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Quote by Stephen King

“He remembered sitting down. 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 accelerating into a blank wall. As always, the marvellous joyful nervy feeling of journey begun.”

Quote by Stephen King

Book:Misery

Work

Misery

Misery is a novel that delves into the dark side of obsession and the psychological impact of trauma. The story follows Paul Sheldon, a famous author, who is involved in a car accident and is rescued by Annie Wilkes, a fan who takes extreme measures to ensure his survival. As Paul recovers, Annie reveals her twisted obsession with his work and her desire to control his life. The novel examines themes of manipulation, dependency, and the consequences of fame. 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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“You're actually going to help me?' 'I've been helping you for months.' His hand flexes at my waist, and I swear I can feel the warmth of his touch through my cloak and leathers. 'No, you sent Liam to help. He's been helping me for months. My forehead puckers. 'Weeks. Almost months. Whatever.' He has the nerve to look offended. 'I'm the one who burst through your door and killed everyone who attacked you, and then I removed the other threat to your life with a very public, very polarising display of vengeance. Liam didn't do that. I did.' 'The crowd wasn't polarised. They were all for it. I was there.' 'You were torn. In fact, you begged Tairn not to kill her, damn well knowing she'd just come after you again.”

“It was a mistake. You and I are going to be stationed together for the rest of our lives, never able to escape the other. Getting involved- even on a physical level- is a colossal blunder. No point talking about it.' I barely keep from clutching at my chest to see if all my organs are where they're supposed to be, since it feels like he just eviscerated me with four sentences. But he had been just as into it as I was. I was there, and there was no mistaking that kind of... enthusiasm. But maybe it was the churam. 'What if I want to talk about it?' 'Then feel free, but it doesn't mean I have to be a part of the conversation. We're both allowed our boundaries, and this is one of mine.”

“Here's the thing, Sorrengail. Hope is a fickle, dangerous thing. It steals your focus and aims it toward the possibilities instead of keeping it where it belongs- on the probabilities.' 'So I'm supposed to what? Not hope that I live? Just plan for death?' 'You're supposed to focus on the things that can kill you so you find ways not to die.”

“I'm more dangerous than you think,' I flat-out bluster. 'So I see. I'm quaking in my boots.' The corner of his mouth rises in a mocking smile. Fucking. Asshole. I flip the daggers in my hand, pinching them at the tips, then flick my wrists and fire them past his head, one on each side. They land solidly in the trunk of the tree behind him. 'You missed.' He doesn't even flinch. 'Did I?' I reach for my last two blades. 'Why don't you back up a couple of steps and test that theory?' Curiosity flares in his eyes, but it's gone in the next second, masked by cold, mocking indifference. Every one of my senses is on high alert, but the shadows around me don't slide in as he moves backward, his eyes locked with mine. His back hits the tree, and the hilts of my daggers brush his ears. 'Tell me again that I missed,' I threaten, taking the dagger in my right hand by the tip. 'Fascinating. You look all frail and breakable, but you're really a violent little thing, aren't you?' An appreciative smile curves his perfect lips as shadows dance up the trunk of the oak, taking the form of fingers. They pluck the daggers from the tree and bring them to Xaden's waiting hands.”