• Complain

Stephen King - Misery

Here you can read online Stephen King - Misery full text of the book (entire story) in english for free. Download pdf and epub, get meaning, cover and reviews about this ebook. year: 1998, publisher: Signet, genre: Detective and thriller. Description of the work, (preface) as well as reviews are available. Best literature library LitArk.com created for fans of good reading and offers a wide selection of genres:

Romance novel Science fiction Adventure Detective Science History Home and family Prose Art Politics Computer Non-fiction Religion Business Children Humor

Choose a favorite category and find really read worthwhile books. Enjoy immersion in the world of imagination, feel the emotions of the characters or learn something new for yourself, make an fascinating discovery.

Stephen King Misery

Misery: summary, description and annotation

We offer to read an annotation, description, summary or preface (depends on what the author of the book "Misery" wrote himself). If you haven't found the necessary information about the book — write in the comments, we will try to find it.

Stephen King: author's other books


Who wrote Misery? Find out the surname, the name of the author of the book and a list of all author's works by series.

Misery — read online for free the complete book (whole text) full work

Below is the text of the book, divided by pages. System saving the place of the last page read, allows you to conveniently read the book "Misery" online for free, without having to search again every time where you left off. Put a bookmark, and you can go to the page where you finished reading at any time.

Light

Font size:

Reset

Interval:

Bookmark:

Make
Misery

MiseryF

Misery
8

He drifted. The tide came in and he drifted. The TV played in the other room for awhile and then didn't. Sometimes the clock chimed and he tried to count the chimes but he kept getting lost between. IV. Through tubes. That's what those marks on your arms are. He got up on one elbow and pawed for the lamp and finally got it turned on. He looked at his arms and in the folds of his elbows he saw fading, overlapped shades of purple and ocher, a hole filled with black blood at the center of each bruise. He lay back, looking at the ceiling, listening to the wind. He was near the top of the Great Divide in the heart of winter, he was with a woman who was not right in her head, a woman who had fed him with IV drips when he was unconscious, a woman who had an apparently never-ending supply of dope, a woman who had told no one he was here. These things were important, but he began to realize that something else was more important: the tide was going out again. He began to wait for the sound of her alarm clock upstairs. It would not go off for some long while yet, but it was time for him to start waiting for it to be time. She was crazy but he needed her. Oh I am in so much trouble he thought, and stared blindly up at the ceiling as the droplets of sweat began to gather on his forehead again.

Misery
9

The next morning she brought him more soup and told him she had read forty pages of what she called his 'manuscript-book'. She told him she didn't think it was as good as his others. 'It's hard to follow. It keeps jumping back and forth in time.' 'Technique,' he said. He was somewhere between hurting and not hurting, and so was able to think a little better about what she was saying. 'Technique, that's all it is. The subject... the subject dictates the form.' In some vague way he supposed that such tricks of the trade might interest, even fascinate her. God knew they had fascinated the attendees of the writers' workshops

to whom he had sometimes lectured when he was younger. 'The boy's mind, you see, is confused, and so ' 'Yes! He's very confused, and that makes him less interesting. Not uninteresting I'm sure you couldn't create an uninteresting character but less interesting. And the profanity! Every other word is that effword! It has ' She ruminated, feeding him the soup automatically, wiping his mouth when he dribbled almost without looking, the way an experienced typist rarely looks at the keys; so he came to understand, effortlessly, that she had been a nurse. Not a doctor, oh no; doctors would not know when the dribble would come, or be able to forecast the course of each with such a nice exactitude. If the forecaster in charge of that storm had been half as good at his job as Annie Wilkes is at hers, I would not be in this fucking jam, he thought bitterly. 'It has no nobility!' she cried suddenly, jumping and almost spilling beef-barley soup on his white, upturned face. 'Yes,' he said patiently. 'I understand what you mean, Annie. It's true that Tony Bonasaro has no nobility. He's a slum kid trying to get out of a bad environment, you see, and those words... everybody uses those words in ' 'They do not!' she said, giving him a forbidding look 'What do you think I do when I go to the feed store in town? What do you think I say? Now Tony, give me a bag of that effing pigfeed and a bag of that bitchly cow-corn and some of that Christing ear-mite medicine? And what do you think he says to me? You're effing right, Annie, comin right the eff up?' She looked at him, her face now like a sky which might spawn tornadoes at any instant. He lay back, frightened. The soup-bowl was tilting in her hands. One, then two drops fell on the coverlet. 'And then do I go down the street to the bank and say to Mrs Bollinger, Here's one big bastard of a check and you better give me fifty effing dollars just as effing quick as you can? Do you think that when they put me up there on the stand in Den ' A stream of muddy-colored beef soup fell on the coverlet. She looked at it, then at him, and her face twisted. 'There! Look what you made me do!' 'I'm sorry.' 'Sure! You! Are!' she screamed, and threw the bowl into the corner, where it shattered. Soup splashed up the wall. He gasped. She turned off then. She just sat there for what might have been thirty seconds. During that time Paul Sheldon's heart did not seem to beat at all. She roused a little at a time, and suddenly she tittered. 'I have such a temper,' she said. 'I'm sorry,' he said out of a dry throat. 'You should be.' Her face went slack again and she looked moodily at the wall. He thought she was going to blank out again, but instead she fetched a sigh and lifted her bulk from the bed. 'You don't have any need to use such words in the Misery books, because they didn't use such words at all back then. They weren't even invented. Animal times demand animal words, I suppose, but that was a better time. You ought to stick to your Misery stories, Paul. I say that sincerely. As your number-one fan.' She went to the door and looked back at him. 'I'll I put that manuscript-book back in your bag and finish Misery's Child. I may go back to the other one later, when I'm done.' 'Don't do that if it makes you mad,' he said. He tried to smile. 'I'd rather not have you mad. I sort of depend on you, you know.' She did not return his smile 'Yes,' she said. 'You do. You do, don't you, Paul?'

