绿里奇迹(英文版)-第1部分

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　…　手机访问　m。
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¤╭⌒╮　╭⌒╮欢迎光临　　　　　　　
　╱◥██◣　╭╭　⌒　　　　　　　　　
︱田︱田田｜　╰……　　
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THE　GREEN　MILE
1996

Foreword：　A　Letter　
Dear　Constant　Reader；　
Life　is　a　capricious　business。　The　story　which　begins　in　this　little　book　exists　in　this　form　because　of　a　chance　remark　made　by　a　realtor　I　have　never　met。　This　happened　a　year　ago；　on　Long　Island。　Ralph　Vicinanza；　a　long…time　friend　and　business　associate　of　mine　（what　he　does　mostly　is　to　sell　foreign　publishing　rights　for　books　and　stories）；　had　just　rented　a　house　there。　The　realtor　remarked　that　the　house　〃looked　like　something　out　of　a　story　by　Charles　Dickens。〃　
The　remark　was　still　on　Ralph's　mind　when　he　weled　his　first　houseguest；　British　publisher　Malcolm　Edwards。　He　repeated　it　to　Edwards；　and　they　began　chatting　about　Dickens。　Edwards　mentioned　that　Dickens　had　published　many　of　his　novels　in　installments；　either　folded　into　magazines　or　by　themselves　as　chapbooks；　（I　don't　know　the　origin　of　this　word；　meaning　a　smaller…than…average　book；　but　have　always　loved　its　air　of　intimacy　and　friendliness）。　Some　of　the　novels；　Edwards　added；　were　actually　written　and　revised　in　the　shadow　of　publication；　Charles　Dickens　was　one　novelist　apparently　not　afraid　of　a　deadline。　
Dickens's　serialized　novels　were　immensely　popular；　so　popular；　in　fact；　that　one　of　them　precipitated　a　tragedy　in　Baltimore。　A　large　group　of　Dickens　fans　crowded　onto　a　waterfront　dock；　anticipating　the　arrival　of　an　English　ship　with　copies　of　the　final　installment　of　The　Old　Curiosity　Shop　on　board。　According　to　the　story；　several　would…be　readers　were　jostled　into　the　water　and　drowned。　
I　don't　think　either　Malcolm。　or　Ralph　wanted　anyone　drowned；　but　they　were　curious　as　to　what　would　happen　if　serial　publication　were　tried　again　today。　Neither　was　immediately　aware　that　it　has　happened　（there　really　is　nothing　new　under　the　sun）　on　at　least　two　occasions。　Tom　Wolfe　published　the　first　draft　of　his　novel　Bonfire　of　the　Vanities　serially　in　Rolling　Stone　magazine；　and　Michael　McDowell　（The　Amulet；　Gilded　Needles；　The　Elementals；　and　the　screenplay　Beetlejuice）　published　a　novel　called　Blackwater　in　paperback　installments。　That　novel　…　a　horror　story　about　a　Southern　family　with　the　unpleasant　familial　trait　of　turning　into　alligators　…　was　not　McDowell's　best；　but　enjoyed　good　success　for　Avon　Books；　all　the　same。　
The　two　men　further　speculated　about　what　might　happen　if　a　writer　of　popular　fiction　were　to　try　issuing　a　novel　in　chapbook　editions　today　…　little　paperbacks　that　might　sell　for　a　pound　or　two　in　Britain；　or　perhaps　three　dollars　in　America　（where　most　paperbacks　now　sell　for　6。99　or　7。99）。　Someone　like　Stephen　King　might　make　an　interesting　go　of　such　an　experiment；　Malcolm　said；　and　from　there　the　conversation　moved　on　to　other　topics。　
