Quotes by Stephen King

Those arent doors, and theyre not opening. Those are crypts, Richie. Theyre cracking open and the vampires you thought were dead are all flying out again.

He put the car in gear and went, feeling again how easy it had been to slip through an unexpected fissure in what he had considered a solid life- how easy it was to get over onto the dark side, to sail out of the blue and into the black.

He felt more crypts cracking open inside of him; the stench he smelled was not decayed bodies but decayed memories, and that was somehow worse.

Maybe this isnt home, nor ever was- maybe home is where I have to go tonight. Home is the place where when you go there, you have to finally face the thing in the dark.

I wonder how much- or how little- they remember. I am somehow convinced that they dont remember any of it, because they dont need to remember. Im the only one that hears the voice of the Turtle, the only one who remembers, because Im the only one who stayed here in Derry. And because theyre scattered to the four winds, they have no way of knowing the identical patterns their lives have taken. To bring them back, to show them that pattern....yes, it might kill some of them. It might kill all of them.

Donald Trump is worse than any horror story Ive written.

Bill suited the action to the word, getting up and leaning over the handlebars and pumping the pedals at a lunatic rate. Looking at Bills back, which was amazingly broad for a boy of eleven-going-on-twelve, watching it work under the duffel coat, the shoulders slanting first one way and then the other as he shifted his weight from one pedal to the other, Richie suddenly became sure that they were invulnerable...they would live forever and ever.

It all floats down here!

Horror spawns horror

What none of them knew, of course, was that Carrie White was telekinetic.

There was an ocean above us, held in by a thin sac that might rupture and let down a flood at any second.

Never tell to much. The monster is always scarier when it is still under the childs bed.

You stole my story and somethings got to be done about it.

I knew there were no ghosts in there, but on the other hand, what if there were?

At three in the morning the gaudy paint is off that old whore, the world, and she has no nose and a glass eye. Gaiety becomes hollow and brittle, as in Poes castle surrounded by the Red Death. Horror is destroyed by boredom. Love is a dream.

There was a muffled pop, the sound of a small pumpkin exploding in a microwave oven.Morris cut the wheel to the left and there was another bump as the Biscayne went back into the parking area. He looked in the mirror and saw that Curtiss head was gone.Well, no. Not exactly. It was there, but all spread out. Mooshed. No loss of talent in that mess. Morrie thought.

Well eat your steam and lap up your blood. But first, well drink your screams

That one smooth black eye stared, and reflected in it I fancied I could see the cyclopeon city, and the endless column of the marching dead.

The terror, which would not end for another twenty-eight years–if it ever did end–began, so far as I know or can tell, with a boat made from a sheet of newspaper floating down a gutter swollen with rain.

There is no life here but the slow death of days, and so when the evil falls on the town, its coming seems almost preordained, sweet and morphic. It is almost as though the town knows the evil was coming and the shape it would take.