on red…hot darning needles？ Could you be expected to live in the love of your
nearest and dearest when the brown； furious cloud rose out of the hole in the
fabric of things （the fabric you thought was so innocent） and arrowed straight
at you？ Could you be held responsible for your own actions as you ran crazily
about on the sloping roof seventy feet above the ground； not knowing where you
were going； not remembering that your panicky； stumbling feet could lead you
crashing and blundering right over the rain gutter and down to your death on the
concrete seventy feet below？ Jack didn't think you could。 When you unwittingly
stuck your hand into the wasps' nest； you hadn't made a covenant with the devil
to give up your civilized self with its trappings of love and respect and honor。
It just happened to you。 Passively； with no say； you ceased to be a creature of
the mind and became a creature of the nerve endings； from college…educated man
to wailing ape in five easy seconds。
He thought about George Hatfield。
Tall and shaggily blond； George had been an almost insolently beautiful boy。
In his tight faded jeans and Stovington sweatshirt with the sleeves carelessly
pushed up to the elbows to disclose his tanned forearms； he had reminded Jack of
a young Robert Redford； and he doubted that George had much trouble scoring — no
more than that young footballplaying devil Jack Torrance had ten years earlier。
He could say that he honestly didn't feel jealous of George； or envy him his
good looks； in fact； he had almost unconsciously begun to visualize George as
the physical incarnation of his play hero； Gary Benson — the perfect foi