Ralph　more　or　less　forgot　the　idea；　but　it　recurred　to　him　in　the　fall　of　1995；　following　his　return　from　the　Frankfurt　Book　Fair；　a　kind　of　international　trade　show　where　every　day　is　a　showdown　for　foreign　agents　like　Ralph。　He　broached　the　serialization/　chapbook　idea　to　me　along　with　a　number　of　other　matters；　most　of　which　were　automatic　turndowns。　
The　chapbook　idea　was　not　an　automatic　turndown；　though；　unlike　the　interview　in　the　Japanese　Playboy　or　the　all…expenses…paid　tour　of　the　Baltic　Republics；　it　struck　a　bright　spark　in　my　imagination。　I　don't　think　that　I　am　a　modern　Dickens…if　such　a　person　exists；　it　is　probably　John　Irving　or　Salman　Rushdie　…　but　I　have　always　loved　stories　told　in　episodes。　It　is　a　format　I　first　encountered　in　The　Saturday　Evening　Post；　and　I　liked　it　because　the　end　of　each　episode　made　the　reader　an　almost　equal　participant　with　the　writer…you　had　a　whole　week　to　try　to　figure　out　the　next　twist　of　the　snake。　Also；　one　read　and　experienced　these　stories　more　intensely；　it　seemed　to　me；　because　they　were　rationed。　You　couldn't　gulp；　even　if　you　wanted　to　（and　if　the　story　was　good；　you　did）。　
Best　of　all；　in　my　house　we　often　read　them　aloud…my　brother；　David；　one　night；　myself　the　next；　my　mother　taking　a　turn　on　the　third；　then　back　to　my　brother　again。　It　was　a　rare　chance　to　enjoy　a　written　work　as　we　enjoyed　the　movies　we　went　to　and　the　TV　programs　（Rawhide；　Bonanza。　Route　66）　that　we　watched　together；　they　were　a　family　event　。　It　wasn't　until　years　later　that　I　discovered　Dickens's　novels　had　been　enjoyed　by　families　of　his　day　in　much　the　same　fashion。　only　their　fireside　agonizings　over　the　fate　of　Pip　and　Oliver　and　David　Copperfield　went　on　for　years　instead　of　a　couple　of　months　（even　the　longest　of　the　Post　serials　rarely　ran　much　more　than　eight　installments）。　
There　was　one　other　thing　that　I　liked　about　the　idea；　an　appeal　that　I　suspect　only　the　writer　of　suspense　tales　and　spooky　stories　can　fully　appreciate：　in　a　story　which　is　published　m　installments；　the　writer　gains　an　ascendancy　over　the　reader　which　he　or　she　cannot　otherwise　enjoy：　simply　put。　Constant　Reader；　you　cannot　flip　ahead　and　see　how　matters　turn　out。　
I　still　remember　walking　into　our　living　room　once　when　I　was　twelve　or　so　and　seeing　my　mother　in　her　favorite　rocker；　peeking　at　the　end　of　an　Agatha　Christie　paperback　while　her　finger　held　her　actual　place　around　page　50。　I　was　appalled；　and　told　her　so　Q　was　twelve。　remember。　an　age　at　which　boys　first　dimly　begin　to　realize　that　they　know　everything）；　suggesting　that　reading　the　end　of　a　mystery　novel　before　you　actually　get　there　was　on　a　par　with　eating　the　white　stuff　out　of　the　middle　of　Oreo　cookies　and　then　throwing　the　cookies　themselves　away。　She　laughed　her　wonderful　unembarrassed　laugh　and　said　perhaps　that　was　so；　but　sometimes　she　just　couldn't　resist　the　temptation。　Giving　in　to　temptation　was　a　concept　I　could　understand；　I　had　plenty　of　my　own；　even　at　twelve。　But　here；　at　last；　is　an　amusing　cure　for　that　temptation。　Until　the　final　episode　arrives　in　bookstores；　no　one　is　going　to　know　how　The　Green　Mile　turns　out　。。。　and　that　may　include　me。　
