The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

by Stephen King

I had become a whore, only peddling my blood and writing skills instead of my ass.

What I wanted to write about was the brute power of the human sex drive. That power, it seems to me, holds sway over those of every orientation, especially when young. At some point—on the right or wrong night, in a good place or a bad one—desire rises up and will not be denied. Caution is swept away. Cogent thought ceases. Risk no longer matters.

God knows how many died before their talents could flower. They died in gutters, in cold-water flats, in hospitals, and the indigent wards, all because they took a risk on a night when the music was loud, the wine was flowing, and the poppers were popping. By choice? There are still plenty who say so, but that’s nonsense. The drive is too strong.

A little bit of grace. That’s what a good dog is, you know. A little bit of grace.”