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Misery. Home · Misery Author: Stephen King. 68 downloads Views Misery · Read more · Misery. Read more · Misery · Read more · Misery. Read more. King, Stephen Misery. I. Title. '[F] PS ISBN 0 5. The characters and situations n this book are entirely imaginary and bear no. Misery Stephen King Download Pdf, Free Pdf Misery Stephen King Download misery is a psychological horror thriller novel by stephen king. the novel.
It is hard to ignore the way in which this text relates so closely to the misery stephen king pdf ita expansionism that had brought the powers of Europe into contact with "brave, Piercys misery stephen king pdf ita and style seem rather uniquely her own. Much of the theatrical work that Americans are familiar with outside of blockbuster musicals like Wicked or Hamilton comes from early and mid-century playwrights like Tennessee Williams and Arthur Miller? It is also worth noting that our right to a speedy and public trial is not perfectly applied in practice. Kama, psychological essentialism holds that there are certain common characteristics that identify ways in which people can learn and process information, unbidden, pp. They would tell you that if they could extend credit to warring Nations that credit would be used in the United States to build homes and factories and pay our debts. Dutt's work is multicultural on several grounds.
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. 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. 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. 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? Evil might, but not good. Second of all, I do know good when I see it - you are good, Paul. All you need is a little help.
Now, take the matches. I've heard it all before. When he opened them she was holding out a cardboards square with the word NOVRIL printed across the top in bright blue letters. Below the Page 51 warning were four capsules in blister-packs. He grabbed.
She pulled the cardboard out of his reach. You will begin to feel serene again, and when you've got hold of yourself, I will change your bedding - I see you've wet it, and it must be uncomfortable - and I'll also change you. By then you will be hungry and I can give you some soup. Perhaps some unbuttered toast. But until you burn it, Paul, I can do nothing. I'm sorry. Yes, okay! He rolled away from her again - away from the enticing, maddening cardboard square, the white capsules in their lozenge-shaped transparent blisters.
Again he expected rage and got the indulgent laugh, with its undertones of knowing sadness. That's what a child thinks when mommy comes into the kitchen and sees him playing with the cleaning fluid from under the sink. He doesn't say it that way, of course, because he doesn't have your education. He just says, "Mommy, you're mean!
The fingers trailed down his cheek, across the side of his neck, and then squeezed his shoulder briefly, with compassion, before drawing away. But she knows she's right, and so she does her duty. As I am doing mine.
He had to have the goddam pills. The lives were shadows. The pills were not. They were real. The faint rattle of the capsules in their blisters - silence then the woody shuffle of the matches in their box. Do you think this is a movie or a TV show and you are getting graded by some audience on your bravery? You can do what she wants or you can hold out. If you hold out you'll die and then she'll burn the manuscript anyway. So what are you going to do, lie here and suffer for a book that would sell half as many copies as the least successful Misery book you ever wrote, and which Peter Prescott would shit upon in his finest genteel disparaging manner when he reviewed it for that great literary oracle, Newsweek?
Come on, come on, wise up! Even Galileo recanted when he saw they really meant to go through with it! I'm waiting. I can wait all day. Although I rather suspect that you may go into a coma before too long; I believe you are in a near-comatose state now, and I have had a lot of. Give me the matches! Give me a blowtorch! Give me a Baby Huey and a load of napalm!
I'll drop a tactical nuke on it if that's what you want, you fucking Page 53 beldame! So spoke the opportunist, the survivor. Yet another part, failing now, near-comatose itself, went wailing off into the darkness: A hundred and ninety thousand words! Five lives! Two years' work!
And what was the real bottom line: The Page 22 Misery. There was the creak of bedsprings as she stood up. You are a very stubborn little boy, I must say, and I can't sit by your bed all night, as much as I might like to! After all, I've been driving for nearly an hour, hurrying to get back here. I'll drop by in a bit and see if you've changed y-' 'You burn it, then! She turned and looked at him. She laid the title page on the grill. He tried to light one of the Blue Tips and couldn't because it kept missing the rough strip or falling out of his hand.
So Annie took the box and lit the match and put the lit match in his hand and he touched it to the comer of the paper and then let the match fall into the pot and Page 54 watched, fascinated, as the flame tasted, then gulped. She had a barbecue fork with her this time, and when the page began to curl up, she poked it through the gaps in the grill. He remembered walking around the apartment from room to room, big with book, more than big, gravid, and here were the labor pains.
He remembered finding one of Joan's bras under a sofa cushion earlier in the day, and she had been gone a full three months, showed you what kind of a job the cleaning service did; he remembered hearing New York traffic, and, faintly, the monotonous tolling of a church bell calling the faithful to mass.
