sk.everythingseventual-第2部分

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！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　　But　there's　no　reason　for　stories　to　be　marketed　by　the　same　old　just…like…Father…did…it　methods；　simply　because　the　stories　themselves　are　created　that　way；　nor　is　there　any　reason　to　assume　（as　so　many　stodgies　in　the　critical　press　seem　to　have　done）　that　the　way　in　which　a　piece　of　fiction　is　sold　must　in　some　way　contaminate　or　cheapen　the　product　itself。
　　I'm　speaking　here　of　'Riding　the　Bullet；'　which　has　surely　been　my　oddest　experience　of　selling　my　wares　in　the　marketplace；　and　a　story　which　illustrates　the　main　points　I'm　trying　to　make：　that　what's　lost　cannot　be　easily　retrieved；　that　once　things　go　past　a　certain　point；　extinction　is　probably　inevitable；　but　that　a　fresh　perspective　on　one　aspect　of　creative　writing…the　mercial　aspect…can　sometimes　refresh　the　whole。
　　'Bullet'　was　posed　after　On　Writing；　and　while　I　was　still　recuperating　from　an　accident　which　left　me　in　a　state　of　nearly　constant　physical　misery。　Writing　took　me　away　from　the　worst　of　that　pain；　it　was　（and　continues　to　be）　the　best　pain…killer　in　my　limited　arsenal。　The　story　I　wanted　to　tell　was　simplicity　itself；　little　more　than　a　campfire　ghost…story；　really。　It　was　The　Hitchhiker　Who　Got　Picked　Up　By　A　Dead　Man。
　　While　I　was　writing　away　at　my　story　in　the　unreal　world　of　my　imagination；　a　dot…　bubble　was　growing　in　the　equally　unreal　world　of　e…merce。　One　aspect　of　this　was　the　so…called　electronic　book；　which；　according　to　some；　would　spell　the　end　of　books　as　we'd　always　known　them；　objects　of　glue　and　binding；　pages　you　turned　by　hand　（and　which　sometimes　fell　out；　if　the　glue　was　weak　or　the　binding　old）。　In　early　2000；　there　was　great　interest　in　an　essay　by　Arthur　C。　Clarke；　which　had　been　published　only　in　cyberspace。
　　It　was　extremely　short；　though　（like　kissing　your　sister　is　what　I　thought　when　I　first　read　it）。　My　story；　when　it　was　done；　was　quite　long。　Susan　Moldow；　my　editor　at　Scribner　（as　an　X…Files　fan；　I　call　her　Agent　Moldow　。　。　。　you　work　it　out）；　called　one　day　prompted　by　Ralph　Vicinanza　and　asked　if　I　had　anything　I'd　like　to　try　in　the　electronic　marketplace。　I　sent　her　'Bullet；'　and　the　three　of　us…Susan；　Scribner；　and　I…made　a　little　bit　of　publishing　history。　Several　hundred　thousand　people　downloaded　the　story；　and　I　ended　up　making　an　embarrassing　amount　of　money。　（Except　that's　a　fucking　lie；　I　wasn't　embarrassed　a　bit。）　Even　the　audio　rights　went　for　over　a　hundred　thousand　dollars；　a　ically　huge　price。
　　Am　I　bragging　here？　Boasting　my　narrow　whiteboy　ass　off？　In　a　way　I　am。　But　I'm　also　here　to　tell　you　that　'Riding　the　Bullet'　made　me　absolutely　crazy。　Usually；　if　I'm　in　one　of　those　fancy…schamncy　airport　lounges；　I'm　ignored　by　the　rest　of　the　clientele；　they're　busy　babbling　into　phones　or　making　deals　at　the　bar。　Which　is　fine　with　me。　Every　now　and　then　one　of　them　will　drop　by　and　ask　me　to　sign　a　cocktail　napkin　for　the　wife。　The　wife；　these　handsomely　suited；　briefcase…toting　fellows　usually　want　me　to　know；　has　read　all　my　books。　They；　on　the　other　hand；　have　read　none。　They　want　me　to　know　that；　too。　Just　too　busy。　Read　The　Seven　Habits　of　Highly　Successful　People；　read　Who　Moved　My　Cheese？；　read　The　Prayer　of　Jabez；　and　that's　pretty　much　it。　Gotta　hurry；　gotta　rush…rush；　I　got　a　heart　attack　due　in　about　four　years；　and　I　want　to　be　sure　that　I'm　there　to　meet　it　with　my　401（k）　all　in　order　when　it　shows　up。