Although　there　was　no　way　he　could　have　known　it；　Ralph　Vicinanza；　mentioned　the　idea　of　a　novel　in　installments　at　what　was；　for　me；　the　perfect　psychological　moment。　I　had　been　playing　with　a　story　idea　on　a　subject　I　had　always　suspected　I　would　get　around　to　sooner　or　later：　the　electric　chair。　〃Old　Sparky〃　has　fascinated　me　ever　since　my　first　James　Cagney　movie；　and　the　first　Death　Row　tales　I　ever　read　（in　a　book　called　Twenty　Thousand　Years　in　Sing　Sing；　written　by　Warden　Lewis　E。　Lawes）　fired　the　darker　side　of　my　imagination。　What；　I　wondered；　would　it　be　like　to　walk　those　last　forty　yards　to　the　electric　chair；　knowing　you　were　going　to　die　there？　Mat；　for　that　matter；　would　it　be　like　to　be　the　man　who　had　to　strap　the　condemned　in　。。。　or　pull　the　switch？　What　would　such　a　job　take　out　of　you？　Even　creepier；　what　might　it　add？　
I　had　tried　these　basic　ideas；　always　tentatively；　on　a　number　of　different　frameworks　over　the　last　twenty　or　thirty　years。　I　had　written　one　successful　novella　set　in　prison　（Rita　Hayworth　and　Shawshank　Redemption）；　and　had　sort　of　e　to　the　conclusion　that　that　was　probably　it　for　me；　when　this　take　on　the　idea　came　along。　There　were　lots　of　things　I　liked　about　it；　but　nothing　more　than　the　narrator's　essentially　decent　voice；　low…key；　honest；　perhaps　a　little　wide…eyed；　he　is　a　Stephen　King　narrator　if　ever　there　was　one。　So　I　got　to　work；　but　in　a　tentative；　stopand…start　way。　Most　of　the　second　chapter　was　written　during　a　rain　delay　at　Fenway　Park！　
When　Ralph　called；　I　had　filled　a　notebook　with　scribbled　pages　of　The　Green　Mile；　and　realized　I　was　building　a　novel　when　I　should　have　been　spending　my　time　clearing　my　desk　for　revisions　on　a　book　already　written　（Desperation…you'll　see　it　soon；　Constant　Reader）。　At　the　point　I　had　e　to　on　Mile；　there　are　usually　just　two　choices：　put　it　away　（probably　never　to　be　picked　up　again）　or　cast　everything　else　aside　and　chase。　
Ralph　suggested　a　possible　third　alternative；　a　story　that　could　be　written　the　same　way　it　would　be　read…in　installments。　And　I　liked　the　high…wire　aspect　of　it；　too：　fall　down　on　the　job；　fail　to　carry　through；　and　all　at　once　about　a　million　readers　are　howling　for　your　blood。　No　one　knows　this　any　better　than　me；　unless　it's　my　secretary；　Juliann　Eugley；　we　get　dozens　of　angry　letters　each　week；　demanding　the　next　book　in　the　Dark　Tower　cycle　（patience；　followers　of　Roland；　another　year　or　so　and　your　wait　will　end；　I　promise）。　One　of　these　contained　a　Polaroid　of　a　teddy…bear　in　chains；　with　a　message　cut　out　of　newspaper　headlines　and　magazine　covers：　RELEASE　THE　NEXT　DARK　TOWER　BOOK　AT　ONCE　OR　THE　BEAR　DIES；　it　said。　I　put　it　up　in　my　office　to　remind　myself　both　of　my　responsibility　and　of　how　wonderful　it　is　to　have　people　actually　care　…　a　little…about　the　creatures　of　one's　imagination。　
