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2016年6月20日 (月)

enjoying writing the book

But there's a border between manageable madness and unmanageable madness, and you're getting closer to it every day . . . and part of you knows it. Paul had a brilliant idea. 'I owe you my life,' he said, 'and I'm just a nuisance to you. I've got about four hundred dollars in my wallet. I want you to have it.' 'Oh, Paul. I couldn't .'


She was looking at him in confusion and pleasure. Paul smiled and tried to look as sincere as possible. 'It's yours,' he said, 'You saved two lives, you know - Misery's as well as 32 mine. And you showed me that I was going wrong, writing other kinds of books. Four hundred dollars is nothing for all that. If you don't take the money you'll make me feel bad.' 'Well, if you say so . . . All right,' she said, with a shy smile. 'They all hate me, you know. They're all against me, Paul .' '


So you must pay their dirty taxes today," Paul said. 'That'll show them. I bet there arc other people in the town - the Roydmans, for example - who haven't paid their taxes for years. They're just trying to make you go, Annie.' 'Yes, I'll pay their stupid taxes,' she said. 'That'll teach them a lesson. I'll stay here and spit in their eyes!' She went and fetched his wallet. The money was still in it, but everything which showed that it belonged to Paul Sheldon had gone. He remembered going to the bank and taking the money out. The man who had done that had felt good. He had just finished Fast Cars and was feeling younger than his age. I lis legs were not useless sticks Exchange Opportunities.


He gave Annie the money and she bent over and kissed him on the lips. He smelled the foul smell which came from the rotten places inside her. 'I love you,' she said. 'Would you put me in the wheelchair?' he said. 'I want to write.' 'Of course, my dear,' she replied. Then she left to go to town. While she was out Paul unlocked the door - he now had four hairpins under the mattress, next to the tablets - and tried to clean the marks on the door-frame. Three weeks passed. Although there were times when he felt close to tears. Paul was on the whole curiously happy. He was. Usually the most he could write was two or three pages a day, but he was sometimes writing twelve pages of Misery's Return in a day! He was living such a regular and healthy life. Annie was cooking him three meals a day.


He wasn't drinking any alcohol or smoking cigarettes; he suffered from none of his usual headaches. He woke up in the morning, ate breakfast, worked, had lunch, slept for a while, worked 33 again, ate again and then slept like a baby all night long. There was nothing else for him to do - nothing to interrupt the routine. Ideas for the book were flooding into his mind. Can you? Yes, I can. Then the rain came, and everything changed.

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