カテゴリー「「ジンジャーブレッド・ガール」」の5件の投稿

2011/01/06

「Android 3.0」のプロモーションに「FULL DARK, NO STARS」が!?

「Android 3.0」のプロモーションにキングが!?
AppleiPadのプロモーションにスティーヴン・キングの「Under the Dome」電子書籍版が使用されていることについては、以前のエントリー『スティーブ・ジョブズがキングの「Under the Dome」を!?』で紹介したが、今度は、GoogleのタブレットOS「Android 3.0」のプロモーションにスティーヴン・キングの「FULL DARK, NO STARS」の電子書籍版が使用されている。

このビデオの 0:43 あたりを注目していただきたい。
キングの「FULL DARK, NO STARS」の表紙が確認できる。

AppleとGoogleの両方のプロモーションにキングの作品が登場するとは、驚くべき事ですね。

因みにこの「Android 3.0」の開発コードは「Gingerbread」だったようですが、何か聞いたことありませんか?

「ジンジャーブレッド・ガール」「夕暮れをすぎて」に収録されています。

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2009/09/29

"key"をめぐる冒険(「夕暮れをすぎて」と「悪霊の島」)

みなさん、いかがでしょうか、「夕暮れをすぎて」「悪霊の島」はゲットしましたか?

今日は「悪霊の島」の原題"Duma key"の"key"に関する余談。

スティーヴン・キングの長編"Duma key"が出版される話を聞いて思ったのは"Duma key"って一体全体何のことかな、と言うこと。

そうこうしている内に、"Duma key"はどうやら地名のことだとわかってくるのだが、その時点でも"key"って何の事やら、見当がつかなかった。

で、「夕暮れをすぎて」が出版され、同書に収録されている「ジンジャーブレッド・ガール」(池田真紀子訳)にヴァーミリオン・キーと言う島が登場してくるのを読んで、「キー」って、もしかしたら「キー・ラーゴ」とか「キーウェスト」の「キー」かよ、とわたしの灰色の脳細胞と記憶倉庫がコネクトする訳である。

ついでなので、"key"を調べてみると、"key"には、「砂州」とか「珊瑚礁」の意味があると言う事を知るわたしでした。

ついでに考えてみるとキングの作品には、本土と物理的に途絶する島や半島を舞台にした作品が結構多いことに思いいたったりする訳です。

因みに、「ジンジャーブレッド・ガール」に登場するヴァーミリオン・キーのヴァーミリオン("vermilion")とは朱色のことなんですけど、色繋がりで考えるとクリムゾン・キングのクリムゾン("crimson")は深紅のことですね。

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2008/04/19

オーディオ・ブック版"The Gingerbread Girl"発売間近!

The Gingerbread Girl 2008/05/06にオーディオ・ブック化されるスティーヴン・キングの短編"The Gingerbread Girl"の紹介ページがキングのオフィシャル・サイト内にオープンした。

"The Gingerbread Girl"
By Stephen King
Read by Mare Winningham

因みに、上記のURLでは、サンプルを楽しむ事ができる。

なお、同作は2007/06/15に発売された米エスクァイア・マガジン7月号に掲載された短編小説。

朗読を担当しているのはメア・ウィニンガム。

彼女は、「セント・エルモス・ファイアー」(1985)でブレイクしたブラッド・パック女優の1人で、1995年には「ジョージア」でアカデミー賞助演女優賞にノミネートされている。

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2007/07/21

"The Gingerbread Girl"の一部が公開されてました。

Esquire20077_5 2007/06/15に発売された米エスクァイア・マガジン7月号に掲載されているスティーヴン・キングの新作"The Gingerbread Girl"の一部がWEB上で公開されていました。

The Gingerbread Girl: An Excerpt

After the baby died, Emily took up running. At first it was just down to the end of the driveway, where she would stand bent over with her hands clutching her legs just above the knees, then to the end of the block, then all the way to Kozy's Qwik-Pik at the bottom of the hill. There she would pick up bread or margarine, maybe a Ho Ho or a Ring Ding if she could think of nothing else. At first she only walked back, but later she ran that way, too. Eventually she gave up the snack foods. It was surprisingly hard to do. She hadn't realized that sugar eased grief. Or maybe the snacks had become a fetish. Either way, in the end the Ho Hos had to go go. And did. Running was enough. Henry called the running a fetish, and she supposed he was right.

"What does Dr. Steiner say about it?" he asked.

"Dr. Steiner says run your ass off, get those endorphins going." She hadn't mentioned the running to Susan Steiner, hadn't even seen her since Amy's funeral. "She says she'll put it on a prescription pad, if you want."

