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
Things were going very fast now. Too fast to suit him. Fantasy and reality had merged.
Show me a man or a woman alone and I'll show you a saint. Give me two and they'll fall in love. Give me three and they'll invent the charming thing we call 'society'. Give me four and they'll build a pyramid. Give me five and they'll make one an outcast. Give me six and they'll reinvent prejudice. Give me seven and in seven years they'll reinvent warfare. Man may have been made in the image of God, but human society was made in the image of His opposite number, and is always trying to get back home.
You have to go where the book leads you.
People who try hard to do the right thing always seem mad.
As a young man just beginning to publish some short fiction in the t&a magazines, I was fairly optimistic about my chances of getting published; I knew that I had some game, as the basketball players say these days, and I also felt that time was on my side; sooner or later the best-selling writers of the sixties and seventies would either die or go senile, making room for newcomers like me.
The place where you made your stand never mattered. Only that you were there... and still on your feet.
The bad ideas kind of just drop out of the mix. You forget about them. The good ones stick around.
Talent in cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work.
Sometimes human places, create inhuman monsters.
When his life was ruined, his family killed, his farm destroyed, Job knelt down on the ground and yelled up to the heavens, 'Why god? Why me?' and the thundering voice of God answered, 'There's just something about you that pisses me off.'
I have an idea of how the book will finish up, but it very rarely finishes up the way that I think it's going to.
The unconscious mind writes poetry if it's left alone.
Kids, fiction is the truth inside the lie, and the truth of this fiction is simple enough: the magic exists.
Perfect paranoia is perfect awareness.