1922

by Stephen King

I believe that there is another man inside of every man, a stranger, a Conniving Man.

The rage in his eyes was of the raw, pure sort that only adolescents can feel. It is rage that doesn’t count the cost.

And is there Hell, or do we make our own on earth? When I consider the last eight years of my life, I plump for the latter.

Very young men cannot help but put their first loves on pedestals, and should someone come along and spit on the paragon . . . even if it happens to be one’s mother . . .

They say that loving eyes can never see, but that’s a fool’s axiom. Sometimes they see too much.

You might understand that all the joy has gone out of the world for you, that what you did has put all you hoped to gain out of your reach, you might wish you were the one who was dead—but you go on. You realize that you are in a hell of your own making, but you go on nevertheless. Because there is nothing else to do.

She was gentle with Henry, and she cared for him. That made me care for her . . . only that’s too thin, Reader. I loved her, and we both loved Henry. After those Tuesday and Thursday dinners, I’d insist on doing the washing-up and send them out on the porch. Sometimes I heard them murmuring to each other, and would peek out to see them sitting side by side in the wicker chairs, looking out at West Field and holding hands like an old married couple. Other times I spied them kissing, and there was nothing of the old married couple about that at all. There was a sweet urgency to those kisses that belongs only to the very young, and I stole away with my heart aching.

In the end we are all caught in devices of our own making. I believe that. In the end we are all caught.