Great Writing Database

Writing Database

  1. (He) disliked his family, and disliked himself for disliking them. (Doesn’t like what he feels)
    Babbitt, Sinclair Lewis
  2. His stomach ceased to feel as though it did not belong to him. (Personified stomach)
    Babbitt, Sinclair Lewis
  3. On the instant when we come to realize that tragedy is second-hand. (Surprising metaphor)
    The Sound and The Fury, William Faulkner
  4. Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
    That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
    And then is heard no more. It is a tale
    Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
    Signifying nothing.
    Macbeth, Shakespeare
  5. Some of them hated the mathematics that drove them, and some were afraid, and some worshiped the mathematics because it provided a refuge from thought and from feeling.
    The Grape of Wrath, John Steinbeck
  6. The smolder of pain was in their eyes.
    The Grape of Wrath, John Steinbeck

 

Misery –Stephen King

He didn’t know the answers to any of these questions. Did it make sense to ask them? He didn’t know the answer to that one, either.

He wished he was dead, but through the pain-soaked haze that filled his mind like a summer storm-cloud, he did not know he wished it.

Sometimes the sounds stopped. Sometimes he stopped.

Part of him knew for a long time before most of his mind had knowledge of knowing that the shattered pilings were his own shattered legs.

As the pain itself began not to recede but to erode

That prescient part of his mind saw her before he knew he was seeing her, and must surely have understood her before he knew he was understanding her.

Her eyes, which appeared to move, were actually just painted on, and they moved no more than the eyes of portraits which appear to follow you wherever you move in the room where they hang.

She didn’t know as much about what she was doing as she believed she did. That was only one of the things about Annie that scared him.

The darkness had prologued the pain and the storm-cloud; he began to remember what had prologued the darkness as she told him what had happened to him.

Paul was frightened by what he saw on her face, because what he saw was nothing; the black nothing of a crevasse folded into an alpine meadow, a blackness where no flowers grew and into which the drop might be long. It was the face of a woman who has come momentarily untethered from all of the vital positions and landmarks of her life, a woman who has forgotten not only the memory she was in the process of recounting but memory itself.

But now he was alerted. Everything she said was a little strange, a little offbeat. Listening to Annie was like listening to a song played in the wrong key.