Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure.
Stephen KingStichwörter: friendship friends freedom birds letting-go
Books are the perfect entertainment: no commercials, no batteries, hours of enjoyment for each dollar spent. What I wonder is why everybody doesn't carry a book around for those inevitable dead spots in life.
Stephen KingStichwörter: books
I'm sorry I didn't know it was an elephant; I thought it was part of the furniture!
Stephen KingSilent white light filled the world. And the righteous and unrighteous alike were consumed in that holy fire.
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Come on back and we’ll see if you remember the simplest thing of all – how it is to be children, secure in belief and thus afraid of the dark.
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A critical assumption is sometimes made that [Grisham, Clancey, Crichton
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Clear communication between selves - the surface self and the deep self - is the enemy of self-doubt. It slays confusion.
Stephen KingStichwörter: duma-key
Art is the concrete artifact of faith and expectation, the realization of a world that would otherwise be little more than a veil of pointless consciousness stretched over a gulf of mystery.
Stephen KingStichwörter: key 365 duma page
Write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open.
Stephen KingI realized the shells were talking in a voice I recognized. I should have; it was my own. Had I always known that? I suppose I had. On some level, unless we're mad, I think most of us know the various voices of our own imaginations.
And of our memories, of course. They have voices, too. Ask anyone who has ever lost a limb or a child or a long-cherished dream. Ask anyone who blames himself for a bad decision, usually made in a raw instant (an instant that is most commonly red). Our memories have voices, too. Often sad ones that clamor like raised arms in the dark.
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