The Wind Through the Keyhole (The Dark Tower, #4.5)

by Stephen King

“Oh, kiss my ass and go to heaven!” she screamed. “You cock-knocking motherfucker, just lookit this shittin mess!”

He tried to remember when he’d last had a tetanus shot and couldn’t. As for Roland, he thought, his blood would probably kill any germ the second it dared show its head inside of that leather bag he calls skin.

There’s nothing like stories on a windy night when folks have found a warm place in a cold world.”

Horror’s a worm that needs to be coughed out before it breeds.

The stories we hear in childhood are the ones we remember all our lives.

“The white mark?” He seemed to be asking himself. “What white mark?” He shook his head slowly from side to side, and I decided to let it go. He’d had enough.

This feels lazy AF.

“A person’s never too old for stories, Bill. Man and boy, girl and woman, never too old. We live for them.”

Wise words. Except when we get a story within a story within a story. Which is what we are about to get.

Many lions is a pride; many crows is a murder; many bumblers is a throcket; many dragons is a bonfire.”

“A bonfire of dragons,”

Sounds like the title of a book from <i>A Song of Ice and Fire.</i>

“There will be water if God wills it, Timothy.”

In the proper hand, the Covenant Man whispered, any object can be magic.

Then Tim proved conclusively that he was no gunslinger. He began to cry.

If that is the definition, then this Tim *is* a Gunslinger!

When ka comes, it comes like the wind—like the starkblast.

Tim saw him once more, but when that happened, Tim was an old man himself. And that is a story for another day.

When is this day?