Cujo Stephen King Quotes

The monster nevers dies.

We'll just have to get along. That's what people do, you know? They just get along. And try to help each other.

But in high school the business of irrevocable choices began. Doors slipped shut with a faint locking click that was only heared clearly in the dreams of later years.

...it was amazing, wasn't it, how bad you could hurt when there was nothing physically wrong.

All the logic in the world could not blunt the pain. Logic could not blunt her terrible sense of personal failure. Only time would do those things, and time would do an imperfect job.

...it was more like bleeding than crying.

The world was full of monsters, and they were all allowed to bite the innocent and the unwary

It would perhaps not be amiss to point out that he had always tried to be a good dog. He had tried to do all the things his MAN and his WOMAN, and most of all his BOY, had asked or expected of him. He would have died for them, if that had been required. He had never wanted to kill anybody. He had been struck by something, possibly destiny, or fate, or only a degenerative nerve disease called rabies. Free will was not a factor.

There is no bad time for good news.

The two of them had discovered it was all right to open the closets...as long as you didn't poke too far back in them. Because things might still be lurking there, ready to bite.

If loyalty was toilet paper... we'd be hard-pressed to wipe our asses, old buddy.

El monstruo nunca muere.

surely they had passed the worst. All the luck had been against them, but sooner or later even the worst luck changes.

Monster dog. Like Cujo in that movie.

Charity had discovered there were things you didn't want to tell. Shame wasn't the reason. Sometimes it was just better-kinder- to keep up a front

Abrakadabra, und alles verwandelt sich in einen großen Haufen Scheiße.

All the luck had been against them, but sooner or later even the worst luck changes

Maybe he was as mad as he said he was, but she could see only a species of miserable fright. Suddenly, like the thud of a boxing glove on her mouth, she saw how close to the edge of everything he was. The agency was tottering, that was bad enough, and now, on top of that, like a grisly dessert following a putrid main course, his marriage was tottering too. She felt a rush of warmth for him, for this man she had sometimes hated and had, for the last three hours at least, feared. A kind of epiphany filled her. Most of all, she hoped he would always think he had been as mad as hell, and not . . . not the way his face said he felt.

Todo el espectro del mundo auditivo era suyo. Oía las campanadas del cielo y los ásperos gritos que surgían del infierno. En su locura, oía lo real y lo irreal.

A woman doesn't necessarily mind being looked at. It's being mentally undressed that makes you nervous.

When there was nothing left but survival, when you were right down to the strings and nap and ticking of yourself, you survived or you died and that seemed perfectly all right.

Nope, nothing wrong here.” —

there comes a time when children stand in judgment and their parents—mother as well as father—must stand in the dock.

He was a Saint Bernard in his prime, five years old, nearly two hundred pounds in weight, and now, on the morning of June 16, 1980, he was pre-rabid.

It was a love that had nothing to do with Joe Camber's day-to-day behavior toward him or his mother; it was a brute, biological thing that he would never be free of, a phenomenon with many illusory referents of the sort which haunt for a lifetime: the smell of cigarette smoke, the look of a double-edged razor reflected in a mirror, pants hung over a chair, certain curse words.

He tilted back in the decaying lawn chair, almost went over on his back, and used up some more of his screwdriver. The screwdriver was in a glass he had gotten free from a McDonald's restaurant. There was some sort of purple animal on the glass. Something called a Grimace. Gary ate a lot of his meals at the Castle Rock McDonald's, where you could still get a cheap hamburger. Hamburgers were good. But as for the Grimace... and Mayor McCheese... and Monsieur Ronald Fucking McDonald... Gary Pervier didn't give a shit for any of them.

¿Cuándo murió? ¿Ha ocurrido de veras? ¿Y cómo voy a poder soportarlo el resto de mi vida sin volverme loco?.

Aspiraba el olor de la locura en un viento que aún no había llegado.

Trató de pensar con coherencia y simplemente no pudo hacerlo.

¿Por qué no podía enfadarse? ¿Por qué tenía que estar tan cochinamente asustado?

Una absurda palabra antigua acudió a su mente. Burlado, pensó. He sido burlado.

Él le había hecho daño, le había hecho mucho daño, y el mundo era un terrible embrollo de sensaciones e impresiones...

Tiempo, pensó. Tiempo y perspectiva. Hay que darle eso. Si le obligas, le perderás con toda seguridad.

Rostros. Voces. Habitaciones. Escenas. Libros. El terror de este momento, pensando VOY A MORIR...

