Bazaar Of Bad Dreams Quotes

When a long book succeeds, the writer and reader are not just having an affair; they are married.

I write for love, but love doesn’t pay the bills.

Something else I want you to know: how glad I am, Constant Reader, that we’re both still here. Cool, isn’t it?

Like shit, change happens.

There’s an old joke about Alzheimer’s: the good news is that you meet new people every day.

All I can say in my own defense is quot libros, quam breve tempus—so many books, so little time (and yes, I have the tee-shirt).

And do come a little closer. I don’t bite. Except . . . we’ve known each other for a very long time, and I suspect you know that’s not entirely true. Is it? I

Easy reading is the product of hard writing,

People who call themselves realists are often the biggest optimists of all.

Winnie, but I don’t believe in sin.” He smiled. It was a benevolent smile. Also unpleasant: sheep lips, wolf teeth. “That’s fine. But sin believes in you.

What was he thinking? The Internet did not predict the future; only the pink Kindle did that.

When things go wrong, they keep going wrong until there’s tears.

An old man's body is nothing but a sack in which he carries aches and indignities.

...there will always be books. ... Books are real objects. Books are friends. ... They're also ideas and emotions.

The road to recovery led through the Land of Pain, that was all.

Then they will have drinks and a meal and talk about the grace of God and how everything happens for a reason. God’s grace is a pretty cool concept. It stays intact every time it’s not you.

There is a folk tale that before birth, every human soul knows all the secrets of life and death and the universe. But then, just before birth, an angel leans down, puts his finger to the new baby’s lips, and whispers “Shhh.”’ Harris touches his philtrum. ‘According to the story, this is the mark left by the angel’s finger. Every human being has one.

I know you,” she said. “You’re Stephen King. You write those scary stories. That’s all right, some people like them, but not me. I like uplifting stories, like that Shawshank Redemption.” “I wrote that too,” I said. “No you didn’t,” she said, and went on her way. The

Some people have remarkably sturdy illusions.

I hate the assumption that you can’t write about something because you haven’t experienced it, and not just because it assumes a limit on the human imagination, which is basically limitless. It also suggests that some leaps of identification are impossible. I refuse to accept that, because it leads to the conclusion that real change is beyond us, and so is empathy. The idea is false on the evidence. Like shit, change happens.

Behind every great fortune there is a crime.

I’ve made some things for you, Constant Reader; you see them laid out before you in the moonlight. But before you look at the little handcrafted treasures I have for sale, let’s talk about them for a bit, shall we? It won’t take long. Here, sit down beside me. And do come a little closer. I don’t bite. Except... we’ve known each other for a very long time, and I suspect you know that’s not entirely true. Is it?

One cannot increase one’s talent—that comes with the package—but it is possible to keep talent from shrinking.

while I love each and every item, I’m happy to sell them, because I made them especially for you. Feel free to examine them, but please be careful. The best of them have teeth.

And watch out for the blade, Constant Reader. It is a Stephen King story, after all.

Goddam life, I say, if you can't laugh you might as well laugh anyway. That's my goddam attitude, and I'll stick by it; this ain't a sad world unless you're sane

I say, if you can’t laugh you might as well laugh anyway.

A little bit of grace. That’s what a good dog is, you know. A little bit of grace.

She was my heart, and I guard what’s there. Nobody takes it away from me.

Because—dig it—when it comes to death, what can you do but laugh?

A particularly apropos Ben Franklin adage had come to mind: Two can keep a secret, if one of them is dead.

I know you,” she said. “You’re Stephen King. You write those scary stories. That’s all right, some people like them, but not me. I like uplifting stories, like that Shawshank Redemption.” “I wrote that too,” I said. “No you didn’t,” she said, and went on her way.

It occurred to him that spite was a kind of methadone for lovers, and better than going cold turkey. When

It occurred to him that spite was a kind of methadone for lovers, and better than going cold turkey.

When the student is ready, the teacher will appear. Sometimes the teacher is inside us.

Life was a short shelf that came with bookends.

Once you started eating shit, it had a way of becoming your regular diet.

Living well isn’t the best revenge; loving well is.

Be grateful for the time you've had with him. A little bit of grace. That's what a good dog is, you know. A little bit of grace.

