Stephen King: The Gunslinger (Pistolarul)

by Amalia Istrate D, iulie 15 2012 16:47

The World has moved on. Bad times are on horseback.


      Romanul The Gunslinger, de Stephen King, este primul dintr-o serie de șapte volume in care timpul (și timpurile), precum și universurile se întrepătrund într-o manieră halucinantă. Genul westwern se combină cu S.F.-ul și, din acest melanj, iese un produs alert și profund, în stilul inconfundabil al lui King. Conținutul ideatic al cărții se poate sintetiza astfel: cunoașterea, civilizația, miracolul/ misterul descoperirii a tot ceea ce este ascuns ne duce finalmente la autodistrugere (apropo de Teoria Cunoașterii a lui Lucian Blaga). Mărimea este cea care contează și face diferența, fie că ești o furnică în fața unui grăunte de nisip, fie că ești un om față în față cu universul.

      Roland, personajul principal al carții, la început face ceea ce trebuie, respectă regulile, oricât de dificil ar fi acest lucru, și trăiește așa cum ne-am dori cu toții. El este ultimul dintr-un șir lung de pistolari (și, se pare, cel mai înzestrat) și magicieni, fiind destinat să ia locul tatălui său, conducătorul cetății. Însă, tatăl este atras într-un complot și asasinat. Ucigașul este amantul mamei lui Roland și soția regelui mort (trimiterea la Hamlet este evidentă și ostentativă).

      Eroul, obsedat de gasirea Turnului Întunecat, pleacă într-o călătorie menită să-i aducă răspunsurile pe care le caută și să-i releve adevărul despre sine, despre mersul lucrurilor și al universului.


I don't like people, they fuck me up.

The desert was the apotheosis of all deserts, huge, standing to the sky for what looked like eternity in all directions. It was white and blinding and waterless and without feature save for the faint, cloudy haze of the mountains which sketched themselves on the horizon and the devil-grass which brought sweet dreams, nightmares, death. An occasional tombstone sign pointed the way, for once the drifted track that cut its way through the thick crust of alkali had been a highway. Coaches and buckas had followed it. The world had moved on since then. The world had emptied.

Hollow grandeur in place of true passions which might once have built kingdoms and sustained them.

The Tower. Somewhere ahead, it waited for him — the nexus of Time, the nexus of Size.

Let the word and the legend go before you. There are those who will carry both.” His eyes flicked over the gunslinger’s shoulder. “Fools, perchance. Let the world go before you. Let your shadow grow. Let it grow hair on its face. Let it become dark.” He smiled grotesquely. “Given time, words may even enchant an enchanter. Do you take my meaning, gunslinger?”

The universe (he said) is the Great All, and offers a paradox too great for the finite mind to grasp. As the living brain cannot conceive of a non-living brain — although it may think it can — the finite mind cannot grasp the infinite.
The prosaic fact of the universe's existence alone defeats both the pragmatist and the romantic. There was a time, yet a hundred generations before the world moved on, when mankind had achieved enough technical and scientific prowess to chip a few splinters from the great stone pillar of reality. Even so, the false light of science (knowledge, if you like) shone in only a few developed countries. One company (or cabal) led the way in this regard: North Central Positronics, it called itself. Yet, despite a tremendous increase in available facts, there were remarkably few insights.

Perhaps you saw what place our universe plays in the scheme of things — as no more than an atom in a blade of grass. Could it be that everything we can perceive, from the microscopic virus to the distant Horsehead Nebula, is contained in one blade of grass that may have existed for only a single season in an alien time-flow? What if that blade should be cut off by a scythe? When it begins to die, would the rot seep into our universe and our own lives, turning everthing yellow and brown and desiccated? Perhaps it's already begun to happen. We say the world has moved on; maybe we really mean that it has begun to dry up.
"Think how small such a concept of things make us, gunslinger! If a God watches over it all, does He actually mete out justice for such a race of gnats? Does His eye see the sparrow fall when the sparrow is less than a speck of hydrogen floating disconnected in the depth of space? And if He does see... what must the nature of such a God be? Where does He live? How is it possible to live beyond infinity?

Suppose that all worlds, all universes, met at a single nexus, a single pylon, a Tower. And within it, a stairway, perhaps rising to the Godhead itself. Would you dare climb to the top, gunslinger? Could it be that somewhere above all of endless reality, there exists a room?...
"You dare not."
And in the gunslinger's mind, those words echoed: You dare not.