快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！

were　rising　from　the　nest　he　had　uncovered　to　do　battle。　If　they　were；　it　could　
be　bad；　the　nest　was　between　him　and　his　ladder；　and　the　trapdoor　leading　down　
into　the　attic　was　locked　from　the　inside。　The　drop　was　seventy　feet　from　the　
roof　to　the　cement　patio　between　the　hotel　and　the　lawn。　
　　The　clear　air　above　the　nest　was　still　and　undisturbed。　
　　Jack　whistled　disgustedly　between　his　teeth；　sat　straddling　the　peak　of　the　
roof；　and　examined　his　right　index　finger。　It　was　swelling　already；　and　he　
supposed　he　would　have　to　try　and　creep　past　that　nest　to　his　ladder　so　he　could　
go　down　and　put　some　ice　on　it。　
　　It　was　October　20。　Wendy　and　Danny　had　gone　down　to　Sidewinder　in　the　hotel　
truck　（an　elderly；　rattling　Dodge　that　was　still　more　trustworthy　than　the　VW；　
which　was　now　wheezing　gravely　and　seemed　terminal）　to　get　three　gallons　of　milk　
and　do　some　Christmas　shopping。　It　was　early　to　shop；　but　there　was　no　telling　
when　the　snow　would　e　to　stay。　There　had　already　been　flurries；　and　in　some　
places　the　road　down　from　the　Overlook　was　slick　with　patch　ice。　
　　So　far　the　fall　had　been　almost　preternaturally　beautiful。　In　the　three　weeks　
they　had　been　here；　golden　day　had　followed　golden　day。　Crisp；　thirty…degree　
mornings　gave　way　to　afternoon　temperatures　in　the　low　sixties；　the　perfect　
temperature　for　climbing　around　on　the　Overlook's　gently　sloping　western　roof　
and　doing　the　shingling。　Jack　had　admitted　freely　to　Wendy　that　he　could　have　
finished　the　job　four　days　ago；　but　he　felt　no　real　urge　to　hurry。　The　view　from　
up　here　was　spectacular；　even　putting　the　vista　from　the　Presidential　Suite　in　
the　shade。　More　important；　the　work　itself　was　soothing。　On　the　roof　he　felt　
himself　healing　from　the　troubled　wounds　of　the　last　three　years。　On　the　roof　he　
felt　at　peace。　Those　three　years　began　to　seem　like　a　turbulent　nightmare。　
　　The　shingles　had　been　badly　rotted；　some　of　them　blown　entirely　away　by　last　
winter's　storms。　He　had　ripped　them　all　up；　yelling　〃Bombs　away！〃　as　he　dropped　
them　over　the　side；　not　wanting　Danny　to　get　hit　in　case　he　had　wandered　over。　
He　had　been　pulling　out　bad　flashing　when　the　wasp　had　gotten　him。　
　　The　ironic　part　was　that　he　warned　himself　each　time　he　climbed　onto　the　roof　
to　keep　an　eye　out　for　nests；　he　had　gotten　that　bug　bomb　just　in　case。　But　this　
morning　the　stillness　and　peace　had　been　so　plete　that　his　watchfulness　had　


　
　
lapsed。　He　had　been　back　in　the　world　of　the　play　he　was　slowly　creating；　
roughing　out　whatever　scene　he　would　be　working　on　that　evening　in　his　head。　The　
play　was　going　very　well；　and　although　Wendy　had　said　little；　he　knew　she　was　
pleased。　He　had　been　roadblocked　on　the　crucial　scene　between　Denker；　the　
sadistic　headmaster；　and　Gary　Benson；　his　young　hero；　during　the　last　unhappy　
six　months　at　Stovington；　months　when　the　craving　for　a　drink　had　been　so　bad　
that　he　could　barely　concentrate　on　his　in…class　lectures；　let　alone　his　
extracurricular　literary　ambitions。　