In　any　case；　I've　decided　to　publish　The　Green　Mile　in　a　series　of　small　paperbacks；　in　the　nieenthcentury　manner；　and　I　hope　you'll　write　and　tell　me　（a）　if　you　liked　the　story；　and　（b）　if　you　liked　the　seldom　used　but　rather　amusing　delivery　system。　It　has　certainly　energized　the　writing　of　the　story；　although　at　this　moment　（a　rainy　evening　in　October　of　1995）　it　is　still　far　from　done；　even　in　rough　draft；　and　the　oute　remains　in　some　doubt。　That　is　part　of　the　excitement　of　the　whole　thing；　though…at　this　point　I'm　driving　through　thick　fog　with　the　pedal　all　the　way　to　the　metal。　
Most　of　all；　I　want　to　say　that　if　you　have　even　half　as　much　fun　reading　this　as　I　did　writing　it；　we'll　both　be　well　off。　Enjoy　。。。　and　why　not　read　this　aloud；　with　a　friend？　If　nothing　else；　it　will　shorten　the　time　until　the　next　installment　appears　on　your　newsstand　or　in　your　local　bookstore。　
In　the　meantime；　take　care；　and　be　good　to　one　another。　
Stephen　King　

Part　One：
The　Two　Dead　Girls　
1。　
This　happened　in　1932；　when　the　state　penitentiary　was　still　at　Cold　Mountain。　And　the　electric　chair　was　there；　too；　of　course。　
The　inmates　made　jokes　about　the　chair；　the　way　people　always　make　jokes　about　things　that　frighten　them　but　can't　be　gotten　away　from。　They　called　it　Old　Sparky；　or　the　Big　Juicy。　They　made　cracks　about　the　power　bill；　and　how　Warden　Moores　would　cook　his　Thanksgiving　dinner　that　fall；　with　his　wife；　Melinda；　too　sick　to　cook。　
But　for　the　ones　who　actually　had　to　sit　down　in　that　chair；　the　humor　went　out　of　the　situation　in　a　hurry。　I　presided　over　seventy…eight　executions　during　my　time　at　Cold　Mountain　（that's　one　figure　I've　never　been　confused　about；　I'll　remember　it　on　my　deathbed）；　and　I　think　that；　for　most　of　those　men；　the　truth　of　what　was　happening　to　them　finally　hit　all　the　way　home　when　their　ankles　were　being　clamped　to　the　stout　oak　of　〃Old　Sparky's〃　legs。　The　realization　came　then　（you　would　see　it　rising　in　their　eyes；　a　kind　of　cold　dismay）　that　their　own　legs　had　finished　their　careers。　The　blood　still　ran　in　them；　the　muscles　were　still　strong；　but　they　were　finished；　all　the　same；　they　were　never　going　to　walk　another　country　mile　or　dance　with　a　girl　at　a　barn…raising。　Old　Sparky's　clients　came　to　a　knowledge　of　their　deaths　from　the　ankles　up。　There　was　a　black　silk　bag　that　went　over　their　heads　after　they　had　finished　their　rambling　and　mostly　disjointed　last　remarks。　It　was　supposed　to　be　for　them；　but　I　always　thought：　it　was　really　for　us；　to　keep　us　from　seeing　the　awful　tide　of　dismay　in　their　eyes　as　they　realized　they　were　going　to　die　with　their　knees　bent。　
There　was　no　death　row　at　Cold　Mountain；　only　E　Block；　set　apart　from　the　other　four　and　about　a　quarter　their　size；　brick　instead　of　wood；　with　a　horrible　bare　metal　roof　that　glared　in　the　summer　sun　like　a　delirious　eyeball。　Six　cells　inside；　three　on　each　side　of　a　wide　center　aisle；　each　almost　twice　as　big　as　the　cells　in　the　other　four　blocks。　Singles；　too。　Great　acmodations　for　a　prison　（especially　in　the　thirties）；　but　the　inmates　would　have　traded　for　cells　in　any　of　the　other　four。　Believe　me；　they　would　have　traded。　
