You tan also read Stephen King's The breathing Method and. The Body in . often than not she had one of his books - his Misery books - open on her lap. King, Stephen Misery. I. Title. '[F] PS ISBN 0 5. The characters and situations n this book are entirely imaginary and bear no. Misery. Home · Misery Author: Stephen King. 68 downloads Views Misery · Read more · Misery. Read more · Misery · Read more · Misery. Read more.
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Finishing the new book, a contemporary novel about a car-thief, he had remembered typing the final sentence of Misery's Child: 'So Ian and Geoffrey left the. Misery PDF Summary is a horror novel by Stephen King detailing the disturbing relationship between writer Paul Sheldon and his number one. Misery - Stephen riacripwacose.cf - Download as PDF File .pdf) or read online.
This time. It was not a good dream. There was a bang Page 13 Misery. Shoot it! Shoot the goddamned thing! Then he was awake, knowing it was only Annie Wilkes, pulling the back door shut. She had gone out to do the chores. He heard the dim crunch of her footsteps in the snow. She went past his window, wearing a parka with the hood up. Her breath plumed out, then broke apart on her moving face.
She didn't look in at him, intent on her chores in the barn, he supposed.
Feeding the animals, cleaning the stalls, maybe casting a few runes - he wouldn't put it past her. The sky was darkening purple sunset.
Five-thirty, maybe six o'clock. The tide was still in and he could have gone back to sleep - wanted to go back Page 31 to sleep - but he had to think about this bizarre situation while he was still capable of something like rational thought. The worst thing, he was discovering, was that he didn't want to think of it even while he could, even when he knew he could not bring the situation to an end without thinking about it.
His mind kept trying to push it away, like a child pushing away his meal even though he has been told he cannot leave the table until he has eaten it. He didn't want to think about it because just living it was hard enough. He didn't want to think about it because whenever he did unpleasant images intervened the way she went blank, the way she made him think of idols and stones, and now the way the yellow plastic floor-bucket had sped toward his face like a crashing moon.
Thinking of those things would not change his situation, was in fact worse than not thinking at all, but once he turned his mind to Annie Wilkes and his position here in her house, they thoughts that came, crowding out all others.
His heart would start to beat too fast, mostly in fear, but partly in shame, too. He saw himself putting his lips to the rim of the yellow floor-bucket, saw the rinse-water with its film of soap aid the rag floating in it, saw these things but drank anyway, never hesitating a bit. He would never tell anyone about that, assuming he ever got out of this, and he supposed he might try to lie about it to himself, but he would never be able to do it.
Yet, miserable or not and he was , he still wanted to live. Think about it, goddammit! Jesus Christ, are you already so cowed you can't even try? No - but almost that cowed. Then an odd, angry thought occurred to him: She doesn't like the new book because she's too stupid to understand what it's up to.
Page 32 The thought wasn't just odd; under the circumstances, how she felt about Fast Cars was totally immaterial. But thinking about the things she had said was at least a new avenue, and feeling angry at her was better than feeling scared of her, and so he went down it with some eagerness.
Too stupid? Too set. Not just unwilling to change, but antagonistic to the very idea of change. 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. They would still want Misery, Misery, Misery. It's hard to follow. 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 Page 33 thing he had ever written.
He remembered her coming 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: He had never shown anyone a manuscript before he had proof-read it and then retyped it.
Not even Bryce, his agent. 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.
The anger and humiliation surged again, awakening the first dull answering throb in his legs. The work, the pride in your work, the worth of the work itself.
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: From the barn, her voice: 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, he didn't think so. She had kept him because he was Paul Sheldon, and she - Page 35 'She's my number-one fan,' Paul muttered, and put an arm over his eyes. An awful memory bloomed there in the dark: It had the most beautiful feathers - red and purple and royal blue - that he had ever seen.
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. He pressed the crook of his elbow more tightly against his eyes. From the barn he could hear spaced thudding noises. Page 15 Misery. 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.
Page 36 Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth, so help you God? He willed her to say more; she would not.
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 course, when she was calling him a sissy and a bawl-baby.