Back then I was dropping acid regularly, and I lost all sorts of stuff. Including, for short periods, my mind.

Elementary, my dear fucksticks. Bullshit,

Right,' said Don Allman. 'And I'm Robert Frost, stopping by the woods on a snowy fucking evening.

If Timlin’s right, he thought, the bloodsuckers will inherit the earth instead of the meek. If they can find any blood to suck, that is.

Life's a great thing, but if you live long enough, it wears out before it runs out.

Here, sit down beside me. And do come a little closer. I don’t bite. Except . . . we’ve known each other for a very long time, and I suspect you know that’s not entirely true. Is it?

I hate the assumption that you can't write about something because you haven't experienced it, and not just because it assumes a limit on the human imagination, which is basically limitless. It also suggest that some leaps of identification are impossible. I refuse to accept that real change is beyond us, and so is empathy.

She had grown up knowing you cared for the one who had fallen and couldn't get up. She had also grown up knowing you ate no shit - not about your hosses, your size, your line of work, or your sexual preferences. Once you started eating shit, it had a way of becoming your regular diet.

A man’s life was five dogs long, Cortland believed. The first was the one that taught you. The second was the one you taught. The third and fourth were the ones you worked. The last was the one that outlived you.

As Orwell’s pigs might have said, blue jeans good, new dress better.

Freud offended me. He seemed to feel that any suggestion of depth in human nature was an illusion.

it’s always the end for now, and in real life, the only full stop is on the obituary page.

Goddam life, I say, if you can’t laugh you might as well laugh anyway. That’s my goddam attitude, and I stick by it; this ain’t a sad world unless you’re sane.

She’s ten years from a hundred and still thinks she deserves perfection,

Because – dig it – when it comes to death, what can you do but laugh?

If Pete Simmons had been twenty, he might have asked a lot of bullshit questions that didn’t matter.

Tommy died in 1969. He was a hippie with leukemia. Bummer, man.

God’s grace is a pretty cool concept. It stays intact every time it’s not you.

quot libros, quam breve tempus—

When they argue they’re like greyhounds chasing the mechanical rabbit. You go past the same scenery time after time, but you don’t see the landscape. You see the rabbit.

Billy Ederle’s leaning in the doorway, drinking a Nozzy.

but to a dog, the stench of a decaying rat probably smells like Chanel No. 5.

Balzac once said, ‘Behind every great fortune there is a crime.

A man’s life was five dogs long, Cortland believed.

when the streets are deserted and a cold rind of moon floats over the canyons of the city.

want you to know: how glad I am, Constant Reader, that we’re both still here. Cool, isn’t it?

I want you to know: how glad I am, Constant Reader, that we’re both still here. Cool, isn’t it?

Life’s a great thing, but if you live long enough, it wears out before it runs out.

It is the flush, Judge Beecher thinks, of a man who enjoys his tipple.

Arr, reality’s a dirty place with no religion in it.

The reason fantasy fiction remains such a vital and necessary genre is that it lets us talk about such things in a way realistic fiction cannot.

...Fritz Leiber, the great fantasist and science fiction writer...called books 'the scholar's mistress'...the one who made no demands and always took him in...

drove a ’61 Ford station wagon: six in a row for more go and three on the tree (if you don’t know, ask your dad).

The Tower trembles; the worlds shudder in their courses. The rose feels a chill, as of winter.” Very

The part of me that creates the stories exists only in solitude. The one who shows up to share anecdotes and answer questions is a poor substitute for the story-maker.

It wasn’t the execution per se; except for the warden’s bizarre blue shirt, it had seemed as prosaic as getting a tetanus shot or a shingles vaccination. That was actually the horror of it. Something

She had also grown up knowing you ate no shit—not about your hosses, your size, your line of work, or your sexual preferences. Once you started eating shit, it had a way of becoming your regular diet.

The screen blanked, then produced a book cover. The jacket image—in black-and-white—showed barking dogs surrounding a scarecrow. In the background, shoulders slumped in a posture of weariness or defeat (or both), was a hunter with a gun. The eponymous Cortland, probably.

