Bag of Bones   ::   Кинг Стивен

Yet the writer who had bound us closest together was no college-friendly poet or essayist but W. Somerset Maugham, that elderly globetrotting novelist-playwright with the reptile’s face (always obscured by cigarette smoke in his photographs, it seems) and the romantic’s heart.

So it did not surprise me much to find that the book under the bed was The &loon and Sixpence. I had read it myself as a late teenager, not once but twice, identifying passionately with the character of Charles Strickland. (It was writing I wanted to do in the South Seas, of course, not painting.)

She had been using a playing card from some defunct deck as her place-marker, and as I opened the book, I thought of something she had said when I was first getting to know her. In Twentieth-Century British Lit, this had been, probably in 1980. Johanna Arlen had been a fiery little sophomore. I was a senior, picking up the Twentieth-Century Brits simply because I had time on my hands that last semester. “Sk hundred years from now,” she had said, “the shame of the mid-twentieth-century literary critics will be that they embraced Lawrence and ignored Maugham.” This was greeted with contemptuously good-natured laughter (they all knew Women in Love was one of the greatest damn books ever written), but I didn’t laugh. I fell in love.

The playing card marked pages 102 and 103—Dirk Stroeve has just discovered that his wife has left him for Strickland, Maugham’s version of Paul Gauguin. The narrator tries to buck Stroeve up. My dearj3llow, don’t be unhappy. She’ll come back…

“Easy for you to say,” I murmured to the room which now belonged just to me.

I turned the page and read this: Strickland’s injurious calm robbed Stroeve of his self-control Blind rage seized him, and without knowing what he was doing he flung himself on Strickland. Strickland was taken by surprise and he staggered, but he was very strong, even after his illness, and in a moment, he did not exactly know how, Stroeve Jund himself on the floor.

“tau funny little man,” said Strickland.

It occurred to me that Jo was never going to turn the page and hear Strickland call the pathetic Stroeve a funny little man. In a moment of brilliant epiphany I have never forgotten—how could I? it was one of the worst moments of my life—I understood it wasn’t a mistake that would be rectified, or a dream from which I would awaken. Johanna was dead.

My strength was robbed by grief. If the bed hadn’t been there, I would have fallen to the floor.