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Quote by Stephen King

“He felt more crypts cracking open inside of him; the stench he smelled was not decayed bodies but decayed memories, and that was somehow worse.”

Quote by Stephen King

Book:It

Work

It

The story revolves around a group of children who face a malevolent entity in their hometown, leading to a gripping narrative of fear and survival. more

Author

Stephen King
Stephen King

Stephen King, born on September 21, 1947, is a renowned American author. His works primarily focus on horror, fantasy, and science fiction, and have won him a wide audience. King has received numerous literary awards in the United States, including the Edgar Allan Poe Award and the World Fantasy Award. more

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“Memory has ambushed her again, slamming down a wall between her and the present moment. Sometimes it comes in order, like a story, sometimes in flashes, like a series of snapshots. Sometimes it comes in a split second, cutting through the middle of another thought. It grabs her and won't let her pay attention to what is being said around her. Other times it just settles softly down on her like a pillow, cutting off air.”

“Remembering and telling the truth about terrible events are prerequisites both for the restoration of the social order and for the healing of individual victims. The conflict between the will to deny horrible events and the will to proclaim them aloud is the central dialectic of psychological trauma. People who have survived atrocities often tell their stories in a highly emotional, contradictory, and fragmented manner which undermines their credibility and thereby serves the twin imperatives of truth-telling and secrecy.”

“I think in heaven, the greatest heroes will be those we never knew existed during our time on earth. The quite parents who gave everything for their children. The unknown martyrs who gave their lives to Jesus. The faithful men and women who gave up reputations, raises, fame and glory to follow the narrow way.”

“But even work could take upon itself a mast of fun. One could pretend, when threading the wicks into candle moulds, that one was stringing pearls accidentally broken at the ball, —that the long walk through the hazel-bush to the schoolhouse was between rows of admiring spectators who, instead of a mere rustling in the wind, were whispering, "There she goes, —there goes Abbie Mackenzie, the singer.”