t of here； he was going to need his strength。 All of it。
At this precise instant； he thought he had never felt quite so miserable in
his entire life。 His mind and body together made up a large…writ scripture of
pain。 His head ached terribly； the sick throb of a hangover。 The attendant
symptoms were there； too： his mouth tasted like a manure rake had taken a swing
through it； his ears rung； his heart had an extra…heavy； thudding beat； like a
tom…tom。 In addition； both shoulders ached fiercely from throwing himself
against the door and his throat felt raw and peeled from useless shouting。 He
had cut his right hand on the doorlatch。
And when he got out of here； he was going to kick some ass。
He munched the Triscuits one by one； refusing to give in to his wretched
stomach； which wanted to vomit up everything。 He thought of the Excedrins in his
pocket and decided to wait until his stomach had quieted a bit。 No sense
swallowing a painkiller if you were going to throw it right back up。 Have to use
your brain。 The celebrated Jack Torrance brain。 Aren't you the fellow who once
was going to live by his wits？ Jack Torrance； best…selling author。 Jack
Torrance； acclaimed playwright and winner of the New York Critics Circle Award。
John Torrance； man of letters； esteemed thinker； winner of the Pulitzer Prize at
seventy for his trenchant book of memoirs； My Life in the Twentieth Century。 All
any of that shit boiled down to was living by your wits。
Living by your wits is always knowing where the wasps are。
He put another Triscuit into his mouth and crunched it up。
What it really came down to； he supposed； was their lack of trust in him