Misery Annie Wilkes Quotes

Annie Wilkes was the perfect audience, a woman who loved stories without having the slightest interest in the mechanics of making them. She was the embodiment of that Victorian archetype, Constant Reader.

I'm your number one fan - Annie Wilkes

by Annie Wilkes... If you can get into that chair all by yourself, Paul, she said at last, then I think you can fill in your f******* n's. She then closed the door and locked it again. Paul sat looking at it for a long time, almost as if there was something to see. He was too flabberghasted to do anything else.

When Annie's treatin, you best be eatin.

Están un poco usados, pero es señal de que un libro ha sido leído y amado, ¿no es así? - Annie

Se había perdido para siempre en el mundo del olvido

Misery is a book about cocaine. Annie Wilkes is cocaine. She was my number-one fan.

Cómo lucha por escapar. Igual que nosotros, Paul, igual… Creemos que sabemos mucho, pero en realidad no sabemos más que una rata en una trampa, una rata con la espalda rota que aún cree que quiere vivir. -Annie Wilkes

—Me llamo Annie Wilkes, y soy… —Ya lo sé —la interrumpió—. Usted es mi fan número uno.

Annie Wilkes had her own interior set of rules; in her way she was strangely prim. She had made him drink water from a floor-bucket; had withheld his medication until he was in agony; had made him burn the only copy of his new novel; had hand-cuffed him and stuck a rag reeking of furniture polish in his mouth; but she would not take the money from his wallet. She brought it to him, the old scuffed Lord Buxton he’d had since college, and put it in his hands. All

In that moment, Big Aunt is so terrifying that I can totally picture her overpowering anybody. I can easily imagine her advancing on Third Uncle like Annie Wilkes in Misery, except worse because not even Annie Wilkes has the wrath of a slighted Chinese-Indonesian auntie.

But it was still a long time before he was finally able to break the dried scum of saliva that had glued his lips together and croak out “Where am I?” to the woman who sat by his bed with a book in her hands. The name of the man who had written the book was Paul Sheldon. He recognized it as his own with no surprise. “Sidewinder, Colorado,” she said when he was finally able to ask the question. “My name is Annie Wilkes. And I am—” “I know,” he said. “You’re my number-one fan.” “Yes,” she said, smiling. “That’s just what I am.

Le pillole erano la marea. Annie Wilkes era la presenza lunare […]

Soprattutto gli dava uno sgradevole senso di solidità, come se potesse non avere vasi sanguigni e organi interni; come se potesse essere solo una Annie Wilkes monolitica, tutta d'un pezzo. Sempre più si radicava in lui la convinzione che i suoi occhi, che pure sembravano muoversi, fossero solo disegnati, e che il loro movimento fosse nient'altro che quello degli occhi di certi ritratti che danno l'impressione di seguirti per tutta la stanza in cui è appeso il quadro. Pensava che se avesse divaricato indice e medio e avesse cercato di infilarglieli nelle narici, già dopo un paio di millimetri avrebbe incontrato un' ostruzione solida (solo lievemente elastica); che persino il cardigan grigio e le sciatte vesti casalinghe e i jeans scoloriti per le sortite all'esterno fossero parte di quel corpo compatto e fibroso, privo di canalizzazioni. Perciò la sensazione che fosse l'idolo di un romanzo di fanatismi religiosi non lo meravigliava affatto. Come un idolo, dava una sola cosa: un disagio che si consolidava progressivamente in terrore. Come un idolo, tutto il resto se lo prendeva.