But for me, it was a code I myself had invented! Yet I could not read it.

Max?” said the Gasman. “Are those, um, rats?” Lovely. “Yes, those do appear to be either rats or mice on steroids,” I said briskly, trying not to shriek and climb the walls like a girly-girl.

Sometimes I see myself reflected too closely in other men for comfort, and then I have an enormous wish to believe in the saints, in heroic virtue.

Who would preach at the funeral? This was a question (like who cuts the barber’s hair)

Written By Stephen King

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