Rage Stephen King Quotes

When you're five and you hurt, you make a big noise in the world. At ten you whimper. But by the time you make fifteen you begin to eat the poisoned apples that grow on your own inner tree of pain.

Lunacy is when you can’t see the seams where they stitched the world together anymore.

Beyond the reach of human rage A drop of hell, a touch of strange ...

There's a Mr. Hyde for every happy Jekyll face, a dark face on the other side of the mirror.

Then you can blame it on your parents,' I said, smiling. 'Won't that be a relief?

It's only a little secret, but having a secret makes me feel better. Like a human being again.

He began to cry, not hysterically or screaming as people cry when concealed rage with tears, but with continuous sobs who has just discovered that he's alone and will be for long. He cried because safety and reason seemed to have left the world. Loneliness was a reality, but in this situation madness was also remotely a possibility.

I do have one slightly crooked wheel upstairs, but everything else is ticking along just four-o, thank you very much.

That's what a shrink is for; friends and neighbors; their job is to fuck the mentally disturbed and make them pregnant with sanity.

I like to hang out clothes on windy days. Sometimes that's all I feel like. A sheet on a line.

It occurred to me that the man I really wanted to hurt was safely out of my reach, standing behind a shield of years.

...we are going to understand all about the difference between people and pieces of paper in a file, and the difference between doing your job and getting jobbed...

Craziness is only a matter of degree, and there are lots of people besides me who have the urge to roll heads. They go to stock-car races and the horror movies and the wrestling matches they have in Portland Expo. Maybe what she said smacked of all those things, but I admired her for saying out loud, all the same--the price of honesty is always high. She had an admirable grasp of the fundamentals. Besides, she was tiny and pretty.

Wenn die Intelligenten einen schlechten Charakter haben, so zeigt sich das, und wenn sie keinen schlechten Charakter haben, dann sind sie so leicht auszurechnen wie Quadratwurzeln.

Wahnsinn ist, wenn man nicht mehr die Nähte sehen kann, mit denen die Welt zusammengenäht ist.

You’re on, Ted,” I told him. “Your big chance, boy. Don’t blow it. Folks, this kid is going to dance his balls off before your very eyes.

Sie pflegten mir Angst zu machen, und sie machen mir immer noch Angst, aber jetzt langweilen Sie mich auch noch, und ich habe mich entschlossen, das nicht mehr hinzunehmen

Той не съжаляваше, че не постъпи в колеж. Колежът е за хора, които не знаят, че са умни.

The lawn of Placerville High School is a very good one. It does not fuck around.

Mr. Grace sounded like a very small child, helpless, hopeless. I had made him fuck himself with his own big tool, like one of those weird experiences you read about in the Penthouse Forum. I had taken off his witch doctor's mask and made him human. But I didn't hold it against him. To err is only human, but it's divine to forgive. I believe that sincerely.

The Queen of Air and Darkness tilted back her head and laughed. A more ghastly sound I hope never to hear. ‘Do you think I care about these trifles?’ ‘Murder is no trifle, woman,’ Arthur said. ‘No? How many men have you killed, Great King? How many have you slain without cause? How many did you cut down that you might have spared? How many died because you in your battle-rage would not heed their pleas for mercy?’ The High King opened his mouth to speak, but could make no answer.

Two years ago. To the best of my recollection, that was about the time I started to lose my mind.

Wenn man sich für jemanden verantwortlich fühlt, kann es sein, daß man ihn schließlich haßt.

Ich war gerade nahe daran, zu erkennen, daß man jeden durchschauen kann, wenn man einen Knüppel oder Schraubenzieher hat, der groß genug ist.

Herk threw up the mouse, the hamburger he'd eaten for lunch, and some pasty glop that looked like tomato soup. He was just starting to ask his mother what was going on when she threw up. And there, in all that puke, that old dead mouse didn't look bad at all. It sure looked better than the rest of the stuff.

