s
junior and senior years； and he knew perfectly well that he had his own bad
temper to thank 。。。 or to blame。 He had not enjoyed football。 Every game was a
grudge match。
And yet； through it all； he hadn't felt like a son of a bitch。 He hadn't felt
mean。 He had always regarded himself as Jack Torrance； a really nice guy who was
just going to have to learn how to cope with his temper someday before it got
him in trouble。 The same way he was going to have to learn how to cope with his
drinking。 But he had been an emotional alcoholic just as surely as he had been a
physical one the two of them were no doubt tied together somewhere deep inside
him； where you'd just as soon not look。 But it didn't much matter to him if the
root causes were interrelated or separate； sociological or psychological or
physiological。 He had had to deal with the results： the spankings； the beatings
from his old man； the suspensions； with trying to explain the school clothes
torn in playground brawls； and later the hangovers； the slowly dissolving glue
of his marriage； the single bicycle wheel with its bent spokes pointing into the
sky； Danny's broken arm。 And George Hatfield； of course。
He felt that he had unwittingly stuck his hand into The Great Wasps' Nest of
Life。 As an image it stank。 As a cameo of reality； he felt it was serviceable。
He had stuck his hand through some rotted flashing in high summer and that hand
and his whole arm had been consumed in holy； righteous fire； destroying
conscious thought； making the concept of civilized behavior obsolete。 Could you
be expected to behave as a thinking human being when your hand was being impaled