Christine

by Stephen King

Maybe that’s one of the ways you recognize really lonely people . . . they can always think of something neat to do on rainy days. You can always call them up. They’re always home. Fucking always.

Arnie had fallen in love with a 1958 Plymouth Fury, one of the long ones with the big fins.

There are moments when adults disgust you in ways they would never understand: I believe that, you know. I had one of those moments then, and it only made me feel worse. When Regina shouted at her husband, I saw her as both vulgar and scared, and because I loved her, I had never wanted to see her either way.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” he said abruptly, “that parents are nothing but overgrown kids until their children drag them into adulthood? Usually kicking and screaming?”

If being a kid is about learning how to live, then being a grown-up is about learning how to die.

The poets continually and sometimes willfully mistake love. Love is the old slaughterer. Love is not blind. Love is a cannibal with extremely acute vision. Love is insectile; it is always hungry.”

Water can wear away stone, but only over hundreds of years. People are mortal.”

I believe that how you lose is a much better index to character than how you win.

There was a breath of mortality in the realization that seven years could steal past with such smooth and unobtrusive ease.