The Institute Stephen King Quotes

Great events turn on small hinges.

He wanted to tell Luke that he loved him. But there were no words, and maybe no need of them. Or telepathy. Sometimes a hug was telepathy.

this life we think we’re living isn’t real. It’s just a shadow play, and I for one will be glad when the lights go out on it. In the dark, all the shadows disappear.

Between midnight and four, everyone should have permission to speak freely.

It came to him, with the force of a revelation, that you had to have been imprisoned to fully understand what freedom was.

It was so simple, but it was a revelation: what you did for yourself was what gave you the power.

.. .what is the mother of carelessness if not assumption?

There was an abyss. And books contained magical incantations to raise what was hidden there, all the great mysteries.

He was only twelve, and understood that his experience of the world was limited, but one thing he was quite sure of: when someone said trust me, they were usually lying through their teeth.

If I may borrow from George R. R. Martin, she is my sun and stars.

Don’t say things that invite sorrow,

Back in the main corridor—what Luke now understood to be the residents’ wing—the little girls, Gerda and Greta, were standing and watching with wide, frightened eyes. They were holding hands and clutching dolls as identical as they were. They reminded Luke of twins in some old horror movie.

They reminded Luke of twins in some old horror movie.

Sane people don't sacrifice children on the altar of probability. That's not science, it's superstition.

Try not to think of a polar bear, Fyodor Dostoyevsky once said, and you will see the cursed thing come to mind every minute.

losers so dumb that they mistook wrapping themselves in the chains of addiction as an act of rebellion.

There were other people here with at least some shreds of decency left, but working in a place like this destroyed your moral compass.

Great events turn on small hinges

Trump and his cronies took it all back. They understand culture no more than a donkey understands algebra.

Around and around it went, and what was round had no point, any fool knew that.

It came to him (and with the force of a revelation) that life was basically one long SAT test, and instead of four or five choices, you got dozens.

Love don't die with the earthly body, son. It's a purely ridiculous notion.

There’s a town in Maine, Jerusalem’s Lot, and you could ask the people who lived there about the men in the black cars.

He had no psychic powers, but there was one power he did have: he was the grownup. The adult.

You know, Jamieson, this life we think we’re living isn’t real. It’s just a shadow play, and I for one will be glad when the lights go out on it. In the dark, all the shadows disappear.

It wasn't very nice, but the truth seldom was.

Seventy years after Hiroshima and Nagasaki were obliterated by atomic bombs, the world is still here even though many nations have atomic weapons, even though primitive human emotions still hold sway over rational thought and superstition masquerading as religion still guides the course of human politics.

As his father liked to say, it was good to have goals. They could bring you through tough times.

Did she know about Trump?” Kalisha asked. “Oh, she was long dead before that big city dumbshit turned up,

What good would that do had become another mantra, and he recognized it was a bad way to think, a step down the path to acceptance of this place. He didn’t want to go there, no way did he want to go there, but logic was logic.

It was good not to be alone in this anymore. He really hadn't realized how heavy that burden was until now.

Last but hardly least, thanks to my kids—Naomi, Joe, and Owen—and to my wife. If I may borrow from George R. R. Martin, she is my sun and stars.

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. For the last time, go to sleep.

HELL IS WAITING. I’LL BE HERE TO MEET YOU.

Almost an hour after Julia’s last contact—much too long—Stackhouse’s box phone lit up and began to buzz. He grabbed it. “Have you got him, Julia?” The voice that replied was so astounding that Stackhouse almost dropped the phone. “No,” Luke Ellis said, “you’ve got it backward.” Stackhouse could hear undeniable satisfaction in the little shit’s voice. “We’ve got her.

Orphan Annie stood her ground. She had been raised that way in the Georgia canebrakes by a father who told her, “You don’t back down, girl, not for nothin.” Jean Ledoux had been a crack shot whether drunk or sober, and he had taught her well. Now she opened fire with both of Drummer’s handguns, compensating for the .45 auto’s heavier recoil without even thinking about it.

Luke Ellis was the guy who went out of his way to be social so people wouldn’t think he was a weirdo as well as a brainiac. He checked all the correct interaction boxes and then went back to his books. Because there was an abyss, and books contained magical incantations to raise what was hidden there: all the great mysteries. For Luke, those mysteries mattered. Someday, in the future, he might write books of his own.

