force had dwindled to a mere spark while the hotel and the grounds had suddenly
doubled in size and bee sinister； dwarfing them with sullen； inanimate power。
Then Wendy said： 〃Look at you； doc。 Your nose is running like a fire hose。
Let's get inside。〃
And they did； closing the door firmly behind them against the restless whine
of the wind。
P A R T T H R E E
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
The Wasps' Nest
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
》
UP ON THE ROOF
〃Oh you goddam fucking son of a bitch！〃
Jack Torrance cried these words out in both surprise and agony as he slapped
his right hand against his blue chambray workshirt； dislodging the big； slow…
moving wasp that had stung him。 Then he was scrambling up the roof as fast as he
could； looking back over his shoulder to see if the wasp's brothers and sisters
were rising from the nest he had uncovered to do battle。 If they were； it could
be bad； the nest was between him and his ladder； and the trapdoor leading down
into the attic was locked from the inside。 The drop was seventy feet from the
roof to the cement patio between the hotel and the lawn。
The clear air above the nest was still and undisturbed。
Jack whistled disgustedly between his teeth； sat straddling the peak of the
roof； and examined his right index finger。 It was swelling already； and he
supposed he would have to try and creep past that nest to his ladder so he could
go down and put some ice on it。
It was October 20。 Wendy and Danny had gone down to Sidewinder in the hotel
truck （an elderly； rattling Dodge that was still more trustworthy than the VW；
which was now wheezing gravely and seemed terminal） to get three gallons of milk
and do some Christmas shopping。 It was early to shop； but there was no telling
when the snow would e to stay。 There had already been flurries； and in some
places the road down from the Overlook was slick with patch ice。
So far the fall had been almost preternaturally beautiful。 In the three weeks
they had been here； golden day had followed golden day。 Crisp； thirty…degree
mornings gave way to afternoon temperatures in the low sixties； the perfect
temperature for climbing around on the Overlook's gently sloping western roof
and doing the shingling。 Jack had admitted freely to Wendy that he could have
finished the job four days ago； but he felt no real urge to hurry。 The view from
up here was spectacular； even putting the vista from the Presidential Suite in
the shade。 More important； the work itself was soothing。 On the roof he felt
himself healing from the troubled wounds of the last three years。 On the roof he
felt at peace。 Those three years began to seem like a turbulent nightmare。
The shingles had been badly rotted； some of them blown entirely away by last
winter's storms。 He had ripped them all up； yelling 〃Bombs away！〃 as he dropped
them over the side； not wanting Danny to get hit in case he had wandered over。
He had been pulling out bad flashing when the wasp had gotten him。
The ironic part was that he warned himself each time he climbed onto the roof
to keep an eye out for nests； he had gotten that bug bomb just in case。 But this
morning the stillness and peace had been so plete that his watchfulness had
lapsed。 He had been back in the world of the play he was slowly creating；
roughing out whatever scene he would be working on that evening in his head。 The
play was going very well； and although Wendy had said little； he knew she was
pleased。 He had been roadblocked on the crucial scene between Denker； the
sadistic headmaster； and Gary Benson； his young hero； during the last unhappy
six months at Stovington； months when the craving for a drink had been so bad
that he could barely concentrate on his in…class lectures； let alone his
extracurricular literary ambitions。
But in the last twelve evenings； as he actually sat down in front of the
office…model Underwood he had borrowed from the main office downstairs； the
roadblock had disappeared under his fingers as magically as cotton candy
dissolves on the lips。 He had e up almost effortlessly with the insights into
Denker's character that had always been lacking； and he had rewritten most of
the second act accordingly； making it revolve around the new scene。 And the
progress of the third act； which he had been turning over in his mind when the
wasp put an end to cogitation； was ing clearer all the time。 He thought he
could rough it out in two weeks； and have a clean copy of the whole damned play
by New Year's。
He had an agent in New York； a tough red…headed woman named Phyllis Sandler
who smoked Herbert Tareytons； drank Jim Beam from a paper cup； and thought the
literary sun rose and set on Sean O'Casey。 She had marketed three of Jack's
short stories； including the Esquire 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 s