　　But　in　the　last　twelve　evenings；　as　he　actually　sat　down　in　front　of　the　
office…model　Underwood　he　had　borrowed　from　the　main　office　downstairs；　the　
roadblock　had　disappeared　under　his　fingers　as　magically　as　cotton　candy　
dissolves　on　the　lips。　He　had　e　up　almost　effortlessly　with　the　insights　into　
Denker's　character　that　had　always　been　lacking；　and　he　had　rewritten　most　of　
the　second　act　accordingly；　making　it　revolve　around　the　new　scene。　And　the　
progress　of　the　third　act；　which　he　had　been　turning　over　in　his　mind　when　the　
wasp　put　an　end　to　cogitation；　was　ing　clearer　all　the　time。　He　thought　he　
could　rough　it　out　in　two　weeks；　and　have　a　clean　copy　of　the　whole　damned　play　
by　New　Year's。　
　　He　had　an　agent　in　New　York；　a　tough　red…headed　woman　named　Phyllis　Sandler　
who　smoked　Herbert　Tareytons；　drank　Jim　Beam　from　a　paper　cup；　and　thought　the　
literary　sun　rose　and　set　on　Sean　O'Casey。　She　had　marketed　three　of　Jack's　
short　stories；　including　the　Esquire　piece。　He　had　written　her　about　the　play；　
which　was　called　The　Little　School；　describing　the　basic　conflict　between　
Denker；　a　gifted　student　who　had　failed　into　being　the　brutal　and　brutalizing　
headmaster　of　a　turn…of…the…century　New　England　prep　school；　and　Gary　Benson；　
the　student　he　sees　as　a　younger　version　of　himself。　Phyllis　had　written　back　
expressing　interest　and　admonishing　him　to　read　O'Casey　before　sitting　down　to　
it。　She　had　written　again　earlier　that　year　asking　where　the　hell　was　the　play？　
He　had　written　back　wryly　that　The　Little　School　had　been　indefinitely　—　and　
perhaps　infinitely　—　delayed　between　hand　and　page　〃in　that　interesting　
intellectual　Gobi　known　as　the　writer's　block。〃　Now　it　looked　as　if　she　might　
actually　get　the　play。　Whether　or　not　it　was　any　good　or　if　it　would　ever　see　
actual　production　was　another　matter。　And　he　didn't　seem　to　care　a　great　deal　
about　those　things。　He　felt　in　a　way　that　the　play　itself；　the　whole　thing；　was　
the　roadblock；　a　colossal　symbol　of　the　bad　years　at　Stovington　Prep；　the　
marriage　he　had　almost　totaled　like　a　nutty　kid　behind　the　wheel　of　an　old　
jalopy；　the　monstrous　assault　on　his　son；　the　incident　in　the　parking　lot　with　
George　Hatfield；　an　incident　he　could　no　longer　view　as　just　another　sudden　and　
destructive　flare　of　temper。　He　now　thought　that　part　of　his　drinking　problem　
had　stemmed　from　an　unconscious　desire　to　be　free　of　Stovington　and　the　security　
he　felt　was　stifling　whatever　creative　urge　he　had。　He　had　stopped　drinking；　but　
the　need　to　be　free　had　been　just　as　great。　Hence　George　Hatfield。　Now　all　that　
remained　of　those　days　was　the　play　on　the　desk　in　his　and　Wendy's　bedroom；　and　
when　it　was　done　and　sent　off　to　Phyllis's　hole…in…the…wall　New　York　agency；　he　
could　turn　to　other　things。　Not　a　novel；　he　was　not　ready　to　stumble　into　the　
swamp　of　another　three…year　undertaking；　but　surely　more　short　stories。　Perhaps　
a　book　of　them。　
　　Moving　warily；　he　scrambled　back　down　the　slope　of　the　roof　on　his　hands　and　


　
　