He read the way free-range cows graze, moving to wherever the grass is greenest. That was a thing her husband chose to ignore, because the strangeness of it frightened him. It frightened her as well, which was probably one reason why she knew nothing of Luke’s tutorial on Balkan history. He hadn’t told her because she hadn’t asked.

Her name was Marjorie Kellerman, and she ran the Brunswick library. She also belonged to something called the Southeastern Library Association. Which, she said, had no money because “Trump and his cronies took it all back. They understand culture no more than a donkey understands algebra.

Because there was an abyss. And books contained magical incantations to raise what was hidden there, all the great mysteries. For Luke, those mysteries mattered. Someday in the future, he might write books of his own. But here the only future was Back Half. Here, the future of existence was, 'What good would it do?

BDNF. Brain-derived neurotrophic factor.

Or hidden it somewhere

One of the first things his mentor officer had taught him during the four months of his rookie probationary tour was you question perps. You never allow perps to question you.

you question perps. You never allow perps to question you.

Whatzis distribution is not his friend.” “The Bernoulli is an accurate

Life was basically one long SAT test, and instead of four or five choices, you got dozens.

But no one is quite as good at ignoring the medical realities as a medical man

There's a big difference between nothing pleasant and something unpleasant

Nicky quit dancing. “I’m starvin, Marvin. Come on, let’s eat.

They keep shooting you up until you see the dots and hear the hum.

There’s so much they don’t want you to know about. Once you’re stuck on the flypaper, that’s where they want you to stay.

We’re totally okay,” Kalisha said. “It wasn’t a real shit-storm, just a little . . .” “Disagreement,” Helen said. “Call it a fart skirmish.” “He didn’t mean anything

Did she know about Trump?” Kalisha asked. “Oh, she was long dead before that big city dumbshit turned up,” Annie said, and when Kalisha

He peered into the pack and saw two or three more pieces. He could eat them now, but it might be better to wait.

between

It's just what comes next. I want to go there... and learn... and then move on. Not the goal, only stepping stones to the goal.

So you assume, she thought, and what is the mother of carelessness if not assumption?

it was good to have goals. They could bring you through tough times.

what you did for yourself was what gave you the power.

his experience of the world was limited, but one thing he was quite sure of: when someone said trust me, they were usually lying through their teeth.

Avery Dixon had one final thought, both clear and calm: I loved having friends.

high-functioning TPs had problems, and often turned to booze or drugs.

knowing a thing and having the truth of it redden your skin were two different things.

He took a step closer to New Kid. Luke was fascinated by the contrast. New Kid was a mallet; Nicky was a blade.

Outsiders.

tobacco juice

You’re in the south now, Annie had told these gunned-up interlopers. She had an idea they were about to find out just how true that was.

There was a song his mom played on the stereo all the time when she was cleaning, and now a line of it recurred to him: I shall be released.

Statistics can prove anything. Nobody can see the future. If you and your associates really believe that, you're not an organization, you're a cult.

She'd gotten the answer wrong, and this was the same thing, only on a much grander scale; a bad answer derived from a faulty equation.

They were talking, but he couldn't hear what they were saying, and that was alright. It wasn't for him.

Luke shook with her, aware that the bugs – minges were what they were called in Minnesota, he had no idea what they were called here –

He remembered something Mike Tyson had said: once the punching starts, strategy goes out the window.

With their brains wiped, maybe they were dreaming all the time. What a horrible idea, to dream and dream and dream and never be able to find the real world.

It was good not to be alone in this anymore.

The steel box was opened, and from this came a couple of long guns that were not hunting rifles. They were what Annie Ledoux thought of as school shooter guns.

It was Dr. Hendricks's theory that high BDNF was being bred out of the human genome, as were certain other human characteristics, like keen vision and hearing.

one of his grandfather’s old sayings occurred to him: wish in one hand, shit in the other, see which one fills

Did she know about Trump?” Kalisha asked. “Oh, she was long dead before that big city dumbshit turned up,” Annie said, and when Kalisha held up an open palm, Annie slapped it smartly.

I think I might just go out back for awhile, and sit under that big tree. I feel empty inside. I never felt so empty.” Tim nodded. “You’ll fill up again. Trust me.” “I guess I’ll have to.

