Hapscomb's Texaco sat on Number 93 just north of Arnette, a pissant four-street burg about 110 miles from Houston.

Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink. Drink and be filled up.

We each owe a death, there are no exceptions, I know that, but sometimes, oh God, the Green Mile is so long.

I've killed enough of the world's trees.

The redness was going out of the light now, the remains of the day were a fading pink, the color of wild roses.

Death, but not for you, gunslinger. Never for you. You darkle. You tinct. May I be brutally frank? You go on.

There was a lot they didn’t tell you about death, she had discovered, and one of the biggies was how long it took the ones you loved most to die in your heart.