knees　past　the　line　of　demarcation　where　the　fresh　green　Bird　shingles　gave　way　
to　the　section　of　roof　he　had　just　finished　clearing。　He　came　to　the　edge　on　the　
left　of　the　wasps'　nest　he　had　uncovered　and　moved　gingerly　toward　it；　ready　to　
backtrack　and　bolt　down　his　ladder　to　the　ground　if　things　looked　too　hot。　
　　He　leaned　over　the　section　of　pulled…out　flashing　and　looked　in。　
　　The　nest　was　in　there；　tucked　into　the　space　between　the　old　flashing　and　the　
final　roof　undercoating　of　three…by…fives。　It　was　a　damn　big　one。　The　grayish　
paper　ball　looked　to　Jack　as　if　it　might　be　nearly　two　feet　through　the　center。　
Its　shape　was　not　perfect　because　the　space　between　the　flashing　and　the　boards　
was　too　narrow；　but　he　thought　the　little　buggers　had　still　done　a　pretty　
respectable　job。　The　surface　of　the　nest　was　acrawl　with　the　lumbering；　slow…　
moving　insects。　They　were　the　big　mean　ones；　not　yellow　jackets；　which　are　
smaller　and　calmer；　but　wall　wasps。　They　had　been　rendered　sludgy　and　stupid　by　
the　fall　temperatures；　but　Jack；　who　knew　about　wasps　from　his　childhood；　
counted　himself　lucky　that　he　had　been　stung　only　once。　And；　he　thought；　if　
Ullman　had　hired　the　job　done　in　the　height　of　summer；　the　workman　who　tore　up　
that　particular　section　of　the　flashing　would　have　gotten　one　hell　of　a　
surprise。　Yes　indeedy。　When　a　dozen　wall　wasps　land　on　you　all　at　once　and　start　
stinging　your　face　and　hands　and　arms；　stinging　your　legs　right　through　your　
pants；　it　would　be　entirely　possible　to　forget　you　were　seventy　feet　up。　You　
might　just　charge　right　off　the　edge　of　the　roof　while　you　were　trying　to　get　
away　from　them。　All　from　those　little　things；　the　biggest　of　them　only　half　the　
length　of　a　pencil　stub。　
　　He　had　read　someplace　—　in　a　Sunday　supplement　piece　or　a　back…of…the…book　
newsmagazine　article　—　that　7　per　cent　of　all　automobile　fatalities　go　
unexplained。　No　mechanical　failure；　no　excessive　speed；　no　booze；　no　bad　
weather。　Simply　one…car　crashes　on　deserted　sections　of　road；　one　dead　occupant；　
the　driver；　unable　to　explain　what　had　happened　to　him。　The　article　had　included　
an　interview　with　a　state　trooper　who　theorized　that　many　of　these　so…called　
〃foo　crashes〃　resulted　from　insects　in　the　car。　Wasps；　a　bee；　possibly　even　a　
spider　or　moth。　The　driver　gets　panicky；　tries　to　swat　it　or　unroll　a　window　to　
let　it　out。　Possibly　the　insect　stings　him。　Maybe　the　driver　just　loses　control。　
Either　way　it's　bang！　。。。　all　over。　And　the　insect；　usually　pletely　
unharmed；　would　buzz　merrily　out　of　the　smoking　wreck；　looking　for　greener　
pastures。　The　trooper　had　been　in　favor　of　having　pathologists　look　for　insect　
venom　while　autopsying　such　victims；　Jack　recalled。　
　　Now；　looking　down　into　the　nest；　it　seemed　to　him　that　it　could　serve　as　both　
a　workable　symbol　for　what　he　had　been　through　（and　what　he　had　dragged　his　
hostages　to　fortune　through）　and　an　omen　for　a　better　future。　How　else　could　you　
explain　the　things　that　had　happened　to　him？　For　he　still　felt　that　the　whole　