Maureen was looking at him with amazement and dawning hope, but Luke hardly noticed. He was deep in the problem, tracing the lines back to the central point where those lines could be cut.

She loves you, too,” Wendy said softly, and put a light squeeze on the back of Luke’s sunburned neck. “Not the same way,” Luke said glumly, but then he smiled. “What the hell, life goes on.

He checked all the correct interaction boxes and then went back to his books. Because there was an abyss, and books contained magical incantations to raise what was hidden there: all the great mysteries.

¿Sabe una cosa, Jamieson? Esta vida que creemos vivir no es real. No es más que un teatro de sombras, y personalmente me alegraré cuando se apaguen las luces. En la oscuridad, todas las sombras desaparecen.

Tim said nothing, only looked at her. He had put the Glock beside him on the seat. Firing a gun at 39,000 feet would be a very bad idea, and really, why would he, even if they’d been at a much lower altitude?

She also belonged to something called the Southeastern Library Association. Which, she said, had no money because “Trump and his cronies took it all back. They understand culture no more than a donkey understands algebra.

Because they were doing it for themselves. They didn't have to be a bunch of dazed dummies sitting on the ventriloquist's knee. It was so simple, but it was a revelation: what you did for yourself was what gave you the power.

He was touched and surprised—not for the first time—by the ordinary kindness and generosity of ordinary folks, especially those without much to spare. America was still a good place, no matter how much some (including himself, from time to time) might disagree.

She also knew Truman was going to get elected president, and nobody believed that shit.” “Did she know about Trump?” Kalisha asked. “Oh, she was long dead before that big city dumbshit turned up,” Annie said, and when Kalisha held up an open palm, Annie slapped it smartly.

Those were the ones who gave the least trouble, because they didn’t just want tokens, they needed them. Karl Marx had called religion the opiate of the people, but Stackhouse begged to differ. He thought Lucky Strikes and Boone’s Farm (greatly favored by their female guests) did the job quite nicely.

Porque aquello se había convertido en una partida de ajedrez y, en el ajedrez, uno nunca vivía en el movimiento que se disponía a hacer, ni siquiera en el siguiente. Había que ir tres movimientos por delante, esa era la norma. Y prever tres alternativas para cada uno, en función de lo que hiciera el adversario.

She paused, then added, as an afterthought, “She also knew Truman was going to get elected president, and nobody believed that shit.” “Did she know about Trump?” Kalisha asked. “Oh, she was long dead before that big city dumbshit turned up,” Annie said, and when Kalisha held up an open palm, Annie slapped it smartly.

On his days off, he sometimes slept for twelve hours at a stretch. He read legal thrillers by John Grisham and the entire Song of Ice and Fire series. He was a big fan of Tyrion Lannister. Tim knew there was a TV show based on the Martin books, but felt no need to watch it; his imagination provided all the dragons he needed.

Okay. The big moron and the little moron were standing on a bridge, see? And the big moron fell off. Why didn’t the little one?” Luke considered telling Avery that people no longer talked about morons in polite society, but since it was clear that polite society did not exist here, he just said, “I give up.” “Because he was a little more on. Get it?

It was ludicrous, but Luke supposed it also made a crazy kind of sense. He thought of the Roman satirist, Juvenal, who had said that if you gave the people bread and circuses, they’d be happy and not cause any trouble. He guessed the same might be true of booze and cigarettes, especially if you offered them to scared and unhappy kids who were locked up. “That stuff doesn’t interfere with their tests?

I couldn’t do it,” I said. “I couldn’t get along on the outside. I’m what they call an institutional man now. In here I’m the man who can get it for you, yeah. But out there, anyone can get it for you. Out there, if you want posters or rock-hammers or one particular record or a boat-in-a-bottle model kit, you can use the fucking Yellow Pages. In here, I’m the fucking Yellow Pages. I wouldn’t know how to begin. Or where.” “You underestimate yourself,” he said. “You’re a self-educated man, a self-made man. A rather remarkable man, I think.” “Hell, I don’t even have a high school diploma.