Emily had always been able to bluff Henry. Even after Amy died. We can have another one, she had said, sitting beside him on the bed as he lay there with his ankles crossed and tears streaming down the sides of his face.

It eased him and that was good, but there was never going to be another baby, with the attendant risk of finding said infant gray and still in its crib. Never again the fruitless CPR, or the screaming 911 call with the operator saying Lower your voice, ma'am, I can't understand you. But Henry didn't need to know that, and she was willing to comfort him, at least at the start. She believed that comfort, not bread, was the staff of life. Maybe eventually she would be able to find some for herself. In the meantime, she had produced a defective baby. That was the point. She would not risk another.

Then she started getting headaches. Real blinders. So she did go to a doctor, but it was Dr. Mendez, their general practitioner, not Susan Steiner. Mendez gave her a prescription for some stuff called Zomig. She took the bus to the family practice where Mendez hung out, then ran to the drugstore to get the scrip filled. After that she jogged home -- it was two miles -- and by the time she got there, she had what felt like a steel fork planted high up in her side, between the top of her ribs and her armpit. She didn't let it concern her. That was pain that would go away. Besides, she was exhausted and felt as if she could sleep for a while.

She did -- all afternoon. On the same bed where Amy had been made and Henry had cried. When she woke up, she could see ghostly circles floating in the air, a sure sign that she was getting one of what she liked to call Em's Famous Headaches. She took one of her new pills, and to her surprise -- almost shock -- the headache turned tail and slunk away. First to the back of her head, then gone. She thought there ought to be a pill like that for the death of a child.

She thought she needed to explore the limits of her endurance, and she suspected the exploration would be a long one. There was a JuCo with a cinder track not too far from the house. She began to drive over there in the early mornings just after Henry left for work. Henry didn't understand the running. Jogging, sure -- lots of women jogged. Keep those extra four pounds off the old fanny, keep those extra two inches off the old waistline. But Em didn't have an extra four pounds on her backside, and besides, jogging was no longer enough. She had to run, and fast. Only fast running would do.

She parked at the track and ran until she could run no more, until her sleeveless FSU sweatshirt was dark with sweat down the front and back and she was shambling and sometimes puking with exhaustion.

Henry found out. Someone saw her there, running all by herself at eight in the morning, and told him. They had a discussion about it. The discussion escalated into a marriage-ending argument.

"It's a hobby," she said.

"Jodi Anderson said you ran until you fell down. She was afraid you'd had a heart attack. That's not a hobby, Em. Not even a fetish. It's an obsession."

And he looked at her reproachfully. It would be a little while yet before she picked up the book and threw it at him, but that was what really tore it. That reproachful look. She could no longer stand it. Given his rather long face, it was like having a sheep in the house. I married a Dorset gray, she thought, and now it's just baa-baa-baa, all day long.

But she tried one more time to be reasonable about something she knew in her heart had no reasonable core. There was magical thinking; there was also magical doing. Running, for instance.

"Marathoners run until they fall down," she said.

"Are you planning to run in a marathon?"

"Maybe." But she looked away. Out the window, at the driveway. The driveway called her. The driveway led to the sidewalk, and the sidewalk led to the world.

"No," he said. "You're not going to run in a marathon. You have no plans to run in a marathon."

It occurred to her -- with that sense of brilliant revelation the obvious can bring -- that this was the essence of Henry, the fucking apotheosis of Henry. During the six years of their marriage he had always been perfectly aware of what she was thinking, feeling, planning.

I comforted you, she thought -- not furious yet but beginning to be furious. You lay there on the bed, leaking, and I comforted you.

"The running is a classic psychological response to the pain you feel," he was saying in that same earnest way. "It's called avoidance. But, honey, if you don't feel your pain, you'll never be able to -- "

That's when she grabbed the object nearest at hand, which happened to be a paperback copy of The Memory Keeper's Daughter. This was a book she had tried and rejected, but Henry had picked it up and was now about three quarters of the way through, judging from the bookmark. He even has the reading tastes of a Dorset gray, she thought, and hucked it at him. It struck him on the shoulder. He stared at her with wide, shocked eyes, then grabbed at her. Probably just to hug her, but who knew? Who really knew anything?

If he had grabbed a moment earlier, he might have caught her by the arm or the wrist or maybe just the back of her T-shirt. But that moment of shock undid him. He missed, and she was running, slowing only to snatch her fanny pack off the table by the front door. Down the driveway, to the sidewalk. Then down the hill, where she had briefly pushed a pram with other mothers who now shunned her. This time she had no intention of stopping or even slowing. Dressed only in shorts, sneakers, and a T-shirt reading SAVE THE CHEERLEADER, Emily ran out into the world. She put her fanny pack around her waist and snapped the catch as she pelted down the hill. And the feeling?