He could see that the courtroom was crowded with spectators, that the judge, vas bald and wearing glasses. The judge had a white moustache. There was a birthmark beneath the white moustache. The white moustache covered most of it but not quite all. Annie Wilkes. He read at just three! Can you imagine! That bird came from' 'Come on,' he whispered, but could get no further.
King Stephen. Misery
The bailiff asked her to state her name, and over and over again she said it was Annie Wilkes, but she said no more; she sat there with her fibrous solid ominous body displacing air and said her name over and over again but no more than that.
Still trying to imagine why the ex-nurse who had taken him prisoner might have once been put on the stand in Denver, Paul drifted off to sleep. Great relief swept through him - so great he felt like crying. Something had happened when he was asleep, someone had come, or perhaps Annie had had a change of heart or mind. It didn't matter. He had gone to sleep in the monster-woman's house and had awakened in the hospital. But surely they would not have put him in a long ward like this?
It was as big as an airplane hangar! Identical rows of men with identical bottles of nutrient hung from identical IV trays beside their beds filled the place. He sat up and saw that the men themselves were also identical - they were all him. Then, distantly, he heard the clock chime, and understood that it was chiming from beyond the wall of sleep.
This was a dream. Sadness replaced the relief. The door at the far end of the huge ward opened and in came Annie Wilkes - only she was dressed in a long aproned dress and there was a mobcap on her head; she was dressed as Misery Chastain in Misery's Love.
Over one arm she held a wicker basket. There was a towel over the contents. She folded the towel back as he watched. She reached in and took out a handful of something and flung it into the face of the first sleeping Paul Sheldon. It was sand, he saw this was Annie Wilkes pretending to be Misery Chastain pretending to be the sandman.
Page 38 Then he saw that the first Paul Sheldon's face had turned a ghastly white as soon as the sand struck it and fear jerked him out of the dream and into the bedroom, where Annie Wilkes was standing over him.
She was holding the fat paperback of Misery's Child in one hand. Her bookmark suggested she was about three-quarters of the way through.
Page 16 Misery. He had been dozing, but he came awake at once; jerking up on his elbows. Are you all r - ' 'No. Let her have one!
A big one! A fucking chest-buster! He would be more than happy to crawl to the telephone, no matter how much it might hurt.
He would crawl to the telephone over broken glass, if that was what it took. And it was a heart attack. She came toward him, not quite staggering but rolling, the way a sailor will Page 39 when he's just gotten off his ship at the enc of a long voyage. There was only the headboard, and behind that, the wall. Then she just stood there, looking down at him out of her paper-white face, the cords on her neck standing out, one vein pulsing in the center of her forehead.
Her hands snapped open, hooked shut into solid rocklike fists, then snapped open again. He remembered where her bookmark had been last night, three-quarters of the way through. She had finished it.
She knew all there was to know. She knew that Misery hadn't been the barren one, after all; it had been Ian. Had she sat there in her as-yet-unseen-by-him parlor with her mouth open and her eyes wide as Misery finally realized the truth and made her decision and sneaked off to Geoffrey? Had her eyes filled with tears when she realized that Misery and Geoffrey, far from having a clandestine affair behind the back of the man they both loved, were giving him the greatest gift they could - a child he would believe to be his own?
And had her heart risen up when Misery told Ian she was pregnant and Ian had crushed her to him, tears flowing from his eyes, muttering 'My dear, oh, my dear! He was sure, in those few seconds, that all of those things had happened. But instead of weeping with exalted grief as she should have done when Misery expired giving birth to the boy whom Ian and Geoffrey would presumably raise together, she was mad as hell. Her hands snapped open and hooked closed in a faster and faster rhythm.
She seized it up and brandished it at him.
Cold water splashed his face. An ice-cube landed beside his left ear and slid down the pillow into the hollow of his shoulder. In his mind 'So vivid!
She wanted to do it; there was no question of that. At the very last moment she pivoted away from him at d flung the water-pitcher at the door instead, where it shattered as the soup-bowl had the other day. She looked back at him and brushed her hair away from her face - two hard little spots of red had now bloomed the white - with the backs of her hands. Page 17 Misery. Misery gave her life for her husband and her best friend and her child.
