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The gray cloud lowered. But he bent over the book again. As he bent over Paul could see the slit in his brown uniform shirt where the first blow had gone home. "The first thing which was not the truth that popped into his head was what he replied: "Africa. ""No — not yet,»he responded, and threw himself full-length on the ground and placed his ear against the earth, which had already begun to show the first tender shoots of new grass between the rather carelessly replaced sods. There was nothing like the rhythm method for producing all descendants great and small, Paul thought, and donkeyed again. Would she have behaved in this same fashion if it had been Joe Blow from Kokomo she had hauled out of the wreck?David turned out to be Wicks. Pet writer. I ! think I'm going to kill you, Annie, he thought, and smiled warmly at her. "One of the things you learn when you've been an R. He said, "I was worried that piece of bobby-pin might mess me up.
He had half-expected another period of deep depression or rage to follow, but none had. "It doesn't blur a much as that pencil-line, but it's worse than the ballpoint-ink line. Before, such a movement would have made him scream with pain, but now the pain was disappearing under a beautiful glassiness. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway and that redneck fellow from Mississippi — Faulkner or whatever it was — those fellows may have won National Pulitzer Book Awards and things, but they were nothing but cockadoodie drunken burns just the same. One correspondent dubbed her the Dragon Lady, and the name stuck for the duration of the trial. But it was like being dead, and suddenly he needed his medication because it wasn't just his legs that hurt. Should be all right, the place looked like a goddam junk-heap — Lea! ning far to his left, he was able to snag a second carton. The picture was of a flowered meadow and the month said May, but Paul kept his own dates now on a piece of scrap paper, and according to his home-made calendar it was June 21. He remembered the caption below the picture of Annie in her detainment cell, the picture taken in the caesura between the end of the trial and the return of the jury. Annie Wilkes had her own interior set of rules; in her way she was strangely prim. Strip a writer to the buff, point to the scars, and he'll tell you the story of each small one. He didn't need a psychiatrist to point out that writing had its autoerotic side — you beat a typewriter instead of your meat, but both acts depended largely on quick wits, fast hands and a heartfelt commitment to the art of the farfetched. It could be spoile! d, he knew that but in spite of the reputed fragility of the creative act, it had always been the single toughest thing, the most abiding thing, in his life — nothing had ever been able to pollute that crazy well of dreams: no drink, no drug, no pain. If he was flying first class and a stewardess stuck a plate of it in front of him, he ate it and then forgot there was such a thing as caviar until the next time a stewardess stuck a plate of it in front of him. The first was that Annie Wilkes had a great deal of Novril (she had in fact, a great many drugs of all kinds). Annie's driveway was flooded, and her yard was a quagmire of mud, standing water, and gobbets of melting snow. It was while he ate the soup that she told him what had happened, and he remembered it all as she told him and he supposed it was good to know how you happened to end up with your legs shattered, but the manner by which he was coming to thi! s knowledge was disquieting — it was as if he was a character in a story or a play, a character whose history is not recounted like history but created like fiction. ""Aye, so I nearly did,»Ian said, and thought: If Geoffrey had returned with the doctor even ten minutes later, I believe she would have died. She brought it to him, the old scuffed Lord Buston he'd had since college, and put it in his hands. Although Annie never said so, he believed she had filled in the n's either as another evidence of her solicitude — How can you say I was cruel to you, Paul, when you see all the n's I have filled in? when his wife and only 1ove was restored to him, her return from the dead almost as miraculous as that of Lazarus. " And now came Annie Wilkes, screaming, rushing down the hall, hands out-stretched to give her father the killing push.
Received on Thu Sep 27 2007 - 13:31:03 EDT|
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