绿里奇迹(英文版)-第47部分

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between　salvation　and　damnation。　
I　felt　one　or　the　other　pouring　through　me　as　we　sat　together　on　his　bunk　…　November　the　eighteenth；　nieen　and　thirty…two。　Pouring　out　of　him　and　into　me；　whatever　strange　force　he　had　in　him　ing　through　our　joined　hands　in　a　way　our　love　and　hope　and　good　intentions　somehow　never　can；　a　feeling　that　began　as　a　tingle　and　then　turned　into　something　tidal　and　enormous；　a　force　beyond　anything　I　had　ever　experienced　before　or　have　ever　experienced　since。　Since　that　day　I　have　never　had　pneumonia；　or　the　flu；　or　even　a　strep　throat。　I　have　never　had　another　urinary　infection；　or　so　much　as　an　infected　cut。　I　have　had　colds；　but　they　have　been　infrequent　…　six　or　seven　years　apart；　and　although　people　who　don't　have　colds　often　are　supposed　to　suffer　more　serious　ones；　that　has　never　been　the　case　with　me。　Once；　earlier　on　in　that　awful　year　of　1956；　I　passed　a　gallstone。　And　although　I　suppose　it　will　sound　strange　to　some　reading　this　in　spite　of　all　I　have　said；　part　of　me　relished　the　pain　that　came　when　that　gallstone　went。　It　was　the　only　serious　pain　I'd　had　since　that　problem　with　my　waterworks；　twenty…four　years　before。　The　ills　that　have　taken　my　friends　and　same…generation　loved　ones　until　there　are　none　of　them　left　…　the　strokes；　the　cancers；　the　heart　attacks；　the　liver　diseases；　the　blood　diseases　…　have　all　left　me　untouched；　have　swerved　to　avoid　me　the　way　a　man　driving　a　car　swerves　to　avoid　a　deer　or　a　raccoon　in　the　road。　The　one　serious　accident　I　was　in　left　me　untouched　save　for　a　scratch　on　the　hand。　In　1932；　John　Coffey　inoculated　me　with　life。　Electrocuted　me　with　life；　you　might　say。　I　will　pass　on　eventually　…　of　course　I　will；　any　illusions　of　immortality　I　might　have　had　died　with　Mr。　Jingles　…　but　I　will　have　wished　for　death　long　before　death　finds　me。　Truth　to　tell；　I　wish　for　it　already　and　have　ever　since　Elaine　Connelly　died。　Need　I　tell　you？　
I　look　back　over　these　pages；　leafing　through　them　with　my　trembling；　spotted　hands；　and　I　wonder　if　there　is　some　meaning　here；　as　in　those　books　which　are　supposed　to　be　uplifting　and　ennobling。　I　think　back　to　the　sermons　of　my　childhood；　booming　affirmations　in　the　church　of　Praise　Jesus；　The　Lord　Is　Mighty；　and　I　recall　how　the　preachers　used　to　say　that　God's　eye　is　on　the　sparrow；　that　He　sees　and　marks　even　the　least　of　His　creations。　When　I　think　of　Mr。　Jingles；　and　the　tiny　scraps　of　wood　we　found　in　that　hole　in　the　beam；　I　think　that　is　so。　Yet　this　same　God　sacrificed　John　Coffey；　who　tried　only　to　do　good　in　his　blind　way；　as　savagely　as　any　Old　Testament　prophet　ever　sacrificed　a　defenseless　Iamb　。。。　as　Abraham　would　have　sacrificed　his　own　son　if　actually　called　upon　to　do　so。　I　think　of　John　saying　that　Wharton　killed　the　Detterick　twins　with　their　love　for　each　other；　and　that　it　happens　every　day；　all　over　the　world。　If　it　happens；　God　lets　it　happen；　and　when　we　say　〃I　don't　understand；〃　God　replies；　〃I　don't　care。〃　
