sk.thegunslinger-第34部分

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heaper。
The　ream　of　paper　I　inherited　was　bright　green；　nearly　as　thick　as　cardboard；　and　of　an　extremely　eccentric　size　about　seven　inches　wide　by　about　ten　inches　long；　as　I　recall。　I　was　working　at　the　University　of　Maine　library　at　the　time；　and　several　reams　of　this　stuff；　in　various　hues；　turned　up　one　day；　totally　unexplained　and　unaccounted　for。　My　wife…to…be；　the　then　Tabitha　Spruce；　took　one　of　these　reams　of　paper　（robin's　egg　blue）　home　with　her；　the　fellow　she　was　then　going　with　took　home　another　（Roadrunner　yellow）。　I　got　the　green　stuff。
As　it　happened；　all　three　of　us　turned　out　to　be　real　writersa　coincidence　almost　too　large　to　be　termed　mere　coincidence　in　a　society　where　literally　tens　of　thousands　（maybe　hundreds　of　thousands）　of　college　students　aspire　to　the　writer's　trade　and　where　bare　hundreds　actually　break　through。　I've　gone　on　to　publish　half　a　dozen　novels　or　so；　my　wife　has　published　one　（Small　World）　and　is　hard　at　work　on　an　even　better　one；　and　the　fellow　she　was　going　with　back　then；　David　Lyons；　has　developed　into　a　fine　poet　and　the　founder　of　Lynx　Press　in　Massachusetts。
Maybe　it　was　the　paper；　folks。　Maybe　it　was　magic　paper。　You　know；　like　in　a　Stephen　King　novel。
Anyway；　all　of　you　out　there　reading　this　may　not　understand　how　fraught　with　possibility　those　five　hundred　sheets　of　blank　paper　seemed　to　be；　although　I'd　guess　there　are　plenty　of　you　who　are　nodding　in　perfect　understanding　right　now。　Publishing　writers　can；　of　course；　have　all　the　blank　paper　they　want；　it　is　their　stock…in…trade。　It's　even　tax　deductible。　They　can　have　so　much；　in　fact；　that　all　of　those　blank　sheets　can　actually　begin　to　cast　a　malign　spell　better　writers　than　I　have　talked　about　the　mute　challenge　of　all　that　white　space；　and　God　knows　some　of　them　have　been　intimidated　into　silence　by　it。
The　other　side　of　the　coin；　particularly　to　a　young　writer；　is　almost　unholy　exhilaration　all　that　blank　paper　can　bring　on；　you　feel　like　an　alcoholic　contemplating　a　fifth　of　whiskey　with　the　seal　unbroken。
I　was　at　that　time　living　in　a　scuzzy　riverside　cabin　not　far　from　the　University；　and　I　was　living　all　by　myself　the　first　third　of　the　foregoing　tale　was　written　in　a　ghastly；　unbroken　silence　which　I　now；　with　a　houseful　of　rioting　children；　two　secretaries；　and　a　housekeeper　who　always　thinks　I　look　ill；　find　hard　to　remember。　The　three　roommates　with　whom　I　had　begun　the　year　had　all　flunked　out　By　March；　when　the　ice　went　out　of　the　river；　I　felt　like　the　last　of　Agatha　Christie's　ten　little　Indians。
Those　two　factors；　the　challenge　of　that　blank　green　paper；　and　the　utter　silence　（except　for　the　trickle　of　the　melting　snow　as　it　ran　downhill　and　into　the　Stillwater）；　were　more　responsible　than　anything　else　for　the　opening　lay　of　The　Dark　Tower。　There　was　a　third　factor；　but　without　the　first　two；　I　don't　believe　the　story　ever　would　have　been　written。
That　third　element　was　a　poem　I'd　been　assigned　two　years　earlier；　in　a　sophomore　course　covering　the　earlier　romantic　poets　（and　what　better　time　to　study　romantic　poetry　than　in　one's　sophomore　year？）。　Most　of　the　other　poems　had　fallen　out　of　my　consciousness　in　the　period　between；　but　that　one；　gorgeous　and　rich　and　inexplicable；　remained。。；　and　it　remains　still。　That　poem　was　〃Childe　Roland；〃　by　Robert　Browning。
I　had　played　with　the　idea　of　trying　a　long　romantic　novel　embodying　the　feel；　if　not　the　exact　sense；　of　the　Browning　poem。　Play　was　as　far　as　things　had　gone　because　I　had　too　many　other　things　to　write　　poems　of　my　own；　short　stories；　newspaper　columns；　God　knows　what。
But　during　that　spring　semester；　a　sort　of　hush　fell　over　my　previously　busy　creative　life　not　a　writer's　block；　but　a　sense　that　it　was　time　to　stop　goofing　around　with　a　pick　and　shovel　and　get　behind　the　controls　of　one　big　great　God　a'　mighty　steam　shovel；　a　sense　that　it　was　time　to　try　and　dig　something　big　out　of　the　sand；　even　if　the　effort　turned　out　to　be　an　abysmal　failure。
And　so；　one　night　in　March　of　1970；　I　found　myself　sitting　at　my　old　office…model　Underwood　with　the　chipped　'm'　and　the　flying　capital　'O'　and　writing　the　words　that　begin　this　story：　The　man　in　black/led　across　the　desert　and　the　gun…slinger　followed。
