Stephen King

"You said there were other worlds than these," Roland said, "and there are. New York in all its multiple whens is only one of many. That we are drawn there again and again has to do with the rose. I have no doubt of that, nor do I doubt that in some way I do not understand the rose is the Dark Tower. Either that or—""Or it's another door," Susannah murmured. "One that opens on the Dark Tower itself."

I'll pay ye back. By all the gods that ever were, I'll pay ye back. When ye least expect it, there Rhea will be, and your screams will break your throats. Do you hear me? Your screams will break your throats!

"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."

Oh, Christ. I left the world I knew to watch a kid try to put booties on a fucked-up weasel. Shoot me, Roland, before I breed.

Eddie had known who they were since River Crossing, when the old people had knelt in the street to Roland. Hell, he'd known since the woods (what he still thought of as Shardik's woods), where Roland had taught them to aim with the eye, shoot with the mind, kill with the heart. Not three, not four. One. That Roland should finish them so, complete them so, was horrible. He was filled with poison and had kissed them with his poisoned lips. He had made them gunslingers, and had Eddie really thought there was no work left for the line of Arthur Eld in the mostly empty and husked-out world? That they would simply be allowed to toddle along the Path of the Beam until they got to Roland's Dark Tower and fixed whatever was wrong there? Well, guess again.

Because of changes in time - a softening of time which I know you all have felt—I've quested after the Dark Tower for over a thousand years, sometimes skipping over whole generations the way a sea-bird may cruise from one wave-top to the next, only wetting its feet in the foam. Never in all this time did I come across one of these doors between the worlds until I came to the ones on the beach at the edge of the Western Sea. I had an idea what they were, although I could have told you something of todash and the bends o' the rainbow.

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.”

The gunslinger let me drop, and that is the truth; I still love him, and that is the truth

Dad-a-chum,dud-a-chee,not to worry, you've got the key.

When it came to murder, Jack Mort was an equal-opportunity employer.

Choo-Choo, thought Jake, and shuddered.