The Shining 原版小说- 第22部分


　
　
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　onethe　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　shaggily　blond；　George　had　been　an　almost　insolently　beautiful　boy。　
In　his　tight　faded　jeans　and　Stovington　sweatshirt　with　the　sleeves　carelessly　
pushed　up　to　the　elbows　to　disclose　his　tanned　forearms；　he　had　reminded　Jack　of　
a　young　Robert　Redford；　and　he　doubted　that　George　had　much　trouble　scoring　—　no　
more　than　that　young　footballplaying　devil　Jack　Torrance　had　ten　years　earlier。　
He　could　say　that　he　honestly　didn't　feel　jealous　of　George；　or　envy　him　his　
good　looks；　in　fact；　he　had　almost　unconsciously　begun　to　visualize　George　as　
the　physical　incarnation　of　his　play　hero；　Gary　Benson　—　the　perfect　foil　for　the　
dark；　slumped；　and　aging　Denker；　who　grew　to　hate　Gary　so　much。　But　he；　Jack　
Torrance；　had　never　felt　that　way　about　George。　If　he　had；　he　would　have　known　
it。　He　was　quite　sure　of　that。　
　　George　had　floated　through　his　classes　at　Stovington。　A　soccer　and　baseball　
star；　his　academic　program　had　been　fairly　undemanding　and　he　had　been　content　
with　C's　and　an　occasional　B　in　history　or　botany。　He　was　a　fierce　field　
contender　but　a　lackadaisical；　amused　sort　of　student　in　the　classrooms。　Jack　was　
familiar　with　the　type；　more　from　his　own　days　as　a　high　school　and　college　
student　than　from　his　teaching　experience；　which　was　at　second　hand。　George　
Hatfield　was　a　jock。　He　could　be　a　calm；　undemanding　figure　in　the　classroom；　
but　when　the　right　set　of　petitive　stimuli　was　applied　（like　electrodes　to　
the　temples　of　Frankenstein's　monster；　Jack　thought　wryly）；　he　could　bee　a　
juggernaut。　
　　In　January；　George　had　tried　out　with　two　dozen　others　for　the　debate　team。　He　
had　been　quite　frank　with　Jack。　His　father　was　a　corporation　lawyer；　and　he　
wanted　his　son　to　follow　in　his　footsteps。　George；　who　felt　no　burning　call　to　
do　anything　else；　was　willing。　His