Paul Tremblay Quotes

Maybe we don't think [ideas], we pluck them out from another dimension, another mind.

Actually, I'm possessed, only I'm possessed by something so much older and cooler than Satan.

The charging indicator light on the camera was still red.

Now I'm thinking about letters, the molecules of sentences and songs, the bricks of words.

Are you good at keeping secrets, Merry?" "I'm better than some." I pause, then add, "More often than not, they keep me," only because it sounds simultaneously mysterious and pithy.

You can find the molasses flood on the Internet, it's there, I checked. Most of it is there, anyway, but that's not where I heard it." "Where, then?" She

She juts out her lower jaw, a purposeful imitation of Daddy Eric when she asks him a question with an answer that isn't yes right away, but will be yes eventually if she waits long enough.

I swoon into a standing eight count. Goddamn, I actually feel my consciousness want to detach and hide like a turtle retreating into a hopelessly soft shell that won't save anyone.

Being lost isn't the same as being nowhere. Being lost is worse because there's the false hope that you might be found.

you couldn't coach speed.

He's probably seen that horrible Johnny Depp version of the movie. That you kids like it and not the original Gene Wilder version is sacrilege." "Mom,

Being asked to read another writer's rough draft is the literary equivalent of being asked to help a friend move a couch to a new place.

He jokes about this being a different and ridiculous timeline. Because why? Crazy awful stuff happening. Horrific shit has always happened, is always happening, and everywhere. And will happen, it won't stop. There aren't any other timelines and this one has always been a horror.

They share another long look. This one is reserved for ill-fated observers in the moments before impending, inescapable calamity, whether it be natural disaster or violent failure of humanity; a look of resigned melancholy and awe, unblinking in the face of a revealed, horrific, sacred truth. And they realize again, in this darkest hour of the darkest day, they remain alone, fundamentally alone.

Father Wanderly, have you seen a demon or evil spirit actually leave the body? What did it look like? Could you see anything? Did you see a wisp, like smoke over a campfire? Does the demon get sucked into a void, clutching on to the old, possessed body like a life raft? Or does it go quietly, like a child leaving her parents' home for the final time? If you couldn't see anything, if the spirit was invisible, then how could you know if the exorcism really, truly worked?

To be honest, and all the external influences aside, there are some parts of this that I remember in great, terrible detail, so much so I fear getting lost in the labyrinth of memory. There are other parts of this that remain as unclear and unknowable as someone else's mind, and I fear that in my head I've likely conflated and compressed timelines and events.

It was so dark it was like noting was there in the room but us. Only the nothing was actually something because it filled my eyes and lungs and it sat on my shoulders.

I said, "I want to wear something funny and cool. Marjorie, could I wear your sparkly baseball hat?"

The three of us looked at Marjorie.

Now I remember thinking that her answer could change everything back to the way it was; Dad could find a job and stop praying all the time and Mom could be happy and call Marjorie shellfish again and show us funny videos she found on YouTube, and we all could eat more than just spaghetti at dinner and, most important, Marjorie could be normal again. Everything would be okay if Marjorie would only say yes to me wearing the sparkly sequined baseball hat, the one she'd made in art class a few years ago.

The longer we watched Marjorie and waited for her response, the more the temperature in the room dropped and I knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

She stopped twisting her spaghetti around her fingers. She opened her mouth, and vomit slowly oozed out onto her spaghetti plate.

Dad: "Jesus!"

Mom: "Honey, are you okay?" She jumped out of her seat and went over to Marjorie, stood behind her, and held her hair up.

Marjorie didn't react to either parent, and she didn't make any sounds. She wasn't retching or convulsing involuntarily like one normally does when throwing up. It just poured out of her as though her mouth was an opened faucet. The vomit was as green as spring grass, and the masticated pasta looked weirdly dry, with a consistency of mashed-up dog food.

Sometimes it's good to be sad, Merry. Don't forget that.

But ghosts aren't white and bright. Ghosts are shadows of someone or something gone wrong.

Her dads warned her that some people won't understand their family and might say ignorant (their word) and hurtful things to her and it might not be their fault because of what they've been taught by other ignorant people with too much hate in their hearts, and, yes, it was very sad. Wen assumed they were talking about the same bad or stranger-danger people that hide in the city and want to take her away, but the more they talked to her about what Scott had said and why others might say things like that, too, the more it seemed like they were talking about everyday kind of people. Weren't the three of them everyday kind of people? She pretended to understand for her dads' sake, but she didn't and still doesn't. Why do she and her family need to be understood or explained to anyone else?

The TV people. I like calling them that. The TV people. And they have TVs for heads and their faces can change when the channels change.

teeth. As a child I used to tie strings of red dental floss around a wiggly tooth and leave the floss dangling there for days and days until the tooth fell out on its own. Marjorie would call me a tease and chase me around the house trying to pull the wax string, and I would scream and cry because it was fun and because I was afraid if I let her pull out one tooth she wouldn't

Passage of time as a prop to the story, the story that has been told and retold so often it has lost its meaning, even to those of us who lived through it.

I had a brief runaway fantasy where I ran away to California, which I'd never been to, to where all the Bigfoots were, and I'd disappear into the woods and live alone, become a rumor, an occasional blurred sighting. Father

No matter how bleak or dire, end-of-the-world scenarios appeal to us because we take meaning from the end... there's also undeniable allure to witnessing the beginning of the end and perishing alone with everyone and everything else.

I wasn't sure if I wanted to hear such a big secret. It might not fit in my head and then it would spill out everywhere.

Ideas. I'm possessed by ideas. Ideas that are as old as humanity, maybe older, right? Maybe those ideas were out there just floating around before us, just waiting to be thought up. Maybe we don't think them, we pluck them out from another dimension or another mind.

All cats are assholes. It's what makes them so cool." "True.