Введение в алкоголизм by Stephen King

"I got drunk for the first time in 1966. This was on the senior class trip to Washington. We went on a bus, about forty kids and three chaperones (one of them was Old Cue-Ball, as a matter of fact), and spent the first night in New York, where the drinking age was then eighteen. Thanks to my bad ears and shitty tonsils, I was almost nineteen. Room to spare. A bunch of us more adventurous boys found a package store around the corner from the hotel. I cast an eye over the shelves, aware that my spending money was far from a fortune. There was too much—too many bottles, too many brands, too many prices over ten dollars. Finally I gave up and asked the guy behind the counter (the same bald, boredlooking, gray-coated guy who has, I’m convinced, sold alcohol virgins their first bottle since the dawn of commerce) what was cheap. Without a word, he put a pint of Old Log Cabin whiskey down on the Winston mat beside the cash register. The sticker on the label said $1.95. The price was right. I have a memory of being led onto the elevator later that night—or maybe it was early the next morning—by Peter Higgins (Old Cue-Ball’s son), Butch Michaud, Lenny Partridge, and John Chizmar. This memory is more like a scene from a TV show than a real memory. I seem to be outside of myself, watching the whole thing. There’s just enough of me left inside to know that I am globally, perhaps even galactically, fucked up.The camera watches as we go up to the girls’ floor. The camera watches as I am propelled up and down the hall, a kind of rolling exhibit. An amusing one, it seems. The girls are in nighties, robes, curlers, cold cream. They are all laughing at me, but their laughter seems good-natured enough. The sound is muted, as if I am hearing them through cotton.

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                                                                             (Stephen King - On Writing. A Memoir Of The Craft, 2000)

"Алкоголизм" by Stephen King (часть 2)

  Yet the part of me that writes the stories, the deep part that knew I was an alcoholic as early as 1975, when I wrote The Shining, wouldn’t accept that. Silence isn’t what that part is about. It began to scream for help in the only way it knew how, through my fiction and through my monsters. In late 1985 and early 1986 I wrote Misery (the title quite aptly described my state of mind), in which a writer is held prisoner and tortured by a psychotic nurse. In the spring and summer of 1986 I wrote The Tommyknockers, often working until midnight with my heart running at a hundred and thirty beats a minute and cotton swabs stuck up my nose to stem the coke-induced bleeding. Tommyknockers is a forties-style science fiction tale in which the writer-heroine discovers an alien spacecraft buried in the ground. The crew is still on board, not dead but only hibernating. These alien creatures got into your head and just started . . . well, tommyknocking around in there. What you got was energy and a kind of superficial intelligence (the writer, Bobbi Anderson, creates a telepathic typewriter and an atomic hot-water heater, among other things). What you gave up in exchange was your soul. It was the best metaphor for drugs and alcohol my tired, overstressed mind could come up with. 

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"Misery" novel by Stephen King

Удивительно, даже и в самых отдаленных мыслях не было у меня сравнивать ассоциативно этот роман с алкогольно-наркоманской зависимостью... Вот же ведь, насколько все в этом мире может быть сведено к простым и очевиднейшим вещам...

Зарплата ДО

Не понимаю, отчего сейчас уже длительное время настолько проталкивается "требуются" тема с зарплатными ожиданиями "ДО"??? По-моему, это совершенно не стимулятивно и глупо - какой смысл браться изо-всех-сил за работу, если ты уже знаешь ожидаемый "потолок"... ведь именно неопределенность и надежда - есть двигательный стимулятивный механизм при смене и навешивании себя на новое рабство.

жизнь вызывает сильную зависимость, не начинайте жить

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