Exhilaration. Pure pow.

She ran downtown (two miles, twenty-two minutes), not even stopping when the light was against her; when that happened, she jogged in place. A couple of boys in a top-down Mustang -- it was just getting to be top-down weather -- passed her at the corner of Main and Eastern. One whistled. Em gave him the finger. He laughed and applauded as the Mustang accelerated down Main.

She didn't have much cash, but she had a pair of credit cards. The American Express was the prize, because with it she could get traveler's checks.

She realized she wasn't going home, not for a while. And when the realization caused a feeling of relief -- maybe even fugitive excitement -- instead of sorrow, she suspected this was not a temporary thing.

She went into the Morris Hotel to use the phone, then decided on the spur of the moment to take a room. Did they have anything for just the one night? They did. She gave the desk clerk her AmEx card.

"It doesn't look like you'll need a bellman," the clerk said, taking in her shorts and T-shirt.

"I left in a hurry."

"I see." Spoken in the tone of voice that said he didn't see at all. She took the key he slid to her and hurried across the wide lobby to the elevators, restraining the urge to run.

You sound like you might be crying.

She wanted to buy some clothes -- a couple of skirts, a couple of shirts, two pairs of jeans, another pair of shorts -- but before shopping she had calls to make: one to Henry and one to her father. Her father was in Tallahassee. She decided she had better call him first. She couldn't recall the number of his office phone in the motor pool but had his cell-phone number memorized. He answered on the first ring. She could hear engines revving in the background.

"Em! How are you?"

That should have been a complex question, but wasn't. "I'm fine, Dad. But I'm in the Morris Hotel. I guess I've left Henry."

"Permanently or just a kind of trial balloon?" He didn't sound surprised -- he took things in stride; she loved that about him -- but the sound of the revving motors first faded, then disappeared. She imagined him going into his office, closing the door, perhaps picking up the picture of her that stood on his cluttered desk.

"Can't say yet. Right now it doesn't look too good."

"What was it about?"

"Running."

"Running?"

She sighed. "Not really. You know how sometimes a thing is about something else? Or a whole bunch of something elses?"

"The baby." Her father had not called her Amy since the crib death. Now it was always just the baby.

"And the way I'm handling it. Which is not the way Henry wants me to. It occurred to me that I'd like to handle things in my own way."

"Henry's a good man," her father said, "but he has a way of seeing things. No doubt."

She waited.

"What can I do?"

She told him. He agreed. She knew he would, but not until he heard her all the way out. The hearing out was the most important part, and Rusty Jackson was good at it. He hadn't risen from one of three mechanics in the motor pool to maybe one of the four most important people at the Tallahassee campus (and she hadn't heard that from him; he'd never say something like that to her or anyone else) by not listening.

"I'll send Mariette in to clean the house," he said.

"Dad, you don't need to do that. I can clean."

"I want to," he said. "A total top-to-bottom is overdue. Damn place has been closed up for almost a year. I don't get down to Vermillion much since your mother died. Seems like I can always find some more to do up here."

Em's mother was no longer Debra to him, either. Since the funeral (ovarian cancer), she was just your mother.

Em almost said, Are you sure you don't mind this? but that was the kind of thing you said when a stranger offered to do you a favor. Or a different kind of father.

"You going there to run?" he asked. She could hear a smile in his voice. "There's plenty of beach to run on, and a good long stretch of road, too. As you well know. And you won't have to elbow people out of your way. Between now and October, Vermillion is as quiet as it ever gets."

"I'm going there to think. And -- I guess -- to finish mourning."

"That's all right, then," he said. "Want me to book your flight?"

"I can do that."

"Sure you can. Emmy, are you okay?"

"Yes," she said.

"You sound like you might be crying."

"A little bit," she said, and wiped her face. "It all happened very fast." Like Amy's death,Leave quietly, don't slam the door, Em's own mother often said when Em was a teenager. she could have added. She had done it like a little lady; never a peep from the baby monitor.

"Henry won't come there to the hotel and bother you, will he?"

She heard a faint, delicate hesitation before he chose bother, and smiled in spite of her tears, which had pretty well run their course, anyway. "If you're asking if he's going to come and beat me up...that's not his style."

"A man sometimes finds a different style when his wife up and leaves him -- just takes off running."

"Not Henry," she said. "He's not a man to cause trouble."

