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en the argument and the thumbectomy that Paul had missed the connection。 Until now。
I bitched about the typewriter； he thought； looking at it now and listening to the drone of the mower。 It sounded fainter now； and he was marginally aware that wasn't because Annie was moving away but because he was。 He was drowsing off。 He did that a lot now； simply drowsed off like some old fart in a nursing home。
Not a lot； I only bitched about it that once。 But once was enough； wasn't it？ More than enough。 That was … what？ … a week after she brought those oogy sundaes？ Just about that。 Just one week and one bitch。 About how the clunk of that dead key was driving me crazy。 I didn't even suggest she get another used typewriter from Nancy Whoremonger or whoever that woman was； one with all its keys intact。 I just said those clunks are driving me crazy； and then； in almost no time at all； presto chango； when it es to Paul's left thumb； now you see it and now you don't。 Except she didn't really do it because I bitched about the typewriter； did she？ She did it because I told her no and she had to accept that。 It was an act of rage。 The rage was the result of realization。 What realization？ Why； that she didn't hold all the cards after all … that I had a certain passive hold over her。 The power of the gotta。 I turned out to be a pretty passable Scheherazade after all。
It was crazy。 It was funny。 It was also real。 Millions might scoff； but only because they failed to realize how pervasive the influence of art … even of such a degenerate sort as popular fiction … could bee。 Housewives arranged their schedules around the afternoon soaps。 If they went back into the workplace； they made buying a VCR a top priority so they could watch those same soap operas at night。 When Arthur Conan Doyle killed Sherlock Holmes at Reichenbach Falls； all of Victorian England rose as one and demanded him back。 The tone of their protests had been Annie's exactly … not bereavement but outrage。 Doyle was berated by his own mother when he wrote and told her of his intention to do away with Holmes。 Her indignant reply had e by return mail： 〃Kill that nice Mr Holmes？ Foolishness！ Don't you dare！〃 Or there was the case of his friend Gary Ruddman； who worked for the Boulder Public Library。 When Paul had dropped over to see him one day； he had found Gary's shades drawn and a black crepe fluff on the door。 Concerned； Paul had knocked hard until Gary answered。 Go away； Gary had told him。 I'm feeling depressed today。 Someone died。 Someone important to me。 When Paul asked who； Gary had responded tiredly： Van der Valk。 Paul had heard him walk away from the door； and although he knocked again； Gary had not e back。 Van der Valk； it turned out； was a fictional detective created … and then uncreated … by a writer named Nicolas Freeling。
Paul had been convinced Gary's reaction had been more than false； he thought it had been pretentiously arty。 In short； a pose。 He continued to feel this way until 1983； when he read The World According to Garp。 He made the mistake of reading the scene where Garp's younger son dies； impaled on a gearshift ＇ever； shortly before bed。 It was hours before he slept。 The scene would not leave his mind。 The thought that grieving for a fictional character was absurd did more than cross his mind during his tossings and turnings。 For grieving was exactly what he was doing； of course。 The realization had not helped； however； and this had caused him to wonder if perhaps Gary Ruddman hadn't been a lot more serious about Van der Valk than Paul had given him credit for at the time。 And this had caused another memory to resurface： finishing William Golding's Lord of the Flies at the age of twelve on a hot summer day； going to the refrigerator for a cold glass of lemonade 。 。 。 and then suddenly changing direction and speeding up from an amble to an all…out bolt which had ended in the bathroom。 There he had leaned over the toilet and vomited。
Paul suddenly remembered other examples of this odd mania： the way people had mobbed the Baltimore docks each month when the packet bearing the new installment of Mr Dickens's Little Dorrit or Oliver Twist was due （some had drowned； but this did not discourage the others）； the old woman of a hundred and five who had declared she would five until Mr Galsworthy finished The Forsyte Saga … and who had died less than an hour after having the final page of the final volume read to her； the young mountain climber hospitalized with a supposedly fatal case of hypothermia whose friends had read The Lord of the Rings to him nonstop； around the clock； until he came out of his a； hundred s of other such incidents。
Every 〃best…selling〃 writer of fiction would； he supposed； have his own personal example or examples of radical reader involvement with the make…believe worlds the writer creates 。 。 。 examples of the Scheherazade plex； Paul thought now； half…dreaming as the sound of Annie's mower ebbed and flowed at some great echoing distance。 He remembered getting two letters suggesting Misery theme parks； on the order of Disney World or Great Adventure。 One of these letters had included a crude blueprint。 But the blue…ribbon winner （at least until Annie Wilkes had entered his life） had been Mrs Roman D。 Sandpiper III； of Ink Beach； Florida。 Mrs Roman D。 Sandpiper； whose given name was Virginia； had turned an upstairs room of her home into Misery's Parlor。 She included Polaroids of Misery's Spinning Wheel； Misery's Escritoire （plete with a half…pleted bread…and…butter note to Mr Faverey； saying she would be in attendance at the School Hall Recitation on 20th Nov。 inst。 … done in what Paul thought was an eerily apt hand for his heroine； not a round and flowing ladies〃 script but a half…feminine copperplate）； Misery's Couch； Misery's Sampler （Let Love Instruct You； Do Not Presume to Instruct Love）； etc。； etc。 The furnishings； Mrs Roman D。 （〃Virginia〃） Sandpiper's letter said； were all genuine； not reproductions and while Paul could not tell for sure； he guessed that it was the truth。 If so； this expensive bit of make…believe must have cost Mrs Roman D。 （〃Virginia〃） Sandpiper thousands of dollars。 Mrs Roman D。 （〃Virginia〃） Sandpiper hastened to assure him that she was not using his character to make money； nor did she have any plans in that direction … heaven forbid！ … but she did want him to see the pictures； and to tell her what she had wrong （which； she was sure； must be a great deal）。 Mrs Roman D。 （〃Virginia〃） Sandpiper also hoped for his opinion。 Looking at those pictures had given him a feeling which was strange yet eerily intangible … it had been like looking at photographs of his own imagination； and he knew that from that moment on； whenever he tried to imagine Misery's little bination parlor and study； Mrs Roman D。 （〃Virginia〃） Sandpiper's Polaroids would leap immediately into his mind； obscuring imagination with their cheery but one…dimensional concreteness。 Tell her what was wrong？ That was madness。 From now on he would be the one to wonder about that。 He had written back； a brief note of congratulations and admiration … a note which hinted not at all at certain questions concerning Mrs Roman D。 （〃Virginia〃） Sandpiper which had