range　of　unhappy　Stovington　experiences　had　to　be　looked　at　with　Jack　Torrance　
in　the　passive　mode。　He　had　not　done　things；　things　had　been　done　to　him。　He　had　
known　plenty　of　people　on　the　Stovington　faculty；　two　of　them　right　in　the　
English　Department；　who　were　hard　drinkers。　Zack　Tunney　was　in　the　habit　of　
picking　up　a　full　keg　of　beer　on　Saturday　afternoon；　plonking　it　in　a　backyard　
snowbank　overnight；　and　then　killing　damn　near　all　of　it　on　Sunday　watching　
football　games　and　old　movies。　Yet　through　the　week　Zack　was　as　sober　as　a　
judge　—　a　weak　cocktail　with　lunch　was　an　occasion。　


　
　
　　He　and　Al　Shockley　had　been　alcoholics。　They　had　sought　each　other　out　like　
two　castoffs　who　were　still　social　enough　to　prefer　drowning　together　to　doing　
it　alone。　The　sea　had　been　whole…grain　instead　of　salt；　that　was　all。　Looking　
down　at　the　wasps；　as　they　slowly　went　about　their　instinctual　business　before　
winter　closed　down　to　kill　all　but　their　hibernating　queen；　he　would　go　further。　
He　was　still　an　alcoholic；　always　would　be；　perhaps　had　been　since　Sophomore　
Class　Night　in　high　school　when　he　had　taken　his　first　drink。　It　had　nothing　to　
do　with　willpower；　or　the　morality　of　drinking；　or　the　weakness　or　strength　of　
his　own　character。　There　was　a　broken　switch　somewhere　inside；　or　a　circuit　
breaker　that　didn't　work；　and　he　had　been　propelled　down　the　chute　willynilly；　
slowly　at　first；　then　accelerating　as　Stovington　applied　its　pressures　on　him。　A　
big　grease&　slide　and　at　the　bottom　had　been　a　shattered；　ownerless　bicycle　and　
a　son　with　a　broken　arm。　Jack　Torrance　in　the　passive　mode。　And　his　temper；　same　
thing。　All　his　life　he　had　been　trying　unsuccessfully　to　control　it。　He　could　
remember　himself　at　seven；　spanked　by　a　neighbor　lady　for　playing　with　matches。　
He　had　gone　out　and　hurled　a　rock　at　a　passing　car。　His　father　had　seen　that；　
and　he　had　descended　on　little　Jacky；　roaring。　He　had　reddened　Jack's　behind　。。。　and　then　blacked　his　
eye。　And　when　his　father　had　gone　into　the　house；　
muttering；　to　see　what　was　on　television；　Jack　had　e　upon　a　stray　dog　and　had　
kicked　it　into　the　gutter。　There　had　been　two　dozen　fights　in　grammar　school；　
even　more　of　them　in　high　school；　warranting　two　suspensions　and　uncounted　
detentions　in　spite　of　his　good　grades。　Football　had　provided　a　partial　safety　
valve；　although　he　remembered　perfectly　well　that　he　had　spent　almost　every　
minute　of　every　game　in　a　state　of　high　piss…off；　taking　every　opposing　block　
and　tackle　personally。　He　had　been　a　fine　player；　making　All…Conference　in　his　
junior　and　senior　years；　and　he　knew　perfectly　well　that　he　had　his　own　bad　
temper　to　thank　。。。　or　to　blame。　He　had　not　enjoyed　football。　Every　game　was　a　
grudge　match。　
　　And　yet；　through　it　all；　he　hadn't　felt　like　a　son　of　a　bitch。　He　hadn't　felt　
mean。　He　had　always　regarded　himself　as　Jack　Torrance；　a　really　nice　guy　who　was　
just　going　to　have　to　learn　how　to　cope　with　his　temper　someday　before　it　got　
him　in　trouble。　The　same　way　he　was　going　to　have　to　learn　how　to　cope　with　his　
drinking。　But　h