He was a heavy breather. You could hear him puffing and blowing into the mike up there like some large and sweaty animal. I don't like that, never have. My father is like that on the telephone. A lot of heavy breathing in your ear, so you can almost smell the scotch and Pall Malls on his breath. It always seems unsanitary and somehow homosexual.

What must it be like for a suicide coming down from a high ledge? I'm sure it must be a very sane feeling. That's probably why they scream all the way down.

Most kids don't give a hoot in hell for brains; they go a penny a pound, and the kid with the high I.Q. who can't play baseball or at least come in third in the local circle jerk is everybody's fifth wheel.

So sind die Dinge manchmal. Wenn alles am schlimmsten ist, dann wirft der Verstand alles in einen Papierkorb und geht für eine Weile nach Florida. Da ist ein Was-zur-Hölle-soll's?-Gefühl in einem, während man da-steht und über die Schulter zu der Brücke zurückblickt, die man soeben niedergebrannt hat.

One of the few things my father says when he's had a few that I agree with is that kids don't have much balls in this generation. Some of them are trying to start the revolution by bombing U.S. government washrooms, but none of them are throwing Molotov cocktails at the Pentagon.

I didn't want salvation. I was either past that point or never reached it.

You've got a shitty habit, you know it? I've noticed it on all those TV drive-safely pitches that you do. You breathe in people's ears. You sound like a stallion in heat, Philbrick. That's a shitty habit. You also sound like you're reading off a teleprompter, even when you're not. You ought to take care of stuff like that. You might save a life.

Понякога се чувствам като кукла. Някак нереална. Познато ли ви е? Всичко ми се струва фалшиво. Сякаш ако пъхна глава през стената, ще видя другия край на сценичната площадка, където режисьорът и операторът се готвят да заснемат следващата сцена. Сякаш тревата и небето са нарисуван декор. Сякаш са фалшиви. Илюзия... —

That look is all the rage among dead women this summer, I thought.

And when It woke It would call them back, yes, back, because fear was fertile, its child was rage, and rage cried for revenge.

They understood that. They all understood it. This is not the same as comprehension, but it was good enough. When you stop to think, the whole idea of comprehension has a faintly archaic taste, like the sound of forgotten tongues or a look into a Victorian camera obscura. We Americans are much higher on simple understanding. It makes it easier to read the billboards when you're heading into town on the expressway at plus-fifty. To comprehend, the mental jaws have to gape wide enough to make the tendons creak. Understanding, however, can be purchased on every paperback-book rack in America.

The workman cut to the left, still laying on his horn, and roared around the drunkenly weaving limousine. He invited the driver of the limo to perform an illegal sex act on himself. To engage in oral congress with various rodents and birds. He articulated his own proposal that all persons of Negro blood return to their native continent. He expressed his sincere belief in the position the limo driver's soul would occupy in the afterlife. He finished by saying that he believed he had met the limodriver's mother in a New Orleans house of prostitution.

Two years ago. To the best of my recollection, that was about the time I started to lose my mind.

I felt tired and grainy and not able to tell how much damage had been done to me. I had a leaden feeling that it was more than I really needed.

She felt a swollen green sac of poison pulsing somewhere inside her -- bitter stuff, hateful as hemlock. She was afraid that if that sac burst, she would choke on her own frustrated rage.

Sanity: You can go through your whole life telling yourself that life is logical, life is prosaic, life is sane. Above all, sane. And I think it is. I've had a lot of time to think about that... I think; therefore I am. There are hairs on my face; therefore I shave. My wife and child have been critically injured in a car crash; therefore I pray. It's all logical, it's all sane. ...there's a Mr. Hyde for every happy Jekyll face, a dark face on the other side of the mirror... You turn the mirror sideways and see your face reflected with a sinister left-hand twist, half mad and half sane. ...No one looks at that side unless they have to, and I can understand that. ...I'm the sane one.

