The Shining (The Shining, #1)

by Stephen King

“What you got, son, I call it shinin on, the Bible calls it having visions, and there’s scientists that call it precognition. I’ve read up on it, son. I’ve studied on it. They all mean seeing the future. Do you understand that?”

Nobody shines on all the time, except maybe for God up in heaven.”

He could have done his researches quietly, mailing off polite letters, perhaps even arranging some interviews in the spring…and then laughed up his sleeve at Ullman’s rage when the book came out and he was safely away—The Masked Author Strikes Again. Instead he had made that damned senseless call, lost his temper, antagonized Ullman, and brought out all of the hotel manager’s little Caesar tendencies. Why? If it wasn’t an effort to get himself thrown out of the good job Al had snagged for him, then what was it?

Stephen King eventually did write that quiet-research story

The two-way CB radio lay at his feet in a sprinkling of broken glass.

Cut off from the world like the Orca after Quint destroyed the radio

At the far end of the concrete ring, Danny heard the stealthy crackle of dead leaves as something came for him on its hands and knees. At any moment he would feel its cold hand close over his ankle— That thought broke his paralysis. He was digging at the loose fall of snow that choked the end of the concrete ring, throwing it back between his legs in powdery bursts like a dog digging for a bone. Blue light filtered down from above

"Then a grip stronger and colder than iron seized him. The icy touch froze his bones, and he remembered no more. When he came to himself again, for a moment he could recall nothing except a sense of dread. Then suddenly he knew that he was imprisoned, caught hopelessly; he was in a barrow. ... He heard behind his head a creaking and scraping sound. Raising himself on one arm he looked, and saw now in the pale light that they were in a kind of passage which behind them turned a corner. Round the corner a long arm was groping, walking on its fingers ..." (JRR Tolkien, "The Fellowship of the Ring")

She smiled back at him, ten years dropping silently from her face as she did so.

“Yes, they promise,” Danny said, “but they lie.”

Then the mallet began to rise and descend, destroying the last of Jack Torrance’s image. The thing in the hall danced an eerie, shuffling polka, the beat counterpointed by the hideous sound of the mallet head striking again and again. Blood splattered across the wallpaper. Shards of bone leaped into the air like broken piano keys. It was impossible to say just how long it went on. But when it turned its attention back to Danny, his father was gone forever. What remained of the face became a strange, shifting composite, many faces mixed imperfectly into one.

Is this Jack killing himself or the Hotel killing Jack?

emptiness, notness, crumbling.