There　was　never　a　time　during　my　years　as　block　superintendent　when　all　six　cells　were　occupied　at　one　time…thank　God　for　small　favors。　Four　was　the　most；　mixed　black　and　white　（at　Cold　Mountain；　there　was　no　segregation　among　the　walking　dead）；　and　that　was　a　little　piece　of　hell。　One　was　a　woman；　Beverly　McCall。　She　was　black　as　the　ace　of　spades　and　as　beautiful　as　the　sin　you　never　had　nerve　enough　to　mit。　She　put　up　with　six　years　of　her　husband　beating　her；　but　wouldn't　put　up　with　his　creeping　around　for　a　single　day。　On　the　evening　after　she　found　out　he　was　cheating；　she　stood　waiting　for　the　unfortunate　Lester　McCall；　known　to　his　pals　（and；　presumably；　to　his　extremely　short…term　mistress）　as　Cutter；　at　the　top　of　the　stairs　leading　to　the　apartment　over　his　barber　shop。　She　waited　until　he　got　his　overcoat　half　off；　then　dropped　his　cheating　guts　onto　his　two…tone　shoes。　Used　one　of　Cutter's　own　razors　to　do　it。　Two　nights　before　she　was　due　to　sit　in　Old　Sparky；　she　called　me　to　her　cell　and　said　she　had　been　visited　by　her　African　spirit…father　in　a　dream。　He　told　her　to　discard　her　slave…name　and　to　die　under　her　free　name；　Matuomi。　That　was　her　request；　that　her　death　warrant　should　be　read　under　the　name　of　Beverly　Matuomi。　I　guess　her　spirit…father　didn't　give　her　any　first　name；　or　one　she　could　make　out；　anyhow。　I　said　yes；　okay；　fine。　One　thing　those　years　serving　as　the　bull…goose　screw　taught　me　was　never　to　refuse　the　condemned　unless　I　absolutely　had　to。　In　the　case　of　Beverly　Matuomi；　it　made　no　difference　anyway。　The　governor　called　the　next　day　around　three　in　the　afternoon；　muting　her　sentence　to　life　in　the　Grassy　Valley　Penal　Facility　for　Women…all　penal　and　no　penis；　we　used　to　say　back　then。　I　was　glad　to　see　Bev's　round　ass　going　left　instead　of　right　when　she　got　to　the　duty　desk；　let　me　tell　you。　
Thirty…five　years　or　so　later　…　had　to　be　at　least　thirty…five　…　I　saw　that　name　on　the　obituary　page　of　the　paper；　under　a　picture　of　a　skinny…faced　black　lady　with　a　cloud　of　white　hair　and　glasses　with　rhinestones　at　the　corners。　It　was　Beverly。　She'd　spent　the　last　ten　years　of　her　life　a　free　woman；　the　obituary　said；　and　had　rescued　the　small…town　library　of　Raines　Falls　pretty　much　single…handed。　She　had　also　taught　Sunday　school　and　had　been　much　loved　in　that　little　backwater。　LIBRARIAN　DIES　OF　HEART　FAILURE；　the　headline　said；　and　below　that；　in　smaller　type；　almost　as　an　afterthought：　Served　Over　Two　Decades　in　Prison　for　Murder。　Only　the　eyes；　wide　and　blazing　behind　the　glasses　with　the　rhinestones　at　the　corners；　were　the　same。　They　were　the　eyes　of　a　woman　who　even　at　seventy…whatever　would　not　hesitate　to　pluck　a　safety　razor　from　its　blue　jar　of　disinfectant；　if　the　urge　seemed　pressing。　You　know　murderers；　even　if　they　finish　up　as　old　lady　librarians　in　dozey　little　towns。　At　least　you　do　if　you've　spent　as　much　time　minding　murderers　as　I　did。　There　was　only　one　time　I　ever　had　a　question　about　the　nature　of　my　job。　That；　I　reckon；　is　why　I'm　writing　this。　
The　wide　corridor　up　the　center　of　E　Block　was　floored　with　linoleum　the　color　of　tired　old　limes；　and　so　what　was