Creo que ese momento terminó. De veras lo creo. No obstante a veces, en la oscuridad, pienso que ese espantoso momento fortuito y casual todavía dura, que la rueda aún gira, y que todo lo demás ha sido un sueño.

In a marriage, words are like rain. And the land of a marriage is filled with dry washes and arroyos that can become raging rivers in almost the wink of an eye. The therapists believe in talk, but most of them are either divorced or queer. It's silence that is a marriage's best friend.

And yes, all of a sudden she was scared. It was like a yellow thread weaving in and out of the bright red overblanket of her rage.

Rage was powerful. So were childhood memories.

You can’t stop your mind; the damn thing just keeps right on going.

For a moment his rage was so great that he literally could not speak. The blood beat loudly in his ears. It was like getting a call from some twentieth-century Medici prince … no portraits of my family with their warts showing, please, or back to the rabble you’ll go. I subsidize no pictures but pretty pictures.

He began to cry, not hysterically or screaming as people cry when concealing rage with tears, but with continuous sobs, who has just discovered that he's alone and will be for long. He cried because safety and reason seemed to have left the world. Loneliness was a reality, but in this situation madness was also remotely a possibility.

the screams began. Of pain or of rage, Stu could not tell.

That thing about don't look up here, you're pissing on your shoes, for instance, was that humor? Or a growl of rage? --All That You Love Will Be Carried Away.

Fear is fertile and rage is its offspring..

Again he expected rage and got the indulgent laugh, with its undertones of knowing sadness.

The confusion had diffused (and thus defused) her rage even more; he saw she now didn’t even know if she had any right to be angry.

Regina konnte sich nichts Schlimmeres vorstellen, und dass es ihrem Sohn offensichtlich vollkommen gleich war, ob sich jemand über ihn totlachte oder nicht, brachte sie nur noch mehr in Rage.

In a marriage, words are like rain. And the land of a marriage is filled with dry washes and arroyos that can become raging rivers in almost the wink of an eye. The therapists believe in talk, but most of them are either divorced or queer. It’s silence that is a marriage’s best friend.

The cop turned his head then. This face, pinkish with the sun when he had stopped them, had gone pale. His eyes were very large, seeming to bulge out of his face like marbles. He had bitten his lip, like a man trying to suppress some monstrous rage, and blood ran down his chin in a thin stream.

Men are beasts,” Rose Madder said conversationally. “Some can be gentled and trained. Some cannot. When we come upon one who cannot be gentled and trained -a rogue- should we feel that we have been cursed or cheated? Should we sit by the side of the road -or in a rocking chair by the bed, for that matter- bewailing our fate? Should we rage against ka? No, for ka is the wheel that moves the world, and the man or woman who rages against it will be crushed under its rim. But rogue beasts must be dealt with. And we must go about that task with hopeful hearts, for the next beast may always be different.

