It's a writer's job to carve with language, to hew close to the bone.

As we get older, our fears, in some way, sharpen and become more personal, because we can no longer - let's say take a book like "It" or maybe "Christine," and say these are make-believe fears.

Perfect paranoia is perfect awareness.

Time takes it all, whether you want it to or not.

Sometimes [...] real love is silent as well as blind.

She can't help it,' he said. 'She's got the soul of a poet and the emotional makeup of a junkyard dog.

a cloud-congested caul that is alternately red, orange, vermilion, purple. Sometimes the clouds break apart in great, slow rafts, letting through beams of innocent yellow sunlight that are bitterly nostalgic for the summer that has gone by.