I　think　of　Mr。　Jingles　dying　while　my　back　was　turned　and　my　attention　usurped　by　an　unkind　man　whose　finest　emotion　seemed　to　be　a　species　of　vindictive　curiosity。　I　think　of　Janice；　jittering　away　her　last　mindless　seconds　as　I　knelt　with　her　in　the　rain。　
Stop　it；　I　tried　to　tell　John　that　day　in　his　cell。　Let　go　of　my　hands；　I'm　going　to　drown　if　you　don't。　Drown　or　explode。　
〃You　won't　'splode；〃　he　answered；　hearing　my　thought　and　smiling　at　the　idea。　And　the　horrible　thing　is　that　I　didn't。　I　haven't。　
I　have　at　least　one　old　man's　ill：　I　suffer　from　insomnia。　Late　at　night　I　lie　in　my　bed；　listening　to　the　dank　and　hopeless　sound　of　infirm　men　and　women　coughing　their　courses　deeper　into　old　age。　Sometimes　I　hear　a　call…bell；　or　the　squeak　of　a　shoe　in　the　corridor；　or　Mrs。　Javits's　little　TV　tuned　to　the　late　news。　I　lie　here；　and　if　the　moon　is　in　my　window；　I　watch　it。　I　lie　here　and　think　about　Brutal；　and　Dean；　and　sometimes　William　Wharton　saying　That's　right；　nigger；　bad　as　you'd　want。　I　think　of　Delacroix　saying　Watch　this　Boss　Edgebe；　I　teach　Mr。　Jingles　a　new　trick。　I　think　of　Elaine；　standing　in　the　door　of　the　sunroom　and　telling　Brad　Dolan　to　leave　me　alone。　Sometimes　I　doze　and　see　that　underpass　in　the　rain；　with　John　Coffey　standing　beneath　it　in　the　shadows。　It's　never　just　a　trick　of　the　eye；　in　these　little　dreams；　it's　always　him　for　sure；　my　big　boy；　just　standing　there　and　watching。　I　he　here　and　wait。　I　think　about　Janice；　how　I　lost　her；　how　she　ran　away　red　through　my　fingers　in　the　rain；　and　I　wait。　We　each　owe　a　death；　there　are　no　exceptions；　I　know　that；　but　sometimes；　oh　God；　the　Green　Mile　is　so　long。　
Author's　Afterword　
I　don't　think　I'd　want　to　do　another　serial　novel　（if　only　because　the　critics　get　to　kick　your　ass　six　times　instead　of　just　the　once）；　but　I　wouldn't　have　missed　the　experience　for　the　world。　As　I　write　this　afterword　on　the　day　before　Part　2　of　The　Green　Mile　is　to　be　published；　the　serialization　experiment　is　looking　like　a　success；　at　least　in　terms　of　sales。　For　that；　Constant　Reader；　I　want　to　thank　you。　And　something　a　bit　different　wakes　us　all　up　a　little；　maybe　…　lets　us　see　the　old　business　of　storytelling　in　a　new　way。　That's　how　it　worked　for　me；　anyway。　
I　wrote　in　a　hurry　because　the　format　demanded　that　I　write　in　a　hurry。　That　was　part　of　the　exhilaration；　but　it　also　may　have　produced　a　number　of　anachronisms。　The　guards　and　prisoners　listen　to　Allen's　Alley　on　their　E　Block　radio；　and　I　doubt　if　Fred　Allen　was　actually　broadcasting　in　1932。　The　same　may　hold　true　for　Kay　Kyser　and　his　Kollege　of　Musical　Knowledge。　This　isn't　to　let　me　off　the　hook；　but　it　sometimes　seems　to　me　that　history　which　has　recently　fallen　over　the　horizon　is　harder　to　research　than　the　Middle　Ages　or　the　time　of　the　Crusades。　I　was　able　to　determine　that　Brutal　might　indeed　have　called　the　mouse　on　the　Mile　Steamboat　Willy　…　the　Disney　cartoon　had　been　in　existence　almost　four　years　by　then　…　but　I　have　a　sneaking　suspicion　that　the　little　pornographic　ic　book　featuring　Popeye　and　Olive　Oyl　is　an　artifact　out　of　time。　I　might　clean　up　some　of　this　stuff　when　and　if　I　decide　to　do　The　Green　Mile　as　a　single　volume　。。。　but　maybe　I'll　leave　the　goofs。　After　all；　doesn't　the　great　Shakespeare　himself　include　in　Julius　Caesar　the　anachronism　of　a　striking　clock　long　before　mechanical　clocks　were　invented？　