Здравомислие: Цял живот можеш да си повтаряш, че животът е логичен, животът е прозаичен, животът е разумен. Най-вече разумен. И струва ми се е именно такъв. Имал съм достатъчно време да мисля по този въпрос. Непрестанно се връщам към предсмъртното заключение на мисис Ъндерууд: „Така че, дори ако увеличим числото на променливите величини, самата аксиома остава непроменена“. Наистина вярвам в това. Мисля, следователно съществувам. Бръсна се, следователно имам брада. Жена ми и детето пострадаха тежко при автомобилна катастрофа — и затова се моля. Всичко това е логично, всичко е разумно. Живеем в най-добрия от всички възможни светове, от една страна ти пъхат „Кент“, от друга те преследват с „Будвайзер“, а легнеш ли пред телевизора и хоп — почва шоуто. Наслаждавай се на гладко смазания механизъм на Вселената. Логика и здрав разум. Истински — както се казва в рекламата за „Кока кола“. Но както добре знаят „Уорнър брадърз“, Джон Д. МакДоналд и службата по почистване на канали в Лонг Айлънд, зад всяко щастливо лице на Джекил, се крие мрачният лик на мистър Хайд, от другата страна на огледалото. А той не е чувал нито за молитви, нито за логика, нито за Вселена. Погледни се отстрани в огледалото и ще видиш лицето си, преобърнато зловещо наопаки, лявото — дясно, дясното — ляво, едната половина — смахната, другата — разумна. Тази граница между светлината и мрака астрономите наричат терминатор. Неразумната половина крещи, че Вселената има логиката на малко дете, облечено в карнавален каубойски костюм от празника на Вси светии, чийто черва са разпилени и примесени със стъпкани бонбони на няколко мили, по протежение на шосе №95. Това е логиката на напалма, параноята, на бомбата със закъснител, скътана в куфара на някой щастлив арабин, на зловещо дебнещия рак. Логика, която сама поглъща себе си. Която твърди, че животът е като завързана на прът маймуна, че животът се върти истерично и безсмислено като монета, хвърлена за да се види кой ще плати обяда. Никой не поглежда към тази половина, освен ако не му се наложи и съвсем оправдано. Човек се сблъсква с нея като се качи на стоп и шофьорът, лъхащ на алкохол, започне да дрънка за това как го мами жена му, когато някой перко реши да изпостреля всички деца, яхнали велосипеди в Индиана, или пък когато собствената ти сестра рече: „Ще прескоча за минутка до магазина, батко.“ и миг по-късно научаваш, че са я сгазили на улицата. Откриваш тази половина, когато чуеш баща ти да казва, че е готов да сцепи носа на твоята родна майка. Животът е като рулетка, но побеждава онзи, който твърди, че цялата игра е една голяма измама. Няма значение колко числа участват, принципът на тази малка, безупречно бяла топка остава непроменен. И не казвайте, че това е безумие. Това е съвсем логично и разумно. Този чудат принцип не важи само навън. Той е в нас, във всеки миг, расте във вътрешния мрак като някаква гигантска вълшебна гъба. Наречете го „Чудовището в клетката“. Или „Обяд отнесен от вихъра“. Може и „Приспивните песни на смахнатите“. За мен, той е моят личен динозавър, огромен, лигав, тъп, препъващ се във вонящото блато на моето подсъзнание в търсене на дупка, където да се свре. Но това съм аз, а исках да ви разкажа за тях — синеоките любимци на учителите, дето прескачат до магазина за мляко и се озовават във вихъра на някой въоръжен грабеж, при това в ролята на участници. Такива като мене са като зърно за вестникарската мелница. Хиляди репортери из всички кътчета на страната мечтаят да попаднат на дирите ми. В новините по телевизията ще ми отделят поне петдесет секунди, в „Тайм“ — най-малко две колонки. А ето ме, стоя пред вас и продължавам да твърдя, че съм напълно с всичкия си. Може някое от колелцата да се е поразтропало малко, но като цяло механизмът си трака нормално. Благодаря за вниманието.

Get out! Get out of my parlor! Out! Out! Out! You bastard, let go of the goddamned door and GET OUT!’ That was when he slapped her. It was a flat, almost unimportant sound. The grandfather clock did not fly into outraged dust at the sound, but went on ticking just as it had ever since it was set going. The furniture did not groan. But Carla’s raging words were cut off as if amputated with a scalpel. She fell on her knees and the door swung all the way open to bang softly against a high-backed Victorian chair with a hand-embroidered slipcover. ‘No, oh no,’ Frannie said in a hurt little voice. Carla pressed a hand to her cheek and stared up at her husband. ‘You have had that coming for ten years or better,’ Peter remarked. His voice had a slight unsteadiness in it. ‘I always told myself I didn’t do it because I don’t hold with hitting women. I still don’t. But when a person – man or woman – turns into a dog and begins to bite, someone has to shy it off. I only wish, Carla, I’d had the guts to do it sooner. ‘Twould have hurt us both less.’ ‘Daddy –