En la oscuridad no parecía importar que casi todas las respuestas fueran absurdas.

Había tenido ocasión de echar una buena mirada a su vida y había visto que todo había sido un decorado teatral y falsas apariencias.

¿Por qué?. ¿Por qué había podido ocurrir algo así?. ¿Cómo habían podido confabularse tantos acontecimientos juntos?.

No hago más que percibirle... sentirle... en todos los rincones.

May things turn out all right, even against the odds.

It was all a lie. The world was full of monsters, and they were all allowed to bite the innocent and the unwary.

Logic could not blunt her terrible sense of personal failure. Only time could do those things, and time would do an imperfect job.

Is the dog eating in the barn? (what is it eating in there? Gaines Meal? or people?)

No monsters, Tad.

What drove women crazy, she thought suddenly, wasn’t really sexism at all, maybe. It was this mad, masculine quest for efficiency.

The world was full of monsters, and they were all allowed to bite the innocent and the unwary.

She thought there would be no more tears for a very long time. The wound and the attendant shock trauma were too great.

It made him feel creepy. It made him feel outraged. It made him feel infuriated.

Being frightened of him had made her angrier than ever.

But in high school the business of irrevocable choices began. Doors slipped shut with a faint locking click that was only heard clearly in the dreams of later years.

there’s a big difference between thirty-two and forty-one, Vic. They kick a lot of the guts out of you in between thirty-two and forty-one.

Por un instante, contemplando aquellos ojos enloquecidos, una especie de angustioso horror se apoderó de él y pensó: Hola, Frank. Eres tú, ¿verdad? ¿Hacía demasiado calor en el infierno?.

The tears had burned off most of the fear. What was left was an ugly slag of anger. That was the next level in this geological column of knowledge. But anger wasn’t the right word. He was enraged. He was infuriated.

Donna tuvo la sensación de que ambos habían llegado a conocerse íntimamente y que no podría haber descanso ni término para ninguno de los dos hasta que hubieran explorado aquella terrible relación y hubieran llegado a una conclusión definitiva.

I got scared, that’s all. I got scared when I’d start looking at knickknacks or thinking about taking a pottery course or yoga or something like that. And the only place to run from the future is into the past. So … so I started flirting with him.

Clive Barker, Stephen King, Angela Carter, and Anne Rice. King's Cujo, the story of a rabid St. Bernard that traps a mother and her dying son in a car, and Rice's Interview with the Vampire, the wildly popular tale of a modern-day Dracula, epitomize the genre.

Because I’m crazy, Tad. I’m here. I’ve been here all along. My name was Frank Dodd once, and I killed the ladies and maybe I ate them, too. I’ve been here all along, I stick around, I keep my ear to the ground. I’m the monster, Tad, the old monster, and I’ll have you soon, Tad. Feel me getting closer … and closer …

successful.

Er hatte sich dann an seine Lebensaufgabe gemacht, die darin bestand, so langsam und angenehm wie möglich Selbstmord zu begehen.

All monsters should live under bridges or in closets or at the ends of dead-end roads.

Why had his pantomime of feeding Cujo, and those rapid, sighing words, frightened her so much? Cujo’s not hungry no more, not no more.

Quando non resta altro che la sopravvivenza, quando si arriva in fondo a tutto quanto, o la si scampa o si muore e tutto sembra perfettamente normale.

Ay dertlerimize ortak olmuyor, diye düşünen Charity'nin içi hâlâ rahat değildi.

Yarası beresi olmayan birinin bu denli acı çekmesi doğrusu şaşılacak şeydi.

It's a tank, Roger. We'll drive it right to fuck over them if we have to. As long as we can get something concrete down before we go to Cleveland....

Cujo bit him high on the shoulder, his powerful jaws closing and crunching through the bare skin, pulling tendons like wires.

That money did not come by accident; that it almost always resulted from some sustained act of will, and that will was the core of character.

This saying of her father’s was reserved for particularly fine tackles and intercepted passes. “He laid back in the tall bushes on that one!” her father would cry.

Es war kein Weinen, es war ein Bluten. Aber mit siebzehn weinte man leichter. Man blutete auch leichter. Wenn man siebzehn war, wusste man, dass man noch oft bluten und weinen würde.

He had various “men” to stick into the cabs of his trucks. Some of them were round-headed guys scrounged from his PlaySkool toys. Others were soldiers. Not a few were what he called “Star Wars Guys.” These included Luke, Han Solo, the Imperial Creep (aka Darth Vader), a Bespin Warrior, and Tad’s absolute favorite, Greedo. Greedo always got to drive the Tonka dozer.

