Everything's Eventual

Black as night and as beautiful as forever.

But in the wake of 'Bullet,' all the guys wanted to know was, 'How's it doing? How's it selling?' How to tell them I didn't give a flying fuck how it was doing in the marketplace, that what I cared about was how it was doing in the reader's heart?

This is nine! Nine! This is nine! Nine! This is ten! Ten! We have killed your friends! Every friend is now dead! This is six! Six!" [...] "Eighteen! This is now eighteen! Take cover when the siren sounds! This is four! Four!" [...] "Five! This is five! Ignore the siren! Even if you leave this room, you can never leave this room! Eight! This is eight!" [...] "Six!' the phone screamed. 'Six, this is six, this is goddam fucking SIX!

Ka was a wheel; it was also a net from which none ever escaped.

Writers are often the worst judges of what they have written.

Luck was a joke. Even good luck was just bad luck with its hair combed.

A library card is good to have, you can never have too much ID.

A cat won't curry favor even if it's in their best interests to do so. A cat can't be a hypocrite. If more preachers were like cats, this would be a more religious country.

Stories are artifacts, not really made things which we create and can take credit for, but pre-existing objects which we dig up.

It might be that the biggest division in the world isn't men and women but folks who like cats and folks who like dogs" - (L.T.'s Theory of Pets)

Roland of Gilead responded as he ever had and ever would when such useless, mystifying questions were raised: 'Ka.

When creative people do their best work, they're hardly ever in charge, they're just sort of rolling along with their eyes shut yelling wheee.

But who can foresee such things? None of us can predict the final outcomes of our actions, and few of us even try; most of us just do what we do to prolong a moment's pleasure or to stop the pain. And even when we act for the noblest reasons, the last link of the chain all too often drips with someone's blood.

Absence may or may not make the heart grow fonder, but it certainly freshens the eye.

If something got you to turn off T.V. , it's a total success

A broken spoon may become a fork.

Say, darling, I'm giving you this wonderful present, it's a machine that eats at one end and shits out the other, it's going to run for fifteen years, give or take, merry fucking Christmas.

It’s not about making more money or even precisely about creating new markets; it’s about trying to see the act, art, and craft of writing in different ways, thereby refreshing the process and keeping the resulting artifacts—the stories, in other words—as bright as possible

The snow that began at midafternoon had faded the sign’s virulent yellow to a kinder pastel shade as the light ran out of the January dusk.

Time belongs to the Tower.

Eventual, as Pug used to say. When he wanted to say something was really good, he's never say it was awesome, like most people do; he'd say it was eventual. How funny is that? The old Pugmeister. I wonder how he's doing.

Any fool who can pucker is apt to whistle past the graveyard.

Tell you something, my friend — if I worked hard and really wanted it, there might be a real Rembrandt on my wall someday. Sure. In a job like this, there is nowhere to go but up. In a way, that’s the scary part...

That voice didn’t have logic on its side, but it didn’t need to. It had good lungs and just outscreamed logic.

On some level I believed him completely, as we always believe on some level, the worst thing our hearts can imagine

I never read the paper myself. Why bother? It's the same old shit day in and day out, dictators beating the ching-chong out of people weaker than they are, men in uniforms beating the ching-chong out of soccer balls or footballs, politicians kissing babies and kissing ass.

No me interesa la credibilidad, sino la libertad, y he descubierto que escribir puede proporcionarla.

For people like us, little people who went scurrying through the world like mice in a cartoon, sometimes laughing at the assholes was the only revenge you could ever get.

In a marriage, words are like rain. And the land of a marriage is filled with dry washes and arroyos that can become raging rivers in almost the wink of an eye. The therapists believe in talk, but most of them are either divorced or queer. It's silence that is a marriage's best friend.

I opened the door of the Mercedes and got in. Man, that smell. It’s leather, but not just leather. You know how, in Monopoly, there’s a Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card? When you’re rich enough to afford a car that smells like Mr. Sharpton’s gray Mercedes, you must have a Get-Out-of-Everything-Free card.