Сияние

Up On the Roof

           ForthefirsttimetherewassomethingwrongthatallofDaddy’smoneycouldnotfix.Youcouldn’tbribeaspeechcenter.Youcouldn’tofferatongueanextrafiftyaweekandabonusatChristmasifitwouldagreetostopflappinglikearecordneedleinadefectivegroove.Thentheexultationwassimplyburiedinshame,andhefeltthewayhehadafterhehadbrokenDanny’sarm.

           DearGod,Iamnotasonofabitch.Please.

           ThatsickhappinessatGeorge’sretreatwasmoretypicalofDenkerintheplaythanofJackTorrancetheplaywright.

           Youhatemebecauseyouknow…

           Becauseheknewwhat?

           WhatcouldhepossiblyknowaboutGeorgeHatfieldthatwouldmakehimhatehim?Thathiswholefuturelayaheadofhim?ThathelookedalittlebitlikeRobertRedfordandallconversationamongthegirlsstoppedwhenhedidadoublegainerfromthepooldivingboard?Thatheplayedsoccerandbaseballwithanatural,unlearnedgrace?

           Ridiculous.Absolutelyabsurd.HeenviedGeorgeHatfieldnothing.Ifthetruthwasknown,hefeltworseaboutGeorge’sunfortunatestutterthanGeorgehimself,becauseGeorgereallywouldhavemadeanexcellentdebater.AndifJackhadsetthetimerahead-andofcoursehehadn’t-itwouldhavebeenbecausebothheandtheothermembersofthesquadwereembarrassedforGeorge’sstruggle,theyhadagonizedoveritthewayyouagonizewhentheClassNightspeakerforgetssomeofhislines.

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