Her shrewdness had a streak of satiric bitterness continually renewed and never carried utterly out of sight, except by a strong current of gratitude towards those who, instead of telling her that she ought to be contented, did something to make her so.

I wondered, for the first time in my life, if life was worth all the work it took to live. What exactly made it worth it?

Would you complain because a beautiful sunset doesn't have a future or a shooting star a payoff? And why should romance 'lead anywhere'? Passion isn't a path through the woods. Passion is the woods.

You may be a Founding Father and all that, but you still leave an occasional skidmark in your underdrawers.

Written By Stephen King

About us

Featured posts

Featured Topics

Quick Links