The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

by Stephen King

It occurred to him that spite was a kind of methadone for lovers, and better than going cold turkey.

He wasn’t a hippie, but he was a genuine iconoclast, a one-of-a-kinder, and she knows it.

God’s grace is a pretty cool concept. It stays intact every time it’s not you.

Pauline is also a poet, and as such feels capable of answering the man in the language God speaks. “What the fuck does it look like?” she says.

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. Too primal.

Life was a short shelf that came with bookends.

She’s ten years from a hundred and still thinks she deserves perfection, Dave thought. Some people have remarkably sturdy illusions.

These are the soldiers of love who never sold insurance. These are the fashion dudes who never went out of fashion. Sometimes, at night, I think of hippies asleep in the earth.

The part of me that creates the stories exists only in solitude. The one who shows up to share anecdotes and answer questions is a poor substitute for the story-maker.

I Bury the Living.

schadenfreude,

After June Sixth, pets had been the last thing on people’s minds.

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