"You sure you don't want to come to Tallahassee first?"

She hesitated. Part of her did, but --

"I need a little time on my own. Before anything else." And she repeated, "All this happened very fast." Although she suspected it had been building for quite some time. It might even have been in the DNA of the marriage.

"All right. Love you, Emmy."

"Love you, too, Dad. Thank you." She swallowed. "So much."

HENRY DIDN'T CAUSE TROUBLE. Henry didn't even ask where she was calling from. Henry said, "Maybe you're not the only one who needs a little time apart. Maybe this is for the best."

She resisted an urge -- it struck her as both normal and absurd -- to thank him. Silence seemed like the best option. What he said next made her glad she'd chosen it.

"Who'd you call for help? The Motor-Pool King?"

This time the urge she resisted was to ask if he'd called his mother yet. Tit for tat never solved anything.

She said -- evenly, she hoped: "I'm going to Vermillion Key. My dad's place there."

"The conch shack." She could almost hear him sniff. Like Ho Hos and Twinkies, houses with only three rooms and no garage were not a part of Henry's belief system.

Em said, "I'll call you when I get there."

A long silence. She imagined him in the kitchen, head leaning against the wall, hand gripping the handset of the phone tight enough to turn his knuckles white, fighting to reject anger. Because of the six mostly good years they'd had together. She hoped he would make it. If that was indeed what was going on.

When he spoke next, he sounded calm but tired out. "Got your credit cards?"

"Yes. And I won't overuse them. But I want my half of -- " She broke off, biting her lip. She had almost called their dead child the baby, and that wasn't right. Maybe it was for her father, but not for her. She started again.

"My half of Amy's college money," she said. "I don't suppose there's much, but -- "

"There's more than you think," he said. He was starting to sound upset again. They had begun the fund not when Amy was born, or even when Em got pregnant, but when they first started trying. Trying had been a four-year process, and by the time Emily finally kindled, they were talking about fertility treatments. Or adoption. "Those investments weren't just good, they were blessed by heaven -- especially the software stocks. Mort got us in at the right time and out at the absolute golden moment. Emmy, you don't want to take the eggs out of that nest."

There he was again, telling her what she wanted to do.

"I'll give you an address as soon as I have one," she said. "Do whatever you want with your half, but make mine a cashier's check."

"Still running," he said, and although that professorial, observational tone made her wish he was here so she could throw another book at him -- a hardcover this time -- she held her silence.

At last he sighed. "Listen, Em, I'm going to clear out of here for a few hours. Come on in and get your clothes or your whatever. And I'll leave some cash for you on the dresser."

For a moment she was tempted; then it occurred to her that leaving money on the dresser was what men did when they went to whores.

"No," she said. "I want to start fresh."

"Em." There was a long pause. She guessed he was struggling with his emotions, and the thought of it caused her own eyes to blur over again. "Is this the end of us, kiddo?"

"I don't know," she said, working to keep her own voice straight. "Too soon to tell."

"If I had to guess," he said, "I'd guess yes. Today proves two things. One is that a healthy woman can run a long way."

"I'll call you," she said.

"The other is that living babies are glue when it comes to marriage. Dead ones are acid."

That hurt more than anything else he might have said, because it reduced Amy to an ugly metaphor. Em couldn't do that. She didn't think she'd ever be able to do that. "I'll call you," she said, and hung up.

上記の"The Gingerbread Girl"の一部は、WEB上の記事なので、そのうち消えてしまうと思われますので、記録のために転載しました。

文字サイズを大きくすると、読めると思います。

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2007/06/06

キングの新作"The Gingerbread Girl"が米エスクァイア・マガジンに掲載

2007/06/15発売の米エスクァイア・マガジン7月号にスティーヴン・キングの新作"The Gingerbread Girl"が掲載される模様。

"The Gingerbread Girl"のシノプシスは次の通り。

In the emotional aftermath of her baby's sudden death, Em starts running. Soon she runs from her husband, to the airport, down to the Florida Gulf and out to the loneliest stretch of Vermillion Key, where her father has offered the use of a conch shack he has kept there for years. Em keeps up her running - barefoot on the beach, sneakers on the road - and sees virtually no one. This is doing her all kinds of good, until one day she makes the mistake of looking into the driveway of a man named Pickering. Pickering also enjoys the privacy of Vermillion Key, but the young women he brings there suffer the consequences...

Emと言えば、どう考えても、「オズの魔法使い」のエムおばさんへの言及だと思われます。
また、Vermillion Key(朱色の鍵)と言うのが、なんだか非常にくさいですね。

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