Be'…” ha cominciato Tanis, ma si è interrotta subito e ha scosso la testa. “Torna qui e mettiti a sedere.” Pat Fitzgerald ha sghignazzato. “Cos'è, ci si scambiano i segreti adesso?” “Proprio così.” “Sai che affare,” ha osservato Corky Herald. Con questo ha suscitato le risa della classe. Irma Bates se n'è tornata mogia mogia in fondo all'aula, dove si è immersa in non so quale confabulazione con Tanis, Anne Lasky e Susan Brooks. Sylvia conversava sottovoce con Grace, sotto lo sguardo avido di Porcile. Ted Jones corrugava la fronte. George Yannick stava incidendo qualcosa sul suo banco mentre fumava una sigaretta e sembrava proprio un falegname assorto. Gli altri erano quasi tutti occupati a guardar fuori della finestra gli sbirri che dirottavano il traffico e quelli che tramavano in piccoli capannelli dall'aria sconfitta. In quel momento è echeggiato all'improvviso un campanello con un gran baccano che ha fatto saltare in aria tutti quanti. "È la campana del cambio dell'ora," ha spiegato Harmon. Io ho guardato l'orologio a muro. Erano le 9.50. Alle 9.05 ero seduto al mio posto vicino alla finestra a osservare lo scoiattolo. Adesso lo scoiattolo non c'era più, il buon vecchio Tom Denver se n'era andato e Mrs. Underwood se n'era andata ancora di più. Ci ho riflettuto e ho concluso che me n'ero andato anch'io.

He held the dipper out to Jake. When Jake reached for it, Tick-Tock pulled it back. "First, cully, tell me what you know about dipolar computers and transitive circuits," he said coldly. "What..." Jake looked toward the ventilator grille, but the golden eyes were still gone. He was beginning to think he had imagined them after all. He shifted his gaze back to the Tick-Tock Man, understanding one thing clearly: he wasn't going to get any water. He had been stupid to even dream he might. "What are dipolar computers?" The Tick-Tock Man's face contorted with rage; he threw the remainder of the watter into Jake's bruised, puffy face. "DON'T YOU PLAY IT LIGHT WITH ME!" he shrieked. He stripped off the Seiko watch and shook it in front of Jake. "WHEN I ASKED YOU IF THIS RAN ON A DIPOLAR CIRCUIT, YOU SAID IT DIDN'T! SO DON'T TELL ME YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M TLAKING ABOUT WHEN YOU ALREADY MADE IT CLEAR THAT YOU DO!" "But...but..." Jake couldn't go on. His head was whirling with fear and confusion. He was aware, in some far-off fashion, that he was licking as much water as he could off his lips. "THERE'S A THOUSAND OF THOSE EVER-FUCKING DIPOLAR COMPUTERS RIGHT UNDER THE EVER-FUCKING CITY, MAYBE A HUNDRED THOUSAND, AND THE ONLY ONE THAT STILL WORKS DON'T DO A THING EXCEPT PLAY WATCH ME AND RUN THOSE DRUMS! I WANT THOSE COMPUTERS! I WANT THEM WORKING FOR ME!" The Tick-Tock Man bolted forward on his throne, seized Jake, shook him back and forth, and then threw him to the floor. Jake struck one of the lamps, knocking it over, and the bulb blew with a hollow coughing sound. Tilly gave a little shriek and stepped backward, her eyes wide and frightened. Copperhead and Brandon looked at each other uneasily. Tick-Tock leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, and screamed into Jake's face: "I WANT THEM AND I MEAN TO HAVE THEM!" Silence fell in the room, broken only by the soft whoosh of warm air pouring from the ventilators. Then the twisted rage on the Tick-Tock Man's face disappeared so suddenly it might never have existed at all. It was replaced by another charming smile. He leaned further forward and helped Jake to his feet. "Sorry. I get thinking about the potential of this place and sometimes I get carried away. Please accept my apology, cully." He picked up the overturned dipper and threw it at Tilly. "Fill this up, you useless bitch! What's the matter with you?" He turned his attention back to Jake, still smiling his TV game-show host smile. "All right; you've had your little joke and I've had mine. Now tell me everything you know about dipolar computers and transitive circuits. Then you can have a drink.