In　the　years　since　I　typed　that　sentence；　with　Johnny　Winter　on　the　stereo　not　quite　masking　the　sound　of　melting　snow　running　downhill　outside；　I　have　started　to　go　gray；　I　have　begotten　children；　I　have　buried　my　mother；　I　have　gone　on　drugs　and　gone　off　them；　and　I've　learned　a　few　things　about　myself　　some　of　them　rueful；　some　of　them　unpleasant；　most　of　them　just　plain　funny。　As　the　gunslinger　himself　would　probably　point　out；　the　world　has　moved　on。
But　I've　never　pletely　left　the　gunslinger's　world　in　all　that　time。　The　thick　green　paper　got　lost　somewhere　along　the　way；　but　I　still　have　the　original　forty　or　so　pages　of　typescript；　prising　the　sections　titled　〃The　Gunslinger〃　and　〃The　Way　Station。〃　It　was　replaced　by　a　more　legitimate…looking　paper；　but　I　remember　those　funny　green　sheets　with　more　affection　than　I　could　ever　convey　in　words。　I　came　back　to　the　gunslinger's　world　when　Salem's　Lot　was　going　badly　（〃The　Oracle　and　the　Mountains〃）　and　wrote　of　the　boy　Jake's　sad　ending　not　long　after　I　had　seen　another　boy；　Danny　Torrance；　escape　another　bad　place　in　The　Shining　In　fact；　the　only　time　when　my　thoughts　did　not　turn　at　least　occasionally　to　the　gunslinger's　dry　and　yet　somehow　gorgeous　world　（at　least　it　has　always　seemed　gorgeous　to　me）　was　when　I　was　inhabiting　another　that　seemed　every　bit　as　real　　the　post…apocalypse　world　of　The　Stand。　The　final　segment　presented　here；　〃The　Gunslinger　and　the　Man　in　Black；〃　was　written　less　than　eighteen　months　ago；　in　western　Maine。
I　believe　that　I　probably　owe　readers　who　have　e　this　far　with　me　some　sort　of　synopsis　（〃the　argument；〃　those　great　old　romantic　poets　would　have　called　it）　of　what　is　to　e；　since　I'll　almost　surely　die　before　pleting　the　entire　novel。。；　or　epic。。。　or　whatever　you'd　call　it。　The　sad　fact　is　that　I　can't　really　do　that。　People　who　know　me　understand　that　I　am　not　an　intellectual　ball　of　fire；　and　people　who　have　read　my　work　with　some　critical　approval　（there　are　a　few；　I　bribe　them）　would　probably　agree　that　the　best　of　my　stuff　has　e　more　from　the　heart　than　from　the　head。。。　or　from　the　gut；　which　is　the　place　from　which　the　strongest　emotional　writing　originates。
All　of　which　is　just　a　way　of　saying　that　I'm　never　pletely　sure　where　I'm　going；　and　in　this　story　that　is　even　more　true　than　usual。　I　know　from　Roland's　vision　near　the　end　that　his　world　is　indeed　moving　on　because　Roland's　universe　exists　within　a　single　molecule　of　a　weed　dying　in　some　cosmic　vacant　lot　（I　think　I　probably　got　this　idea　from　Clifford　D。　Simak's　Ring　Around　the　Sun；　please　don't　sue　me；　Cliff！）；　and　I　know　that　the　drawing　involves　calling　three　people　from　our　own　world　（as　Jake　himself　was　called　by　the　man　in　black）　who　will　join　Roland　in　his　quest　for　the　Dark　Tower　I　know　that　because　segments　of　the　second　cycle　of　stories　（called　〃The　Drawing　of　the　Three〃）　have　already　been　written。
But　what　of　the　gunslinger's　murky　past？　God；　I　know　so　little。　The　revolution　that　topples　the　gunslinger's　〃world　of　light〃？　I　don't　know。　Roland's　final　confrontation　with　Marten；　who　seduces　his　mother　and　kills　his　father？　Don't　know。　The　deaths　of　Roland's　patriots；　Cuthbert　and　Jamie；　or　his　adventures　during　the　years　between　his　ing　of　age　and　his　first　appearance　to　us　in　the　desert？
I　don't　know　that；　either。　And　there's　this　girl；　Susan。　Who　is　she？　Don't　know。
Except　somewhere　inside；　I　do。　Somewhere　inside　I　know　all　of　those　things；　and　there　is　no　need　of　an　argument；　or　a　synopsis；　or　an　outline　（outlines　are　the　last　resource　of　bad　fiction　writers　who　wish　to　God　they　were　writing　masters'　theses）。　When　it's　time；　those　things　and　their　relevance　to　the　gunslinger's　questwill　roll　out　as　naturally　as　tears　or　laughter。　And　if　they　never　get　around　to　rolling　out；　well；　as　Confucius　once　said；　five　hundred　million　Red　Chinese　don't　give　a　shit。
I　do　know　this：　at　some　point；　at　some　magic　time；　there　will　be　a　purple　evening　（an　evening　made　for　romance！）　when　Roland　will　e　to　his　dark　tower；　and　approach　it；　winding　his　horn。。；　and　if　I　should　ever　get　there；　you'll　be　the　first　to　know。
Stephen　King
Bangor；　Maine



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