Por un instante, contemplando aquellos ojos enloquecidos, una especie de angustioso horror se apoderó de él y pensó: Hola, Frank. Eres tú ¿verdad?. ¿Hacía demasiado calor en el infierno?

Hello, Vic. Nice wife you've got there. I enjoyed fucking the shit out of her. What's that mole just above her pubic hair look like to you? To me it looks like a question mark. Do YOU have any questions?

I’m going to get you, babe. I’m going to get you, kiddo. Think about the mailman all you want to. I’ll kill him too if I have to, the way I killed all three of the Cambers, the way I’m going to kill you and your son. You might as well get used to the idea. You might as well –

The moonlight had been falling through the window and onto the bed where she now sat, moonlight in a cold and uncaring flood of light, and she had understood just how afraid a person could be, how fear was a monster with yellow teeth, set afoot by an angry God to eat the unwary and the unfit.

He had suspected something, yes. But suspecting was not like knowing; he knew that now, if nothing else. He could write an essay on the difference between suspecting and knowing. What made it doubly cruel was the fact that he had really begun to believe that the suspicions were groundless. And even if they weren’t, what you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you. Wasn’t that right? If a man is crossing a darkened room with a deep, open hole in the middle of it, and if he passes within inches of it, he doesn’t need to know he almost fell in. There is no need for fear. Not if the lights are off.

Gary Pervier sat out on his weedy front lawn at the bottom of Seven Oaks Hill on Town Road No. 3 about a week after Vic and Roger's depressing luncheon meeting at the Yellow Sub, drinking a screwdriver that was 25% Bird's Eye frozen orange juice and 75% Popov vodka. He was drinking Popov because Popov was cheap.

The only thing that old loudmouth bitch is any good at is telling the weather," George had been known to allow when in his cups and in the company of his cronies down at the Mellow Tiger. It was one stupid name for a bar, but since it was the only one Castle Rock could boast, it looked like they were pretty much stuck with it.

I didn’t want to be on the Library Committee and I didn’t want to be on the Hospital Committee and run the bake sales or be in charge of getting the starter change or making sure that not everybody is making the same Hamburger Helper casserole for Saturday-night supper. I didn’t want to see those same depressing faces over and over again and listen to the same gossipy stories about who is doing what in this town. I didn’t want to sharpen my claws on anyone else’s reputation. I didn’t want to sell Tupperware and I didn’t want to sell Amway and I didn’t want to give Stanley parties and I don’t need Weight Watchers...And the only place to run from the future is into the past.

The old monster, she thought incoherently, keeps his watch still. Had this terrible vigil been only a matter of hours, or had it been her whole life? Surely everything that had gone before had been a dream, little more than a short wait in the wings? The mother who had seemed to be disgusted and repulsed by all those around her, the well-meaning but ineffectual father, the schools, the friends, the dates and dances - they were all a dream to her now, as youth must seem to the old. Nothing mattered, nothing was but this silent and sunstruck dooryard where death had been dealt and yet more death waited in the cards, as sure as aces and eights. The old monster kept his watch still, and her son was slipping, slipping, slipping away.

Andy Masen was the Maine Attorney General's Wunderkind, and there were those who said that someday--and not too distant a day, either--he would lead the A.G.'s criminal division. Andy Masen's sights were set a good deal higher than that. He hoped to be Attorney General himself in 1984, and in a position to run for Governor by 1987. And after eight years as Governor, who knew?

In May, just before the cereal had hit the fan, he sent Vic and Roger a postcard showing a Boston T-bus going away. On the back were four lovely ladies, bent over to show their fannies, which were encased in designer jeans. Written on the back of the card, tabloid style, was this message: IMAGE-EYE LANDS CONTRACT TO DO BUTTS FOR BOSTON BUSES; BILLS BIG BUCKS. Funny then. Not such a hoot now.

It just makes me want to puke, Vic. I see that guy sitting on his desk and looking out at me like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, taking a big bit of that cereal with the runny dye in it and saying, 'Nope, nothing wrong here,' and I get sick to my stomach. Physically sick to my stomach. I'm glad the projectionist had to go. If I watched them one more time, I'd have to do it with an airsick bag in my lap.