　　After　'Bullet'　was　published　as　an　e…book　（cover；　Scribner　colophon；　and　all）；　that　changed。　I　was　mobbed　in　the　airport　lounges。　I　was　even　mobbed　in　the　Boston　Amtrak　lounge。　I　was　buttonholed　on　the　street。　For　a　little　while　there；　I　was　turning　down　the　chance　to　appear　on　a　giddy　three　talk…shows　a　day　（I　was　holding　out　for　Springer；　but　Jerry　never　called）。　I　even　got　on　the　cover　of　Time；　and　The　New　York　Times　pontificated　at　some　length　over　the　perceived　success　of　'Riding　the　Bullet'　and　the　perceived　failure　of　its　cyber…successor；　The　Plant。　Dear　God；　I　was　on　the　front　page　of　The　Wall　Street　Journal。　I　had　inadvertently　bee　a　mogul。
　　And　what　was　driving　me　crazy？　What　made　it　all　seem　so　pointless？　Why；　that　nobody　cared　about　the　story。　Hell；　nobody　even　asked　about　the　story；　and　do　you　know　what？　It's　a　pretty　good　story；　if　I　do　say　so　myself。　Simple　but　fun。　Gets　the　job　done。　If　it　got　you　to　turn　off　the　TV；　as　far　as　I'm　concerned；　it　（or　any　of　the　stories　in　the　collection　which　follows）　is　a　total　success。
　　But　in　the　wake　of　'Bullet；'　all　the　guys　in　ties　wanted　to　know　was；　'How's　it　doing？　How's　it　selling？'　How　to　tell　them　I　didn't　give　a　flying　fuck　how　it　was　doing　in　the　marketplace；　that　what　I　cared　about　was　how　it　was　doing　in　the　reader's　heart？　Was　it　succeeding　there？　Failing？　Getting　through　to　the　nerve…endings？　Causing　that　little　frisson　which　is　the　spooky　story's　raison　d'être？　I　gradually　realized　that　I　was　seeing　another　example　of　creative　ebb；　another　step　by　another　art　on　the　road　that　may　indeed　end　in　extinction。　There　is　something　weirdly　decadent　about　appearing　on　the　cover　of　a　major　magazine　simply　because　you　used　an　alternate　route　into　the　marketplace。　There　is　something　weirder　about　realizing　that　all　those　readers　might　have　been　a　lot　more　interested　in　the　novelty　of　the　electronic　package　than　they　were　in　what　was　inside　the　package。　Do　I　want　to　know　how　many　of　the　readers　who　downloaded　'Riding　the　Bullet'　actually　read　'Riding　the　Bullet'？　I　do　not。　I　think　I　might　be　extremely　disappointed。
　　E…publishing　may　or　may　not　be　the　wave　of　the　future；　about　that　I　care　not　a　fiddler's　fart；　believe　me。　For　me；　going　that　route　was　simply　another　way　of　trying　to　keep　myself　fully　involved　in　the　process　of　writing　stories。　And　then　getting　them　to　as　many　people　as　possible。
　　This　book　will　probably　end　up　on　the　best…seller　lists　for　awhile；　I've　been　very　lucky　that　way。　But　if　you　see　it　there；　you　might　ask　yourself　how　many　other　books　of　short　stories　end　up　on　the　bestseller　lists　in　the　course　of　any　given　year；　and　how　long　publishers　can　be　expected　to　publish　books　of　a　type　that　doesn't　interest　readers　very　much。　Yet　for　me；　there　are　few　pleasures　so　excellent　as　sitting　in　my　favorite　chair　on　a　cold　night　with　a　hot　cup　of　tea；　listening　to　the　wind　outside　and　reading　a　good　story　which　I　can　plete　in　a　single　sitting。
　　Writing　them　is　not　so　pleasurable。　I　can　only　think　of　two　in　the　current　collection…the　title　story　and　'L。T。's　Theory　of　Pets'…which　were　written　without　an　amount　of　effort　far　greater　than　the　relatively　slight　result。　And　yet　I　think　I　have　succeeded　in　keeping　my　craft　new；　at　least　to　myself；　mostly　because　I　refuse　to　let　a　year　go　by　without　writing　at　least　one　or　two　of　them。　Not　for　money；　not　even　precisely　for　love；　but　as　a　kind　of　dues…paying。　Because　if　you　want　to　write　short　stories；　you　have　to　do　more　than　think　about　writing　short　stories。　It　is　not　like　riding　a　bicycle　but　more　like　working　out　in　the　gym：　your　choice　is　use　it　or　lose　it。