She left.

Misery
10

The tide went out. The pilings were back. He began to wait for the clock to chime. Two chimes. The chimes came. He lay propped up on the pillows, watching the door. She came in. She was wearing an apron over her cardigan and one of her skirts. In one hand she held a floor-bucket. 'I suppose you want' your cockadoodie medication,' she said. 'Yes, please.' He tried to smile at her ingratiatingly and felt that shame again he felt grotesque to himself, a stranger. 'I have it,' she said, 'but first I have to clean up the mess in the comer. The mess you made. You'll have to wait until I do that.' He lay in the bed with his legs making shapes like broken branches under the coverlet and cold sweat running down his face in little slow creeks, he lay and watched as she crossed to the corner and set the bucket down and then picked up the pieces of the bowl and took them out and came back and knelt by the bucket and fished in it and brought out a soapy rag and wrung it out and began to wash the dried soup from the wall. He lay and watched and at last he began to shiver and the shivering made the pain worse but he could not help it. Once she turned around and saw him shivering and soaking the bedclothes in sweat, and she favored him with such a sly knowing smile that he could easily have killed her. 'It's dried on,' she said, turning her face back into tie corner. 'I'm afraid this is going to take awhile, Paul.' She scrubbed. The stain slowly disappeared from the plaster but she went on dipping the cloth, wringing it out, scrubbing, and then repeating the whole process. He could not see her face, but the idea the certainty that she had gone blank and might go on scrubbing the wall for hours tormented him. At last just before the clock chimed once, marking two-thirty she got up and dropped the rag into the water. She took the bucket from the room without a word. He lay in bed, listening to the creaking boards which marked tier heavy, stolid passage, listening as she poured the water (out of her bucket and, incredibly, the sound of the faucet as she drew more. He began to cry soundlessly. The tide had never gone out so far; he could see nothing but drying mudflats and those splintered pilings which cast their eternal damaged shadows. She came back and stood for just a moment inside the doorway, observing his wet face with that same mixture of sternness and maternal love. Then her eyes drifted to the corner, where no sign of the splashed soup remained. 'Now I must rinse,' she said, 'or else the soap will leave a dull spot. I must do it all; I must make everything right. Living alone as I do is no excuse whatever for scamping the job. My mother had a motto, Paul, and I live by it. Once nasty, never neat, she used to say.' 'Please,' he groaned. 'Please, the pain, I'm dying.' 'No. You're not dying.' 'I'll scream,' he said, beginning to cry harder. It hurt lo cry. It hurt his legs and it hurt his heart. 'I won't be able lo help it.' 'Then scream,' she said. 'But remember that you made that mess. Not me. It's nobody's fault but your own.'

Next page
Light

Font size:

Reset

Interval:

Bookmark:

Make

Similar books «Misery»

Look at similar books to Misery. We have selected literature similar in name and meaning in the hope of providing readers with more options to find new, interesting, not yet read works.


Reviews about «Misery»

Discussion, reviews of the book Misery and just readers' own opinions. Leave your comments, write what you think about the work, its meaning or the main characters. Specify what exactly you liked and what you didn't like, and why you think so.