Tim almost let him go, then changed his mind. He caught up with Luke and took him by the shoulder. When the boy turned, Tim hugged him. He had hugged Nicky—hell, he had hugged them all, sometimes after they awoke from bad dreams—but this one meant more. This one meant the world, at least to Tim. He wanted to tell Luke that he was brave, maybe the bravest kid ever outside of a boys’ adventure book. He wanted to tell Luke that he was strong and decent and his folks would be proud of him. He wanted to tell Luke that he loved him. But there were no words, and maybe no need of them. Or telepathy. Sometimes a hug was telepathy.

It was Warden Norton who instituted the “Inside-Out” program you may have read about some sixteen or seventeen years back; it was even written up in Newsweek. In the press it sounded like a real advance in practical corrections and rehabilitation. There were prisoners out cutting pulpwood, prisoners repairing bridges and causeways, prisoners constructing potato cellars. Norton called it “Inside-Out” and was invited to explain it to damn near every Rotary and Kiwanis club in New England, especially after he got his picture in Newsweek. The prisoners called it “road-ganging,” but so far as I know, none of them were ever invited to express their views to the Kiwanians or the Loyal Order of Moose. Norton was right in there on every operation, thirty-year church-pin and all; from cutting pulp to digging storm-drains to laying new culverts under state highways, there was Norton, skimming off the top. There were a hundred ways to do it—men, materials, you name it. But he had it coming another way, as well. The construction businesses in the area were deathly afraid of Norton’s Inside-Out program, because prison labor is slave labor, and you can’t compete with that.

If you’re at work in the laundry or the plate-shop, you’re assigned five minutes of each hour when you can go to the bathroom. For thirty-five years, my time was twenty-five minutes after the hour, and after thirty-five years, that’s the only time I ever felt the need to take a piss or have a crap; twenty-five minutes past the hour. And if for some reason I couldn’t go, the need would pass at thirty after, and come back at twenty-five past the next hour. I think Andy may have been wrestling with that tiger—that institutional syndrome—and also with the bulking fears that all of it might have been for nothing. How many nights must he have lain awake under his poster, thinking about that sewer line, knowing that the one chance was all he’d ever get? The blueprints might have told him how big the pipe’s bore was, but a blueprint couldn’t tell him what it would be like inside that pipe—if he would be able to breathe without choking, if the rats were big enough and mean enough to fight instead of retreating . . . and a blueprint couldn’t’ve told him what he’d find at the end of the pipe, when and if he got there. Here’s a joke even funnier than the parole would have been: Andy breaks into the sewer line, crawls through five hundred yards of choking, shit-smelling darkness, and comes up against a heavy-gauge mesh screen at the end of it. Ha, ha, very funny.

Yes,” Andy said. “But I’ll be hiring a lawyer, you know.” “What in God’s name for?” “I think we can put it together,” Andy said. “With Tommy Williams and with my testimony and corroborative testimony from records and employees at the country club, I think we can put it together.” “Tommy Williams is no longer an inmate of this facility.” “What?” “He’s been transferred.” “Transferred where?” “Cashman.” At that, Andy fell silent. He was an intelligent man, but it would have taken an extraordinarily stupid man not to smell deal all over that. Cashman was a minimum-security prison far up north in Aroostook County. The inmates pick a lot of potatoes, and that’s hard work, but they are paid a decent wage for their labor and they can attend classes at CVI, a pretty decent vocational-technical institute, if they so desire. More important to a fellow like Tommy, a fellow with a young wife and a child, Cashman had a furlough program . . . which meant a chance to live like a normal man, at least on the weekends. A chance to build a model plane with his kid, have sex with his wife, maybe go on a picnic. Norton had almost surely dangled all of that under Tommy’s nose with only one string attached: not one more word about Elwood Blatch, not now, not ever. Or you’ll end up doing hard time in Thomaston down there on scenic Route 1 with the real hard guys, and instead of having sex with your wife you’ll be having it with some old bull queer. “But why?” Andy said. “Why would—” “As a favor to you,” Norton said calmly, “I checked with Rhode Island. They did have an inmate named Elwood Blatch. He was given what they call a PP—provisional parole, another one of these crazy liberal programs to put criminals out on the streets. He’s since disappeared.” Andy said: “The warden down there . . . is he a friend of yours?” Sam Norton gave Andy a smile as cold as a deacon’s watchchain. “We are acquainted,” he said.