　　To　see　them　collected　here　like　this　is　a　great　pleasure　for　me。　I　hope　it　will　be　for　you；　as　well。　You　can　let　me　know　at　stephenking；　and　you　can　do　something　else　for　me　（and　yourself）；　as　well：　if　these　stories　work　for　you；　buy　another　collection。　Sam　the　Cat　by　Matthew　Klam；　for　instance；　or　The　Hotel　Eden　by　Ron　Carlson；　These　are　only　two　of　the　good　writers　doing　good　work　out　there；　and　although　it's　now　officially　the　twenty…first　century；　they're　doing　it　in　the　same　old　way；　one　word　at　a　time。　The　format　in　which　they　eventually　appear　doesn't　change　that。　If　you　care；　support　them。　The　best　method　of　support　really　hasn't　changed　much：　read　their　stories。
　　I'd　like　to　thank　a　few　of　the　people　who've　read　mine：　Bill　Buford；　at　The　New　Yorker；　Susan　Moldow；　at　Scribner；　Chuck　Verrill；　who　has　edited　so　much　of　my　work　across　such　a　span　of　years；　Ralph　Vici…nanza；　Arthur　Greene；　Gordon　Van　Gelder；　and　Ed　Ferman　at　The　Magazine　of　Fantasy　and　Science　Fiction；　Nye　Willden　at　Cavalier；　and　the　late　Robert　A。　W。　Lowndes；　who　bought　that　first　short　story　back　in　'68。　Also…most　important…my　wife；　Tabitha；　who　remains　my　favorite　Constant　Reader。　These　are　all　people　who　have　worked　and　are　still　working　to　keep　the　short　story　from　being　a　lost　art。　So　am　I。　And；　by　what　you　buy　（and　thus　choose　to　subsidize）　and　by　what　you　read；　so　are　you。　You　most　of　all；　Constant　Reader。　Always　you。
　　
　　Stephen　King
　　Bangor；　Maine
　　December　11；　2001
　　
　　
　　
　　　
　　　AUTOPSY　ROOM　FOUR
　　
　　
　　It's　so　dark　that　for　a　while…just　how　long　I　don't　know…I　think　I'm　still　unconscious。　Then；　slowly；　it　es　to　me　that　unconscious　people　don't　have　a　sensation　of　movement　through　the　dark；　acpanied　by　a　faint；　rhythmic　sound　that　can　only　be　a　squeaky　wheel。　And　I　can　feel　contact；　from　the　top　of　my　head　to　the　balls　of　my　heels。　I　can　smell　something　that　might　be　rubber　or　vinyl。　This　is　not　unconsciousness；　and　there　is　something　too　。　。　。　too　what？　Too　rational　about　these　sensations　for　it　to　be　a　dream。
　　Then　what　is　it？
　　Who　am　I？
　　And　what's　happening　to　me？
　　The　squeaky　wheel　quits　its　stupid　rhythm　and　I　stop　moving。　There　is　a　crackle　around　me　from　the　rubber…smelling　stuff。
　　A　voice：　'Which　one　did　they　say？'
　　A　pause。
　　Second　voice：　'Four；　I　think。　Yeah；　four。'
　　We　start　to　move　again；　but　more　slowly。　I　can　hear　the　faint　scuff　of　feet　now；　probably　in　soft…soled　shoes；　maybe　sneakers。　The　owners　of　the　voices　are　the　owners　of　the　shoes。　They　stop　me　again。　There's　a　thump　followed　by　a　faint　whoosh。　It　is；　I　think；　the　sound　of　a　door　with　a　pneumatic　hinge　being　opened。
　　What's　going　on　here？　I　yell；　but　the　yell　is　only　in　my　head。　My　lips　don't　move。　I　can　feel　them…and　my　tongue；　lying　on　the　floor　of　my　mouth　like　a　stunned　mole…but　I　can't　move　them。
　　The　thing　I'm　on　starts　rolling　again。　A　moving　bed？　Yes。　A　gurney；　in　other　words。　I've　had　some　experience　with　them；　a　long　time　ago；　in　Lyndon　Johnson's　shitty　little　Asian　adventure。　It　es　to　me　that　I'm　in　a　hospital；　that　something　bad　has　happened　to　me；　something　like　the　explosion　that　almost　neutered　me　twenty…three　years　ago；　and　that　I'm　go