JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 31 из 425”
“Oh what a rotten shame for them!” Harold sounded as if he were maybe jacking off and had reached thepoint where Old Faithful splurts and everybody snaps their Instamatics. “How much do you think—”
“A surcharge tacked on to the advance is probably the way to go,” he said. “They’ll get pouty of course, claim that the move is in your interest, too. Primarily in your interest, even. But based on the extra-work ’” argument… the midnight oil you’ll have to burn…”
“The mental agony of creation… the pangs of premature birth…”
“Right… right… I think a ten percent surcharge sounds about right.” lie spoke judiciously, like a man trying to be just as damned fair as he possibly could. Myself, I was wondering how many women would induce birth a month or so early if they got paid two or three hundred grand extra for doing so. Probably some questions are best left unanswered. And in my case, what difference did it make? The goddam thing was written, wasn’t it?
“Well, see if you can make the deal,” I said. “Yes, but I don’t think we want to be talking about just a single book here, okay? I think—”
“Harold, what I want right now is to eat some lunch.”
“You sound a little tense, Michael. Is everything—”
“Everything is fine. Talk to them about just one book, with a sweetener for speeding up production at my end. Okay?”,"Okay,” he said after one of his most significant pauses. “But I hope this doesn’t mean that you won’t entertain a three- or four-book contract later on. Make hay while the sun shines, remember. It’s the motto Of champions.”, Cross each bridge when you come to it is the motto of champions,” I. laid, and that night I dreamt I went to Sara Laughs again.
In that dream—in all the dreams I had that fall and winter—I am walking up the lane to the lodge. The lane is a two-mile loop through the woods with ends opening onto Route 68. It has a number at either end (Lane Forty-two, if it matters) in case you have to call in a fire, but no name. Nor did Jo and I ever give it one, not even between ourselves.
It is narrow, really just a double rut with timothy and witchgrass growing on the crown. When you drive in, you can hear that grass whispering like low voices against the undercarriage of your car or truck.
I don’t drive in the dream, though. I never drive. In these dreams I walk. The trees huddle in close on either side of the lane. The darkening sky overhead is little more than a slot. Soon I will be able to see the first peeping stars. Sunset is past. Crickets chirr. Loons cry on the lake.
“Oh what a rotten shame for them!” Harold sounded as if he were maybe jacking off and had reached thepoint where Old Faithful splurts and everybody snaps their Instamatics. “How much do you think—”
“A surcharge tacked on to the advance is probably the way to go,” he said. “They’ll get pouty of course, claim that the move is in your interest, too. Primarily in your interest, even. But based on the extra-work ’” argument… the midnight oil you’ll have to burn…”
“The mental agony of creation… the pangs of premature birth…”
“Right… right… I think a ten percent surcharge sounds about right.” lie spoke judiciously, like a man trying to be just as damned fair as he possibly could. Myself, I was wondering how many women would induce birth a month or so early if they got paid two or three hundred grand extra for doing so. Probably some questions are best left unanswered. And in my case, what difference did it make? The goddam thing was written, wasn’t it?
“Well, see if you can make the deal,” I said. “Yes, but I don’t think we want to be talking about just a single book here, okay? I think—”
“Harold, what I want right now is to eat some lunch.”
“You sound a little tense, Michael. Is everything—”
“Everything is fine. Talk to them about just one book, with a sweetener for speeding up production at my end. Okay?”,"Okay,” he said after one of his most significant pauses. “But I hope this doesn’t mean that you won’t entertain a three- or four-book contract later on. Make hay while the sun shines, remember. It’s the motto Of champions.”, Cross each bridge when you come to it is the motto of champions,” I. laid, and that night I dreamt I went to Sara Laughs again.
In that dream—in all the dreams I had that fall and winter—I am walking up the lane to the lodge. The lane is a two-mile loop through the woods with ends opening onto Route 68. It has a number at either end (Lane Forty-two, if it matters) in case you have to call in a fire, but no name. Nor did Jo and I ever give it one, not even between ourselves.
It is narrow, really just a double rut with timothy and witchgrass growing on the crown. When you drive in, you can hear that grass whispering like low voices against the undercarriage of your car or truck.
I don’t drive in the dream, though. I never drive. In these dreams I walk. The trees huddle in close on either side of the lane. The darkening sky overhead is little more than a slot. Soon I will be able to see the first peeping stars. Sunset is past. Crickets chirr. Loons cry on the lake.