He lay back, put his arm over his eyes, and tried to hold onto the anger, because the anger made him feel brave. A brave man could think. A coward couldn't.
Writers remember everything...especially the hurts. Strip a writer to the buff, point to the scars, and he'll tell you the story of each small one. From the big ones you get novels. A little talent is a nice thing to have if you want to be a writer, ...
She was crazy but he needed her. Oh I am in so much trouble he thought, and stared blindly up at the ceiling as the droplets of sweat began to gather on his forehead again.
He had discovered that there was not just one God but many, and some were more than cruel — they were insane, and that changed all. Cruelty, after all, was understandable. With insanity, however, there was no arguing.
His so-fucking-vivid imagination rarely gave him the horrors, but when it did, God help him. God help him once it was warmed up. It was not only warmed up now, it was hot and running on full choke. That there was no sense at all in what he was thinki...
Such an ego simply forbade certain lines of thought.
En esos momentos se había puesto a escribir, no porque tuviese que hacerlo, sino porque era una forma de escapar de los problemas.
In a book, all would have gone according to plan... but life was so fucking untidy — what could you say for an existence where some of the most crucial conversations of your life took place when you needed to take a shit, or something? An existence...
As always, the blessed relief of starting, a feeling that was like falling into a hole filled with bright light. As always, the glum knowledge that he would not write as well as he wanted to write. As always the terror of not being able to finish, of...
I am your number one fan.
Die steinerne Verstocktheit barst, darunter kam die Fratze eines bis zum Irrsinn wütenden Kindes zum Vorschein
—Sonidos de arañazos, señor, suena como si ella aún estuviese viva allá abajo tratando de abrirse camino con las uñas hasta la tierra de los vivos, eso parece.
La verdad no es realmente más extraña que la ficción, digan lo que digan. La mayoria de la veces uno sabe exactamente como van a salir las cosas. -Paul
Ya no se trataba sólo de «¿Puedes?» para empezar el libro. Por primera vez en muchos años, escuchaba aquella pregunta casi cada día y… estaba descubriendo que podía.
Los viajes por el camino del recuerdo nunca son buenos cuando se está deprimido
Cómo lucha por escapar. Igual que nosotros, Paul, igual… Creemos que sabemos mucho, pero en realidad no sabemos más que una rata en una trampa, una rata con la espalda rota que aún cree que quiere vivir. -Annie Wilkes
—Me llamo Annie Wilkes, y soy… —Ya lo sé —la interrumpió—. Usted es mi fan número uno.
Un hombre valiente podía pensar. Un cobarde, no.
