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It seemed to him that the most horrible fact of human existence was that broken hearts mended.

"Water if God wills it", he reminded himself. "About the great matters, Roland, you have no say".Not a comfortable truth, especially for a man on a quest such as his, but one he's learned to live with.

"The scariest, most terrifying thing that I fear?""Yes.""My Imagination.""I thought you were going to say "Fear, itself.""Then you have a small imagination."

Because often, silence is best.

“I love you, Eddie. You have tried so hard. Been so patient. So has he—” she nodded toward the place where the gunslinger lay propped against the rocks, watching. “– but he is a hard man to love.”

“Well,” Eddie said, “What was behind Door Number One wasn’t so hot, and what was behind Door Number Two was even worse, so now, instead of quitting like sane people, we’re going to go right ahead and check out Door Number Three. The way things have been going, I think it’s likely to be something like Godzilla or Ghidra the Three-Headed Monster, but I’m an optimist. I’m still hoping for the stainless steel cookware.”

If you have given up your heart for the Tower, Roland, you have already lost. A heartless creature is a loveless creature, and a loveless creature is a beast. To be a beast is perhaps bearable, although the man who has become one will surely pay hell’s own price in the end, but if you should gain your object? What if you should, heartless, storm the Dark Tower and win it? What could you do except degenerate from beast to monster? To gain one’s object as a beast would only be bitterly comic, like giving a magnifying glass to an elephaunt. But to gain one’s object as a monster…To pay hell is one thing. But do you want to own it?

The door had hinges, but they were fastened to nothing—or so it seems, the gunslinger thought. This is a mystery, a most marvelous mystery, but does it really matter? You are dying. Your own mystery—the only one that really matters to any man or woman in the end—approaches.

Fault always lies in the same place, my fine babies: with him weak enough to lay blame.

Had he come this far just to die, then? He would not. And if he were to die in spite of his determination, he would die on his way to the Tower.

When the only fast way you could get rid of the monkey on your back was to snap your spinal cord above that bunch of nerves, you were dealing with one heavy monkey.

Distrust the book which reads too easily because such writing appeals more to the senses than to the intellect. Hard reading exercises the mind.