Stephen King

Just go on dancing with me like this forever, and I'll never tire. We'll scrape our shoes on the stars and hang upside down from the moon

There's a Mr. Hyde for every happy Jekyll face, a dark face on the other side of the mirror. The brain behind that face never heard of razors, prayers, or the logic of the universe. You turn the mirror sideways and see your face reflected with a sinister left-hand twist, half mad and half sane.

Nobody was really surprised when it happened, not really, not on the subconscious level where savage things grow.

There is zero, and there is eternity, and there is mortality, but there is no ultimate.

Other times I think about them, though - all this October I have done so, it seems, because October is the time when men think mostly about far places and the roads which might get them there. I sit on the bench in front of Bell's Market and think about Homer Buckland and about the beautiful girl who leaned over to open his door when he come down that path with the full red gasoline can in his right hand - she looked like a girl of no more than sixteen, a girl on her learner's permit, and her beauty was terrible, but I believe it would no longer kill the man it turned itself on; for a moment her eyes lit on me, I was not killed, although part of me died at her feet.

Fiction is the truth inside the lie.

Only enemies speak the truth; friends and lovers lie endlessly, caught in the web of duty.

Isn't it too bad that the great truths are all such lies?

You can go through your whole life telling yourself that life is logical, life is prosaic, life is sane. Above all sane. And I think it is. I've had a lot of time to think about that. And what I keep coming back to is [her] dying declaration: 'So you understand that when we increase the number of variables, the axioms themselves never change.'

Talent in cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work.