145 Quotes by Robert R. McCammon

It hit me who they were talking about. Mrs. Neville. My Mrs. Neville. The teacher who’d said I should enter the short-story contest this year. Good-bye, she’d said as I’d left her room on the first day of summer. Not see you next year or see you in September, but a firm and final good-bye. She must’ve known she was dying, as she sat behind that desk in summer’s light, and she had known that for her there would be no new class of grinning young monkeys in September.

Dear sweet Jesus, come down in your flying saucer and take me with you!

We all three were struck with the kind of horror that makes you want to dig a hole, jump in, and pull the hole in after you.

I have lived,” she said in her clear, strong voice, “a hundred lifetimes, and I’m not dead yet.

Her eyes found his. “Like the wind. Or a train’s whistle, way far off. Or thunder, long before you see the lightning. A lot of things.” “How long have you been able to hear it?” “Since I was a little girl.” Josh couldn’t help but smile. Swan misread it. “Are you making fun of me?” “No. Maybe... I wish I could hear a sound like that. Do you know what it is?” “Yes,” Swan answered. “It’s death.

The man don’t find Satan. Satan finds the man.

He had turned nine only six days ago, but now he felt very old because Papa wasn’t home yet and those fire-demons were laughing.

Writer? Author? Storyteller, that’s what I decided to be.

Swan was approaching, trying to run but being thrown off balance by the weight of her head.