The spirit of Misery will always - ' 'I don't want her spirit! You killed her! You murdered her! They punched deep into the pillow and Page 41 he bounced like a ragdoll. His legs flared and he cried out. She froze, staring at him with that narrow black expression that look of crevasse. If Misery Chastain had been a real person, he knew he might very well have been called upon 'to aid the police in their inquiries', as the euphemism went.
After all, he had a motive - he had hated her. Ever since the third book, he had hated her. For April Fools' Day four years ago he'd had a small booklet privately printed and had sent it to a dozen close acquaintances. It had been called Misery's Hobby. He might have murdered her. In the end, in spite of his having grown to despise her, Misery's death had been something of a surprise to him. He had remained true enough to himself for art to imitate life however feebly - to the very end of Misery's hackneyed adventures.
She had died a mostly unexpected death. His cheerful capering had in no way changed the fact. You are just a lying old dirty birdie. Sometimes that happens. It was like life, when someone just - ' She overturned the table by the bed. The one shallow drawer spilled out.
His wristwatch and pocket-change spilled out with it.
He hadn't even known they were in. He cringed back from her. Page 42 'You must think I was born yesterday,' she said. Her lips drew back from her teeth. Sometimes they go screaming and sometimes they go in their sleep - they just slip away, the way you said, sure.
God takes us when He thinks it's time and a writer is God to the people in a story, he made them up just like God made us up and no one can get hold of God to make Him explain, all right, okay, but as far as Misery goes I'll tell you one thing you dirty bird, I'll tell you that God just happens to have a couple of broken legs and God just happens to be in MY house eating MY food and. She went blank then. She straightened up with her hands hanging limply by her sides, looking at the wall where an old photograph of the Arc de Triomphe was hung.
She stood there and Paul lay in his bed with round marks in the pillow beside his ears and looked at her. He could hear the water which had been in the pitcher dripping on the floor, and it came to him that he could commit murder. This was a question which had occurred to him from time to time, strictly academic, of course, only now it wasn't and he had the answer. If she hadn't thrown the pitcher, he would have shattered it on the floor himself and tried to shove one of the broken pieces of glass into her throat while she stood there, as inert as an umbrella-stand.
He looked down into the spillage from the drawer, but there was only the change, a pen, a comb, and his watch. No wallet. More important, no Swiss Army knife.
She came back a little at a time, and the anger, at least, was gone.
She looked down at him sadly. I don't think I better be around you for awhile. I don't think it's. A place I know. If I stay here, I'II do something unwise. I need to think. Goodbye, Paul. She grasped the doorknob and pulled the door shut without answering.
For the first time he heard the rattle of a key. He heard her footsteps going off down the hall; he winced as she cried out Page 18 Misery. A door slammed. An engine cranked over and then started up. The low, crunching squeal of tires turning on packed snow. Now the motor-sound began to go away. It dwindled to a snore and then to a drone and was finally gone. He was alone. Alone in Annie Wilkes's house, locked in this room. Locked in this bed.
The distance between here and Denver was like. He lay in bed looking at the ceiling, his throat dry and his heart beating fast. After awhile the parlor clock chimed noon and the tide began to go out. He knew just how long because of the pen, the Flair Fine-Liner he had been carrying in his pocket at the time of the crash. He had been able to reach down and snag it. Every time the clock chimed he made a mark on his arm - four vertical marks and then a diagonal slash to seal the quintet.
When she came back there were ten groups of five and one extra. The little groups, neat at first, grew increasingly Page 44 jagged as his hands began to tremble. He didn't believe he had missed a single hour. He had dozed, but never really slept. The chiming of the clock woke him each time the hour came around.
After awhile he began to feel hunger and thirst - even through the pain. It became something like a horse race. Pretty Thirsty was nearly lost in the dust. Then, around sun-up on the day after she had left, I Got the Hungries actually gave King of Pain a brief run for his money.