Doing　The　Green　Mile　as　a　single　volume　would　present　its　own　unique　challenges；　I　have　e　to　realize；　partly　because　the　book　couldn't　be　published　as　it　was　issued　in　its　installments。　Because　I　took　Charles　Dickens　as　my　model；　I　asked　several　people　how　Dickens　had　handled　the　problem　of　refreshing　his　readers；　recollections　at　the　beginning　of　each　new　episode。　I　had　expected　something　like　the　synopses　which　preceded　each　installment　of　my　beloved　Saturday　Evening　Post　serials；　and　discovered　that　Dickens　had　not　been　so　crude；　he　built　the　synopsis　into　the　actual　story。　
While　I　was　trying　to　decide　how　to　do　this；　my　Wife　began　telling　me　（she　doesn't　exactly　nag；　but　sometimes　she　advocates　rather　ruthlessly）　that　I　had　never　really　finished　the　story　of　Mr。　Jingles；　the　circus　mouse。　I　thought　she　was　right；　and　began　to　see　that；　by　making　Mr。　Jingles　a　secret　of　Paul　Edgebe's　in　his　old　age；　I　could　create　a　fairly　interesting　〃front　story。〃（The　result　is　a　little　bit　like　the　form　taken　by　the　film　version　of　Fried　Green　Tomatoes。）　In　fact；　everything　in　Paul's　front　story　…　the　story　of　his　life　at　the　Georgia　Pines　old　folks；　home　…　turned　out　to　my　satisfaction。　I　particularly　liked　the　way　that　Dolan；　the　orderly；　and　Percy　Wetmore　became　entwined　in　Paul's　mind。　And　that　was　not　something　I　planned　or　did　on　purpose；　like　the　happiest　of　fictions；　it　just　ambled　along　and　stepped　into　its　place。　
I　want　to　thank　Ralph　Vicinanza　for　bringing　me　the　…　serial　thriller　…　idea　in　the　first　place；　and　all　my　friends　at　Viking　Penguin　and　Sig　for　getting　behind　it；　even　though　they　were　scared　to　death　at　the　beginning　（all　writers　are　crazy；　and　of　course　they　knew　that）。　I　also　want　to　thank　Marsha　DeFilippo；　who　transcribed　a　whole　stenographer's　notebook　full　of　my　cramped　handwriting　and　never　plained。　Well　。。。　rarely　plained。　
Most　of　all；　though；　I　want　to　thank　my　wife；　Tabitha；　who　read　this　story　and　said　she　liked　it。　Writers　almost　always　write　with　some　ideal　reader　in　mind；　I　think；　and　my　wife　is　mine。　We　don't　always　see　eye　to　eye　when　it　es　to　what　we　each　write　（hell；　we　rarely　see　eye　to　eye　when　we're　shopping　together　in　the　supermarket）；　but　when　she　says　it's　good；　it　usually　is。　Because　she's　tough；　and　if　I　try　to　cheat　or　cut　a　er；　she　always　sees　it。　
And　you；　Constant　Reader。　Thank　you；　as　well；　and　if　you　have　any　ideas　about　The　Green　Mile　as　a　single　volume；　please　let　me　know。　

Stephen　KingApril　28；　1996New　York　City



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　…　手机访问　m。
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