Before marrying Vic, she had been a librarian in the Westchester school system, and her own private nightmare had always been telling the kids for the third time—in her loudest speaking voice—to quiet down at once, please. When she did that, they always had—enough for her to get through the period, at least—but what if they wouldn't? That was her nightmare. What if they absolutely wouldn't? What did that leave?

He was drinking Popov because Popov was cheap. Gary had purchased a large supply of it in New Hampshire, where booze was cheaper, on his last liquor run. Popov was cheap in Maine, but it was dirt cheap in New Hampshire, a state which took its stand for the finer things in life--a fat state lottery, cheap booze, cheap cigarettes. and tourist attractions like Santa's Village and Six-Gun City. New Hampshire was a great old place.

Look at that McDonald's glass giveaway a couple-three years ago. The paint on the glasses had been found to contain an unacceptably high lead content. The glasses had been withdrawn quickly, consigned to that promotional limbo inhabited by creatures such as Speedy Alka-Seltzer and Vic's own personal favorite, Big Dick Chewing Gum. The glasses had been bad for the McDonald's Corporation, but no one had accused Ronald McDonald of trying to poison his pre-teen constituency.

Tal vez no sea ocioso recordar que siempre había tratado de ser un buen perro. Había tratado de hacer todas las cosas que su HOMBRE, su MUJER y, sobre todo, su NIÑO le habían pedido o habían esperado de él. Hubiera muerto por ellos, en caso necesario. Jamás había querido matar a nadie. Había sido atacado por algo, posiblemente el destino o la fatalidad o simplemente una enfermedad nerviosa de carácter degenerativo llamada «rabia». El libre albedrío no había intervenido en esto.

He tilted back in the decaying lawn chair, almost went over on his back, and used up some more of his screwdriver. The screwdriver was in a glass he had gotten free from a McDonald's restaurant. There was some sort of purple animal on the glass. Something called a Grimace. Gary ate a lot of his meals at the Castle Rock McDonald's, where you could still get a cheap hamburger. Hamburgers were good. But as for the Grimace...and Mayor McCheese...and Monsieur Ronald Fucking McDonald...Gary Pervier didn't give a shit for any of them.

He had a fresh change of clothes in a battered TWA flightbag; he had planned to change after making love tot he fancy cunt. No he hurled the bag across the shop. It bounced off the far wall and landed on top of a dresser. He walked across to it and batted it aside. He drop-kicked as it came down, and it hit the ceiling before falling on its side like a dead woodchuck. Then he simply stood, breathing hard, inhaling the heavy smells, staring vacantly at three chairs he had promised to cane by the end of the week. His thumbs were jammed into his belt. His fingers were curled into fists. His lower lip was pooched out. He looked like a kid sulking after a bawling-out. "CHEAP-SHIT!" he breathed, and went after the flightbag. He made as if to kick it again, then changed his mind and picked it up.

If anything, it was hotter in the house. Crazy July heat. It got in your head. The kitchen was full of dirty dishes. Flies buzzed around a green plastic Hefty bag filled with Beefaroni and tuna-fish cans. The living room was dominated by a big old Zenith black-and-white TV he had rescued from the Naples dump. A big spayed brindle cat, name of Bernie Carbo, slept on top of it like a dead thing. The bedroom was where he worked on his writing. The bed itself was a rollaway, not made, the sheets stiff with come. No matter how much he was getting (and over the last two weeks that had been zero), he masturbated a great deal. Masturbation, he believed, was a sign of creativity. Across from the bed was his desk. A big old-fashioned Underwood sat on top of it. Manuscripts were stacked to both sides. More manuscripts, some in boxes, some secured with rubber bands, were piled up in one corner. He wrote a lot and he moved around a lot and his main luggage was his work--mostly poems, a few stories, a surreal play in which the characters spoke a grand total of nine words, and a novel he had attacked badly from six different angles. It had been five years since he had lived in one place long enough to get completely unpacked.

she has no one to walk Cujo.” I gasped in horror. “Cujo? I know we live in Stephen King’s home state, but c’mon. What kind of name is that for a dog, given, well, everything Cujo did?” Nan sighed but didn’t turn to face me. “Big talk from someone who named her pet Octo-Cat.

He saw Cujo, the dog rescued with the women and girls, lying by the fire guarding the little ones. The large dog had quickly become a sort of mascot and a favorite among the prison families’ children. He smiled at the irony; there couldn’t have been a more unsuitable name for a dog. Nathan was certain the original owners had either never read the Stephen King book of that name, or else had a quirky sense of humor.

Monsieur Ronald Fucking McDonald…