He had spent much of the night alternately dozing and waking in a cold sweat, sure he was dying. After awhile he began to hope he was dying. Anything to be out of it. He'd never had any idea how bad hurting could get. The pilings grew and grew. He could see the barnacles which encrusted them, could see pale drowned things lying limply in the clefts of the wood. They were the lucky things.
For them the hurting was over. Around three he had lapsed into a bout of useless screaming. By noon of the second day - Hour Twenty-Four - he realize that, as bad as the pain in his legs and pelvis was, something else was also making him hurt.
It was withdrawal. Call this horse Junkie's Revenge, if you wanted. He needed the capsules in more ways than one. He thought of trying to get out of bed, but the thought of the thump and the drop and the accompanying escalation of pain constantly deterred him. He could imagine all too well 'So vivid! He might have tried anyway, but she had locked the door. What could he do besides crawl across to it, snail-like, and lie there?
In desperation he pushed back the blankets with his hands for the first time, Page 45 hoping against hope that it wasn't as bad as the shapes the blankets made seemed to suggest it was. It wasn't as bad; it was worse. He stared with horror at what he had become below the knees. She had splinted them - of course he had known that, felt the rigid ungiving shapes, but until now he had not known what she had done it with.
The lower parts of both legs were circled with slim steel rods that looked like the hacksawed remains of aluminum crutches.
Misery PDF Summary – Stephen King
The rods had been strenuously taped, so that from the knees down he looked a bit like Im-Ho-Tep when he had been discovered in his tomb. The legs themselves meandered strangely up to his knees, turning outward here, jagging inward there. His left knee a throbbing focus of pain - no longer seemed to exist at all. There was a calf, and a thigh, and then a sickening bunch in the middle that looked like a salt-dome.
His upper legs were badly swollen and seemed to have bowed slightly outward. His thighs, crotch, even his penis, were all still mottled with Page 19 Misery. He had thought his lower legs might be shattered. That was not so, as it turned out. They had been pulverized. Moaning, crying, he pulled the blankets back up. No rolling out of bed. Better to lie here, die here, better to accept this level of pain, terrific as it was, Page 46 until all pain was gone.
Around four o'clock of the second day, Pretty Thirsty made its move. He had been aware of dryness in his mouth and throat for a long time, but now it began to seem more urgent.
His tongue felt thick, too large. Swallowing hurt. He began to think of the pitcher of water she had dashed away. He dozed, woke, dozed. Day passed away' Night fell. He had to urinate. He laid the top sheet over his penis, hoping to create a crude filter, and urinated through it into his cupped and shaking hands.
He tried to think of it as recycling and drank what he had managed to hold and then ticked his wet palms. Here was something else he reckoned he would not tell people about, if he lived long enough to tell them anything.
He began to believe she was dead. She was deeply unstable, and unstable people frequently took their own lives.
He saw her 'So vivid' pulling over to the side of the road in Old Bessie, taking a. Goodbye, cruel world! He cackled, then moaned, then screamed.
The wind screamed with him. Or an accident? Was that possible? Oh, yes, sir! He saw her driving grimly, going too fast, and then 'He doesn't get it from MY side of the family!
Down and down and down. Page 47 Hitting once and bursting into a fireball, dying without even knowing it. If she was dead he would die in here, a rat in a dry trap. He kept thinking unconsciousness would come and relieve him, but unconsciousness declined; instead Hour Thirty came, and Hour Forty; now King of Pain and Pretty Thirsty merged into one single horse I Got the Hungries had been left in the dust long since and he began to feel like nothing more than a slice of living tissue on a microscope slide or a worm on a hook - something, anyway, twisting endlessly and waiting only to die.
The one thing he saw clearly was that she was wearing a dark-blue dress and a sprigged hat - it was exactly the sort of outfit he had imagined her wearing on the stand in Denver.
Her color was high and her eyes sparkled with life and vivacity. She was as close to pretty as Annie Wilkes ever could be, and when he tried to remember that scene later the only clear images he could fix upon were her flushed cheeks and the sprigged hat.
