sk.theshining-第21部分

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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　he　had　been　an　emotional　alcoholic　just　as　surely　as　he　had　been　a　physical　one…the　two　of　them　were　no　doubt　tied　together　somewhere　deep　inside　him；　where　you'd　just　as　soon　not　look。　But　it　didn't　much　matter　to　him　if　the　root　causes　were　interrelated　or　separate；　sociological　or　psychological　or　physiological。　He　had　had　to　deal　with　the　results：　the　spankings；　the　beatings　from　his　old　man；　the　suspensions；　with　trying　to　explain　the　school　clothes　torn　in　playground　brawls；　and　later　the　hangovers；　the　slowly　dissolving　glue　of　his　marriage；　the　single　bicycle　wheel　with　its　bent　spokes　pointing　into　the　sky；　Danny's　broken　arm。　And　George　Hatfield；　of　course。
　　He　felt　that　he　had　unwittingly　stuck　his　hand　into　The　Great　Wasps'　Nest　of　Life。　As　an　image　it　stank。　As　a　cameo　of　reality；　he　felt　it　was　serviceable。
　　He　had　stuck　his　hand　through　some　rotted　flashing　in　high　summer　and　that　hand　and　his　whole　arm　had　been　consumed　in　holy；　righteous　fire；　destroying　conscious　thought；　making　the　concept　of　civilized　behavior　obsolete。　Could　you　be　expected　to　behave　as　a　thinking　human　being　when　your　hand　was　being　impaled　on　red…hot　darning　needles？　Could　you　be　expected　to　live　in　the　love　of　your　nearest　and　dearest　when　the　brown；　furious　cloud　rose　out　of　the　hole　in　the　fabric　of　things　（the　fabric　you　thought　was　so　innocent）　and　arrowed　straight　at　you？　Could　you　be　held　responsible　for　your　own　actions　as　you　ran　crazily　about　on　the　sloping　roof　seventy　feet　above　the　ground；　not　knowing　where　you　were　going；　not　remembering　that　your　panicky；　stumbling　feet　could　lead　you　crashing　and　blundering　right　over　the　rain　gutter　and　down　to　your　death　on　the　concrete　seventy　feet　below？　Jack　didn't　think　you　could。　When　you　unwittingly　stuck　your　hand　into　the　wasps'　nest；　you　hadn't　made　a　covenant　with　the　devil　to　give　up　your　civilized　self　with　its　trappings　of　love　and　respect　and　honor。
　　It　just　happened　to　you。　Passively；　with　no　say；　you　ceased　to　be　a　creature　of　the　mind　and　became　a　creature　of　the　nerve　endings；　from　college…educated　man　to　wailing　ape　in　five　easy　seconds。
　　He　thought　about　George　Hatfield。
　　Tall　and　shaggil