gave him a strange maternal grin.
For the first time, clearly, the thought surfaced in Paul Sheldon’s mind: I am in
trouble here. This woman is not right.

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Am I weird?"

"Yeah. But so what? Everybody's weird.

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Writing fiction, especially a long work of fiction can be difficult, lonely job; it’s like crossing the Atlantic Ocean in a bathtub. There’s plenty of opportunity for self-doubt.

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At the end of her life she was aware of heat but not pain. She had time to consider his eyes, eyes of that blue which is the color of the sky at first light of the morning. She had time to think of him on the Drop, riding Rusher flat out with his black hair flying back from his temples and his neckerchief rippling; to see him laughing with an ease and freedom he would never find again in the long life which stretched out for him beyond hers, and it was his laughter she took with her as she went out, fleeing the light and heat in to the silkly, consoling dark, calling to him over and over as she went, calling bird and bear and hare and fish.

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They were close to the end of the beginning . . .

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stop now before i kill you
a word to the wise from your friend

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There had never been a shortage of fools in the world

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So what, ghosts can't hurt you. That's what I thought then.