From some final stronghold of sanity and evaluative clarity the rational Paul Sheldon had thought: She looks like a widow who just got fucked after a ten-year dry spell.
In her hand she held a glass of water - a tall glass of water. He took three fast mouthfuls, the pores on the and plain of his tongue widening and clamoring at the shock of the water, some of it spilling down his chin and onto the tee-shirt he wore, and then she drew it away from him.
Page 48 He mewled for it, holding his shaking hands out. A little at a time, or you'll vomit. He sucked at his lips and ran his tongue over them and then sucked his tongue. He could vaguely remember drinking his own piss, Page 20 Misery. I have thought deeply, and I hope I've thought well. I was not entirely sure; my thoughts are often muddy, I know that. I accept that. It's why I couldn't remember where I was all those times they kept asking me about.
So I prayed. There is a God, you know, and He answers prayers. He always does. I have spared him, so you may shew him the way he must go. She gave him another three swallows. He slurped like a horse, burped, then cried out as shudder-cramps coursed through him. During all of this she looked at him benignly. I'll be right back. She took no notice at all. He lay in bed, cocooned in pain, trying not to moan Page 49 and moaning anyway.
What he was seeing was too bizarre to be sane. When Annie returned, she was pushing a charcoal grill in front of her. And sacrifice was what she had in mind, of course - when she came back she was carrying the manuscript of Fast Cars, the only existing result of his two years' work, in one hand. In the other she had a box of Diamond Blue Tip wooden matches. One thought worked at him, burned in him like acid: People - Bryce, both of his ex-wives, hell, even his mother - had always told him he was crazy not to make at least one copy of his work and put it aside; after all, the Boulderado could catch on fire, or the New York townhouse; there might be a tornado or a flood or some other natural disaster.
He had constantly refused, for no rational reason: Well, here was the jinx and the natural disaster all rolled up m one; here was Hurricane Annie. In her innocence it had apparently never even crossed her mind that there might be another copy of Fast Cars someplace, and if he had just listened, if he had just invested the lousy hundred dollars - Page 50 'Yes,' she replied, holding out the matches to him.
The manuscript, clean white Hammermill Bond with the title page topmost, lay on her lap. Her face was still clear and calm. It's filthy.
Level 6 - Misery (Stephen King) - Penguin Readers.pdf
That aside, it's also no good. She laughed gently. Her temper had apparently gone on vacation. But, Paul thought, knowing Annie Wilkes, it could arrive back unexpectedly at any moment, bags in hand: Couldn't stand to stay away! How ya doin?
Breathing only brought pain, anyway. But the peace of the cloud was spoiled by the voice. You must breathe, Paull? Something hit his chest hard, and then foul breath was forced into his mouth by unseen lips. The lips were dry and the breath smelled of the stale wind in the tunnel of an underground railway; it smelled of old dust and dirt. He began to breathe again so that the lips would not retum with their foul breath.
He already knew that something bad had happened to him; now he began to remember. He was Paul Sheldon. He smoked too much, He had married twice, but both marriages had ended im divorce, He was a famous writer. He was also a good writer. But he was not famous as a good writer; he was famous as the creator of Misery Chastain, a beautiful woman from nineteenth-century England, whose adventures and love life now filled eight volumes and had sold many millions of copies.
In the final pages of this book Misery died while giving birth to a daughter. Why does Paul ultimately agree with her criticism?
Are these passages necessary? How do they affect the novel as a whole? Some authors create fictional worlds for themselves in this manner, like William Faulkner and his Yoknapatawpha County. What does an author achieve with these references and fictional worlds that span many stories? How is each character driven by his or her gottas?
Why is Paul also Scheherazade to himself page ? Why does it take him such a long time to realize this?
Why is obsession such fertile ground for unsettling and terrifying characters? Enhance Your Book Club 1. Discuss the similarities and differences between the book and the movie.He cackled, then moaned, then screamed.
He's very confused, and that makes him less interesting. You don't mind, do you? I won't throw up. As Paul watched, her tongue darted out and slicked them afresh.