Stephen King
Stephen King
Stephen Edwin Kingis an American author of contemporary horror, supernatural fiction, suspense, science fiction, and fantasy. His books have sold more than 350 million copies, many of which have been adapted into feature films, miniseries, television shows, and comic books. King has published 54 novels, including seven under the pen name Richard Bachman, and six non-fiction books. He has written nearly 200 short stories, most of which have been collected in book collections. Many of his stories are set in...
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth21 September 1947
CityPortland, ME
Why' is a crooked letter and can't be made straight.
He was one of those quite rare adults who communicate with small children fairly well and who love them all impartially--not in a sugary way but in a businesslike fashion that may sometimes entail a hug, in the same way that closing a big business deal may call for a handshake.
How do we remember to remember? That's a question I've asked myself often since my time on Duma Key, often in the small hours of the morning, looking up into the absence of light, remembering absent friends. Sometimes in those little hours I think about the horizon. You have to establish the horizon. You have to mark the white. A simple enough act, you might say, but any act that re-makes the world is heroic. Or so I've come to believe.
Mister, we deal in lead.
How else could he go on, except with merciful incomprehension held before him like a shield? How could anyone?
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.
Come to a book as you would come to an unexplored land. Come without a map. Explore it, and draw your own map.... A book is like a pump. It gives nothing unless first you give to it.
I worry about you Bev. I worry a lot.
When you write you tell yourself a story. When you rewrite you take out everything that is NOT the story.
Wow. This makes grand central look like a bus stop in Buttfuck Nebraska.
First comes smiles, then lies. Last is gunfire.-Roland Deschain, of Gilead
And she sees that the moonlight is losing its orange glow. It has become buttery, and will soon turn to silver.
Was there ever a trap to match the trap of love?