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It’s not about making more money or even precisely about creating new markets; it’s about trying to see the act, art, and craft of writing in different ways, thereby refreshing the process and keeping the resulting artifacts—the stories, in other words—as bright as possible.
On some level I believed him completely, as we always believe, on some level, the worst thing our hearts can imagine.
Sometimes stories cry out to be told in such loud voices that you write them just to shut them up.
It occurred to Fletcher that in the end there might only be one way to tell the thugs from the patriots: when they saw their own death rising in your eyes like water, patriots made speeches.
Faith, like everything else in the world these days, had moved on.
As far as Roland was concerned, God o’ the Cross was just another religion which taught that love and murder were inextricably bound together—that in the end, God always drank blood.
He found it beautiful because it was the only dark thing in all this white. The white had lost its charm for him.
Good liars were common. Honesty, on the other hand, came dear.
If there’s to be damnation, let it be of my choosing, not theirs.
Until then, I didn’t know how sad I was. Sometimes you don’t, because it’s just, I don’t know, all around.
Looking for matchheads in the darkness.
When a person gets up in the morning, he doesn’t have the slightest idea how much may have changed in his life by the time he lays his head down again that night.
Check out this quote.
Most times, if you had the king, she had the ace.
Women don’t trust tears from men. They may say different, but down deep they don’t trust tears from men.
In a marriage, words are like rain. And the land of a marriage is filled with dry washes and arroyos that can become raging rivers in almost the wink of an eye. The therapists believe in talk, but most of them are either divorced or queer. It’s silence that is a marriage’s best friend.
sometimes we rise above ourselves.
None of us can predict the final outcomes of our actions, and few of us even try; most of us just do what we do to prolong a moment’s pleasure or to stop the pain. And even when we act for the noblest reasons, the last link of the chain all too often drips with someone’s blood.
The replacement of one bad habit with another seems almost inevitable, I’ve noticed.
I don’t trust the competence of others very easily, that’s all.
My father’s dictum: If you need to be there, show up five minutes early. If they need you to be there, show up five minutes late.
Absence may or may not make the heart grow fonder, but it certainly freshens the eye.
I think this story is about Hell. A version of it where you are condemned to do the same thing over and over again. Existentialism, baby, what a concept; paging Albert Camus. There’s an idea that Hell is other people. My idea is that it might be repetition.
As well as the ever-popular premature burial, every writer of shock/suspense tales should write at least one story about the Ghostly Room At The Inn.
