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200 pages, Paperback
First published August 27, 1982
Love isn’t soft, like those poets say. Love has teeth which bite and the wounds never close.
"Chris didn't talk much about his dad, but we all knew he hated him like poison. Chris was marked up every two weeks or so, bruises on his cheeks and neck or one eye swelled up and as colorful as a sunset, and once he came to school with a big clumsy bandage on the back of his head. Other times he never got to school at all. His mom would call him in sick because he was too lamed up to come in. Chris was smart, really smart, but he played truant a lot, and Mr. Halliburton, the town truant officer, was always showing up at Chris's house, driving his old black Chevrolet with the NO RIDERS sticker in the corner of the windshield. If Chris was being truant and Bertie (as we called him - always behind his back, of course) caught him, he would haul him back to school and see that Chris got detention for a week. But if Bertie found out that Chris was home because his father had beaten the shit out of him, Bertie just went away and didn't say boo to a cuckoo bird. It never occurred to me to question this set of priorities until about twenty years later."But childhood, even though not at all sheltered, still gives them something of a shield against the world - that sense of invulnerability that only the young children have, the love for adventure, and the protection of sincere and lighthearted friendship.
"Everything was there and around us. We knew exactly who we were and exactly where we were going. It was grand."
"But he said: "Your friends drag you down, Gordie. Don't you know that? [...] Your friends do. They're like drowning guys that are holding onto your legs. You can't save them. You can only drown with them."
"You always know the truth, because when you cut yourself or someone else with it, there's always a bloody show."
"But it was only survival. We were clinging to each other in deep water. I've explained about Chris, I think; my reasons for clinging to him were less definable. His desire to get away from Castle Rock and out of the mill's shadow seemed to me to be my best part, and I could not just leave him to sink or swim on his own. If he had drowned, that part of me would have drowned with him, I think."
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"The most important things are hardest to say, because words diminish them."It is a fascinating, engrossing read, the one that is well worth several hours of your time, even if you have never been a fan of King.
I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve. Jesus, did you?
The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are things you get ashamed of because words make them smaller. When they were in your head they were limitless, but when they come out they seem to be no bigger than normal things. But that's not all. The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried; they are clues that could guide your enemies to a prize they would love to steal. It's hard and painful for you to talk about these things ... and then people just look at you strangely. They haven't understood what you've said at all, or why you almost cried while you were saying it.
Even if I'd known the right thing to say, I probably couldn't have said it. Speech destroys the function of love, I think - that's a hell of a thing for a writer to say, I guess, but I believe it to be true. The word is the harm. Love has teeth; they bite; the wounds never close. No word, no combination of words, can close those lovebites.