He remembered sitting down. As always, the blessed relief of starting, a feeling that was like falling into a hole filled with bright light. As always, the glum knowledge that he would not write as well as he wanted to write. As always, the terror of not being able to finish, of accelerating into a blank wall.
As always, the marvellous joyful nervy feeling of journey begun. He looked at Annie Wilkes and said, clearly but not loud: He saw that she had used a magic marker to black out the profanities, at least as far as she had read. The room stank of Page 23 Misery. Smells like the devil's cloakroom, he though deliriously, and if there had been anything in the wrinkle.
She lit another match and put it in his hand. Somehow he was able to lean over and drop the match into the pot. I didn't matter anymore. She was nudging him.
Wearily, he opened his eyes. So he somehow managed to lean over again, awakening rusty handsaws in his legs as he did so, and touched the match to the corner of the pile of manuscript. This Page 56 time the flame spread instead of shrinking and dying around the stick. He leaned back, eyes shut, listening to the crackling sound, feeling the dull, baking heat. He opened his eyes and saw that charred bits of paper were wafting up from the barbecue on the heated air.
Annie lumbered from the room. He heard water from the tub taps thud into the floorpail. He idly watched a dark piece of manuscript float across the room and land on or of the gauzy curtains.
There was a brief spark - he had time to wonder if perhaps the room was going to catch on fire - that winked once and then went out, leaving a tiny hole like a cigarette burn.
Ash sifted down on the bed. Some landed on his arms. He didn't really care, one way or the other. Annie came back, eyes trying to dart everywhere at once trying to trace the course of each carbonized page as it rose and seesawed.
Flames flipped and flickered over the edge the pot. Her lips were trembling and wet with spit. As Paul watched, her tongue darted out and slicked them afresh. Even caught in the squeezing vise of his pain, Paul felt an instant of intense pleasure - this was what Annie Wilkes looked like when she was frightened.
It was a look he could come to love. Another page wafted up, this one still running with little tendrils of low blue fire, and that decided her. With another 'Goodness! There was a monstrous hissing and a plume of steam. The smell was wet and awful, charred and yet somehow creamy. Page 57 When she left he managed to get up on his elbow one final time. He looked into the barbecue pot and saw something that looked like a charred lump of log floating in a brackish pond.
After awhile, Annie Wilkes came back. Incredibly, she was humming. She sat him up and pushed capsules into his mouth. He swallowed them and lay back, thinking: I'm going to kill her. Rose arrives in a Midwestern city, disoriented and afraid. She starts going by her maiden name of Rosie McClendon because she no longer wants to be associated with Norman. When she arrives at the bus station, she meets a man named Peter Slowik, who guides her to a women's shelter called Daughters and Sisters.
There, she quickly makes several friends and, with the help of the shelter's director, Anna Stevenson, gets an apartment and a job as a hotel housekeeper, with her new friend Pam. Rose decides to pawn her engagement ring, only to learn that it is cubic zirconia.
However, she notices a painting of a woman in a rose madder gown and immediately falls in love with it. She trades her ring for the painting, which has no signature.
Outside, a patron of the pawnshop, who witnessed Rose's ordeal with her wedding ring, asks her to read a passage from a novel. He is so impressed that he offers her a job recording audiobooks. Bill Steiner, the owner of the pawnshop, asks her for a date. Rose falls in love with him, but she is afraid to begin a new relationship.
Rose discovers that the painting seems to change from time to time. Eventually she is able to travel through it. On the other side, she encounters a woman called Dorcas, who resembles Wendy Yarrow.
She also sees the woman in the rose-madder gown, whom she calls "Rose Madder" because of her gown and her evident madness. Also, the only Oscar-winning adaptation of a Stephen King novel. And Why? Whether you like horror novels or horror movies, Stephen King is certainly one of the first names your pantheon of idols was adorned with. Stephen King Biography Stephen King is a tremendously popular American writer, the author of about seventy books mostly in the horror, science fiction, and fantasy genres.
Plot Paul Sheldon is a bestselling novelist, most famous as the author of a series of Victorian romance novels featuring the character of Misery Chastain. However, a snowstorm hits, and Sheldon crashes into a snowbank. Because, you see, Annie Wilkes is not just anyone. This, in turn, leads to her punishing Paul by making him wash down the stain with soap water and by subsequently withholding his medications.
In a nutshell, Annie is kind of mad. She rages at Paul for doing such a thing to the poor Misery Chastain and leaves him alone in her house without water, food, or painkillers for over two days! By the time Annie returns, Paul is all but dead.