（外文电子版资料）BlindWillie.pdfVIP

S t e p h e n KING BLIND WILLE (As published in the Anteaus: The Final Issue 1994) 6:15 A.M. He wakes to music, always to music; the shrill beep-beep-beep of the clock-radios alarm is too much for his mind to cope with during those first blurry moments of the day. It sounds like a dump truck backing up. The radio is bad enough at this time of year, though; the easy-listening station he keeps the clock-radio tuned to is wall-to-wall Christmas carols, and this morning he wakes up to one of the two or three on his Most Hated List, something full of breathy voices and phony wonder. The Hare Krishna Chorale or the Andy Williams Singers or some such. Do you hear what I hear, the breathy voices sing as he sits up in bed, blinking groggily, hair sticking out in every direction. Do you see what I see, they sing as he swings his legs out, grimaces his way across the cold floor to the radio, and bangs the button that turns it off. When he turns around, Sharon has assumed her customary defensive posture — pillow folded over her head, nothing showing but he creamy curve of one shoulder, a lacy nightgown strap, and a fluff of blonde hair. He goes into the bathroom, closes the door, slips off the pajama bottoms he sleeps in, drops them into the hamper, clicks on his electric razor. As he runs it over his face he thinks, Why not run through the rest of the sensory catalogue while youre at it, boys? Do you smell what I smell, do you taste what I taste, do you feel what I feel. I mean, hey, go for it. Humbug, he says as he turns on the shower. All humbug. Twenty