Stephen King - The Waste Lands

Thank you for downloading this Scribner eBook.

Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Scribner and Simon & Schuster.

C LICK H ERE T O S IGN U P

or visit us online to sign up at
eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

Praise for The Waste Lands

The reigning King of American popular literature.

Los Angeles Daily News

Enjoyablewhets the appetite for more.

Bangor Daily News

Splendidly tenserip-roaring.

Publishers Weekly

GrippingcompellingKing mesmerizes the reader.

Chicago Sun-Times

This third volume of the tale

is gratefully dedicated to my son

OWEN PHILIP KING:

Khef, Ka, and Ka-tet.

Hobbits were big when I was nineteen (a number of some import in the stories you are about to read).

There were probably half a dozen Merrys and Pippins slogging through the mud at Max Yasgurs farm during the Great Woodstock Music Festival, twice as many Frodos, and hippie Gandalfs without number. J.R.R. Tolkiens The Lord of the Rings was madly popular in those days, and while I never made it to Woodstock (say sorry), I suppose I was at least a halfling-hippie. Enough of one, at any rate, to have read the books and fallen in love with them. The Dark Tower books, like most long fantasy tales written by men and women of my generation ( The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant , by Stephen Donaldson, and The Sword of Shannara, by Terry Brooks, are just two of many), were born out of Tolkiens.

But although I read the books in 1966 and 1967, I held off writing. I responded (and with rather touching wholeheartedness) to the sweep of Tolkiens imaginationto the ambition of his storybut I wanted to write my own kind of story, and had I started then, I would have written his. That, as the late Tricky Dick Nixon was fond of saying, would have been wrong. Thanks to Mr. Tolkien, the twentieth century had all the elves and wizards it needed.

In 1967, I didnt have any idea what my kind of story might be, but that didnt matter; I felt positive Id know it when it passed me on the street. I was nineteen and arrogant. Certainly arrogant enough to feel I could wait a little while on my muse and my masterpiece (as I was sure it would be). At nineteen, it seems to me, one has a right to be arrogant; time has usually not begun its stealthy and rotten subtractions. It takes away your hair and your jump-shot, according to a popular country song, but in truth it takes away a lot more than that. I didnt know it in 1966 and 67, and if I had, I wouldnt have cared. I could imaginebarelybeing forty, but fifty? No. Sixty? Never! Sixty was out of the question. And at nineteen, thats just the way to be. Nineteen is the age where you say Look out, world, Im smokin TNT and Im drinkin dynamite, so if you know whats good for ya, get out of my wayhere comes Stevie.

Nineteens a selfish age and finds ones cares tightly circumscribed. I had a lot of reach, and I cared about that. I had a lot of ambition, and I cared about that. I had a typewriter that I carried from one shithole apartment to the next, always with a deck of smokes in my pocket and a smile on my face. The compromises of middle age were distant, the insults of old age over the horizon. Like the protagonist in that Bob Seger song they now use to sell the trucks, I felt endlessly powerful and endlessly optimistic; my pockets were empty, but my head was full of things I wanted to say and my heart was full of stories I wanted to tell. Sounds corny now; felt wonderful then. Felt very cool. More than anything else I wanted to get inside my readers defenses, wanted to rip them and ravish them and change them forever with nothing but story. And I felt I could do those things. I felt I had been made to do those things.

How conceited does that sound? A lot or a little? Either way, I dont apologize. I was nineteen. There was not so much as a strand of gray in my beard. I had three pairs of jeans, one pair of boots, the idea that the world was my oyster, and nothing that happened in the next twenty years proved me wrong. Then, around the age of thirty-nine, my troubles set in: drink, drugs, a road accident that changed the way I walked (among other things). Ive written about them at length and need not write about them here. Besides, its the same for you, right? The world eventually sends out a mean-ass Patrol Boy to slow your progress and show you whos boss. You reading this have undoubtedly met yours (or will); I met mine, and Im sure hell be back. Hes got my address. Hes a mean guy, a Bad Lieutenant, the sworn enemy of goofery, fuckery, pride, ambition, loud music, and all things nineteen.

But I still think thats a pretty fine age. Maybe the best age. You can rock and roll all night, but when the music dies out and the beer wears off, youre able to think. And dream big dreams. The mean Patrol Boy cuts you down to size eventually, and if you start out small, why, theres almost nothing left but the cuffs of your pants when hes done with you. Got another one! he shouts, and strides on with his citation book in his hand. So a little arrogance (or even a lot) isnt such a bad thing, although your mother undoubtedly told you different. Mine did. Pride goeth before a fall, Stephen, she said... and then I found outright around the age that is 19 2that eventually you fall down, anyway. Or get pushed into the ditch. At nineteen they can card you in the bars and tell you to get the fuck out, put your sorry act (and sorrier ass) back on the street, but they cant card you when you sit down to paint a picture, write a poem, or tell a story, by God, and if you reading this happen to be very young, dont let your elders and supposed betters tell you any different. Sure, youve never been to Paris. No, you never ran with the bulls at Pamplona. Yes, youre a pissant who had no hair in your armpits until three years agobut so what? If you dont start out too big for your britches, how are you gonna fill em when you grow up? Let it rip regardless of what anybody tells you, thats my idea; sit down and smoke that baby.

I think novelists come in two types, and that includes the sort of fledgling novelist I was by 1970. Those who are bound for the more literary or serious side of the job examine every possible subject in the light of this question: What would writing this sort of story mean to me? Those whose destiny (or ka, if you like) is to include the writing of popular novels are apt to ask a very different one: What would writing this sort of story mean to others? The serious novelist is looking for answers and keys to the self; the popular novelist is looking for an audience. Both kinds of writer are equally selfish. Ive known a good many, and will set my watch and warrant upon it.

Anyway, I believe that even at the age of nineteen, I recognized the story of Frodo and his efforts to rid himself of the One Great Ring as one belonging to the second group. They were the adventures of an essentially British band of pilgrims set against a backdrop of vaguely Norse mythology. I liked the idea of the quest loved it, in factbut I had no interest in either Tolkiens sturdy peasant characters (thats not to say I didnt like them, because I did) or his bosky Scandinavian settings. If I tried going in that direction, Id get it all wrong.

So I waited. By 1970 I was twenty-two, the first strands of gray had showed up in my beard (I think smoking two and a half packs of Pall Malls a day probably had something to do with that), but even at twenty-two, one can afford to wait. At twenty-two, time is still on ones side, although even then that bad old Patrol Boys in the neighborhood and asking questions.