There’s an old joke about Alzheimer’s: the good news is that you meet new people every day. Sanderson has discovered the real good news is that the script rarely changes. It means you almost never have to improvise.

teaching, even when it was just subbing, was like having a pair of jumper cables attached to some critical part of your brain. It was good that the kids could draw power from that part, but there was precious little left over. Many

He tapped the remaining pieces into place with a satisfaction that went all the way back to rainy days at summer camp. Where, he now realized, the common room had been quite a bit like this. Life was a short shelf that came with bookends.

Some of these stories have been previously published, but that doesn’t mean they were done then, or even that they’re done now. Until a writer either retires or dies, the work is not finished; it can always use another polish and a few more revisions. There’s also a bunch of new ones. Something else I want you to know: how glad I am, Constant Reader, that we’re both still here. Cool, isn’t it? —

But even the craziest idea can work its way into your mind if you’re lonely and grief-stricken and someone keeps harping on it. It can wriggle in there like a bloodworm, and lay its eggs, and pretty soon your whole brain is squirming with maggots. I

The Echo was a rag specializing in yard sales, area sports, and town politics. The residents scanned those things, he supposed, but mostly bought the paper for the obituaries and Police Beat. Everybody liked to know which of their neighbors had died or been jailed.

Memory’s job was not only to recall the past but to burnish it.

MY CHILD IS AN HONOR STUDENT AT THE STATE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY,

Diabolique).

She WAS my heart, and I guard what's there. Nobody takes it away from me.

quot libros, quam breve tempus

six in a row for more go and three on the tree (if you don’t know, ask your dad).

That’s what a good dog is, you know. A little bit of grace.

and talk about the grace of God and how everything happens for a reason. God’s grace is a pretty cool concept. It stays intact every time it’s not you.

I hate the assumption that you can't write about something because you haven't experienced it, and not just because it assumes a limit on the human imagination, which is basically limitless. It also suggests that some leaps of identification are impossible. I refuse to accept that, because it leads to the conclusion that real change is beyond us, and so is empathy.

I hate the assumption that you can’t write about something because you haven’t experienced it, and not just because it assumes a limit on the human imagination, which is basically limitless.

There is a folk tale that before birth, every human soul knows all the secrets of life and death and the universe. But then, just before birth, an angel leans down, puts his finger to the new baby’s lips, and whispers ‘Shhh.’” Harris touches his philtrum. “According to the story, this is the mark left by the angel’s finger. Every human being has one.

very funny, and he laughed hard. Am I really stinko? On just three sips? He didn’t think so, but he was definitely high. No more. Enough was enough. “Drink responsibly,” he told the empty restaurant, and laughed. He’d hang out here for

GEORGE AND MARLEE UP IN A TREE! K-I-S-S-I-N-G! We stopped. There was a kid over there, standing by a hackberry bush. I’d never seen him before, not at Mary Day or anywhere else. He wasn’t but four and a half feet tall, and stocky. He had on gray shorts that went down all the way to his knees, and a green sweater with orange stripes. It was rounded out up top with little boy-tits and a poochy belly underneath. He had a beanie on his head, the stupid kind with a plastic propeller. His

A man and a woman rush up. The woman raises her own cell phone and takes a picture with it. Pauline Enslin observes this without much surprise. She supposes the woman will show it to friends later. Then they will have drinks and a meal and talk about the grace of God and how everything happens for a reason. God’s grace is a pretty cool concept. It stays intact every time it’s not you.

I hate the assumption that you can’t write about something because you haven’t experienced it, and not just because it assumes a limit on the human imagination, which is basically limitless. It also suggests that some leaps of identification are impossible. I refuse to accept that, because it leads to the conclusion that real change is beyond us, and so is empathy. The idea is false on the evidence.

She had grown up knowing you cared for the one who had fallen and couldn’t get up. She had also grown up knowing you ate no shit – not about your hosses, your size, your line of work, or your sexual preferences. Once you started eating shit, it had a way of becoming your regular diet.

She was a Florida snowbird archetype, about eighty, permed to perfection, and as darkly tanned as a cordovan shoe. She looked at me, looked away, then did a double take. “I know you,” she said. “You’re Stephen King. You write those scary stories. That’s all right, some people like them, but not me. I like uplifting stories, like that Shawshank Redemption.” “I wrote that too,” I said. “No you didn’t,” she said, and went on her way.