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Yes。 And while she might be crazy； was she so different in her evaluation of his work from the hundreds of thousands of other people across the country … ninety percent of them women … who could barely wait for each new five…hundred； page episode in the turbulent life of the foundling who I risen to marry a peer of the realm？ No； not at all。 They wanted Misery； Misery； Misery。 Each time he had taken a year or two off to write one of the other novels … what thought of as his 〃serious〃 work with what was at first certainty and then hope and finally a species of grim desperation … he had received a flood of protesting letters from these women； many of whom signed themselves 〃your number…one fan〃。 The tone of these letters varied from bewilderment （that always hurt the most； somehow）； to reproach； to outright anger； but the message was always the same： It wasn't what I expected； it wasn't what I wanted。 Please go back to Misery。 I want to know what Misery is doing。 He could write a modern Under the Volcano； Tess of the D'Urbervilles； The Sound and the Fury； it wouldn't matter。 They would still want Misery； Misery； Misery。
It's hard to follow 。 。 。 he's not interesting 。 。 。 and the profanity！
The anger sparked again。 Anger at her obdurate density； anger that she could actually kidnap him … keep him prisoner here； force him into a choice between drinking dirty rinse…water from a floor…bucket or suffering the pain of his shattered legs … and then； on top of all that； find the nerve to criticize the best thing he had ever written。
〃Bugger you and the effword you rode in on；〃 he said； and he suddenly felt better again； felt himself again； even though he knew this rebellion was petty and pitiful and meaningless … she was in the barn where she couldn't hear him； and the tide was safely in over the splintered pilings。 Still 。 。 。
He remembered her ing in here； withholding the capsules； coercing permission to read the manuscript of Fast Cars。 He felt a flush of shame and humiliation warming his face； but now they were mixed with real anger： it had bloomed from a spark into a tiny sunken flame。 He had never shown anyone a manuscript before he had proof…read it and then retyped it。 Never。 Not even Bryce； his agent。 Never。 Why； he didn't even … For a moment his thoughts broke off cleanly。 He could hear the dim sound of a cow mooing。
Why； he didn't even make a copy until the second draft was done。
The manuscript copy of Fast Cars which was now in Annie Wilkes's possession was； in fact； the only existing copy in the whole world。 He had even burned his notes。
Two years of hard work； she didn't like it； and she was crazy。
Misery was what she liked； Misery was who she liked； not some foul…talking little spic car…thief from Spanish Harlem。
He remembered thinking： Turn the pages of the manuscript into paper hats if you want； just 。 。 。 please 。 。 。
The anger and humiliation surged again； awakening the first dull answering throb in his legs。 Yes。 The work； the pride in your work； the worth of the work itself 。 。 。 all those things faded away to the magic…lantern shades they really were when the pain got bad enough。 That she would do that to him … that she could； when he had spent most of his adult life thinking the word writer was the most important definition of himself … made her seem utterly monstrous； something he must escape。 She really was an idol； and if she didn't kill him； she might kill what was in him。
Now he heard the eager squeal of the pig … she had thought he would mind； but he thought Misery was a wonderful name for a pig。 He remembered how she had imitated it； the way her upper lip had wrinkled toward her nose； how her cheeks had seemed to flatten； how she had actually looked like a pig for a moment： Whoink！ WHOINKK！
From the barn； her voice： 〃Sooo…ey； pig…pig…pig！〃 He lay back； put his arm over his eyes； and tried to hold onto the anger； because the anger made him feel brave。 A brave man could think。 A coward couldn't。
Here was a woman who had been a nurse … he was sure of that。 Was she still a nurse？ No； because she did not go work。 Why did she no longer practice her trade？ That seemed obvious。 Not all her gear was stowed right； lots of it was rolling around in the holds。 If it was obvious to him even through the haze of pain he had been living in； it would surely have been obvious to her colleagues。
And he had a little extra information on which to judge just how much of her gear wasn't stowed right； didn't he？ She had dragged him from the wreck of his car and instead of calling the police or an ambulance she had installed him in her guest…room； put IV drips in his arms and a shitload of dope in his body。 Enough so he had gone into what she called respiratory depression at least once。 She had told no one he was here； and if she hadn't by now； that meant she didn't mean to。
Would she have behaved in this same fashion if it had been Joe Blow from Kokomo she had hauled out of the wreck？ No。 No； he didn't think so。 She had kept him because he was Paul Sheldon； and she … 〃She's my number…one fan；〃 Paul muttered； and put an arm over his eyes。
An awful memory bloomed there in the dark： his mother had taken him to the Boston Zoo； and he had been looking at a great big bird。 It had the most beautiful feathers … red and purple and royal blue … that he had ever seen 。 。 。 and the saddest eyes。 He had asked his mother where the bird came from and when she said Africa he had understood it was doomed to die in the cage where it lived； far away from wherever God had meant it to be； and he cried and his mother bought him an ice…cream cone and for awhile he had stopped crying and then he remembered and started again and so she had taken him home； telling him as they rode the trolley back to Lynn that he was a bawl…baby and a sissy。
Its feathers。 Its eyes。
The throbbing in his legs began to cycle up。
No。 No； no。
He pressed the crook of his elbow more tightly against his eyes。 From the barn he could hear spaced thudding noises。 Impossible to tell what they were； of course； but in his imagination （your MIND your CREATIVITY that is all I meant） he could see her pushing bales of hay out of the loft with the heel of her boot； could see them tumbling to the barn floor。
Africa。 That bird came from Africa。 From … Then； cutting cleanly through this like a sharp knife； came her agitated； almost…screaming voice： Do you think that when they put me up there on the stand in Den … Up on the stand。 When they put me up on the stand in Denver。
Do you swear to tell the truth； the whole truth； nothing but the truth； so help you God？
（〃I don't know where he gets it。〃） I do。
（〃He's ALWAYS writing things like this down。〃） State your name。
（〃Nobody on my side of the family had an imagination like his。〃） Annie Wilkes。
（〃So vivid！〃） My name is Annie Wilkes。
He willed her to say more； she would not。
〃e on；〃 he muttered； his arm over his eyes … this was the way he thought best； the way he imagined best。 His mother liked to tell Mrs Mulvaney on the other side of the fence what a marvellous imagination he had； so vivid； and what wonderful little stories he was always writing down （except； of cour