These high-level political figures are playing a peculiar game. No one in the group believes for a moment that Duke Humphrey must be murdered in order to protect the king or save the state. Every word they speak is a lie, and each of the plotters is merely projecting his or her own predominant vice onto the intended victim. Since they are not in public, why don’t they simply say what they mean? There are several possible answers. First, they are all politicians and, therefore, congenitally dishonest; the word “politician,” for Shakespeare, was virtually synonymous with hypocrite. (“Get thee glass eyes,” rages Lear. “And, like a scurvy politician,/Seem to see the things thou dost not” [King Lear 4.6.164–66]). Second, they distrust one another and do not know what may be reported outside the room in which they are speaking. Third, each harbors a secret hope that their lie and theirs alone will deceive the others. Fourth, pretending that they are virtuous, even when they know that they are not, makes them feel better about themselves. And fifth, they are all warily watching to see if anyone among them expresses even a slight reservation about the conspiracy, anything that would lead it to unravel. They want everyone to be on board.

At the beginning of the scene, when called upon to offer his opinion on one side or another of the legal argument, the Earl of Warwick holds back. He may know something about dogs and hawks, he genially declares, but in such highly technical matters—“these nice sharp quillets of the law” (2.4.17)—he professes to be no wiser than a jackdaw, a proverbially stupid bird. But by the scene’s end, in the wake of the formation of the parties, his restraint has vanished: he has plucked the white rose and is eager for blood. “This brawl today,” he prophesies, Grown to this faction in the Temple Garden, Shall send between the red rose and the white A thousand souls to death and deadly night. (2.4.124–28) The obscure legal difference has not fundamentally changed, no new occasion for dispute has arisen, and there does not seem to be an underlying cause such as greed or jealousy. But the party rage seems to have a life of its own. Suddenly everyone seems to be boiling over with potentially murderous aggression. It is as if, in the absence of the dominant figure of the king, the purely conventional and meaningless emblems precipitate a rush of both group solidarity and group loathing. This loathing is an important part of what leads to a social breakdown and, eventually, to tyranny. It makes the voice, even the very thought, of the opponent almost unendurable. You are either with me or against me—and if you are not with me, I hate you and want to destroy you and all of your adherents. Each party naturally seeks power, but seeking power becomes itself the expression of rage: I crave the power to crush you. Rage generates insults, and insults generate outrageous actions, and outrageous actions, in turn, heighten the intensity of the rage. It all begins to spiral out of control.

(In an act I respect greatly, the novelist Stephen King asked his publisher to withdraw his novel Rage after a number of school shooters quoted from it.)

Мораль проста: выблевывайте прошлое, когда жить настоящим становится совсем уж невмоготу, и кое-что из блевотины покажется деликатесом.

Безумие есть неспособность видеть швы, соединяющие бред и явь. Я предполагал, что у меня еще есть шанс проснуться в своей постели, в безопасности, пусть наполовину, но в своем уме, еще не шагнув (пока не шагнув) в черную пропасть, а все персонажи этого ночного кошмара вернутся в отведенные им моим подсознанием гримерные. Но не очень на это рассчитывал.

Меня всегда занимал вопрос, каково это, попасть в такую вот толпу, где ты можешь кричать, но не слышать своего голоса, где твоя индивидуальность растворяется в общей массе, где нет личностей, а есть стадо.

Мисля, че не видя пистолета. Иначе щеше да тича още по-бързо