Imagine how many nights he lay awake under the poster on his bedside, thinking about the problem of the sewer, knowing in his heart that this was his only chance?
The blueprint in his hand could only tell him how big and long the pipe was, but it couldn't tell him what would be going to happen inside the pipe — would he be able to crawl all the way through it without suffocating?
Is the rat inside fat and big enough to attack him without fear?
The blueprint wouldn't tell him what was going on at the end of the sewer.Even more comical than Andy's parole would be if Andy got into the sewer and crawled five hundred yards in the dark and stench barely breathing, only to find a thick iron fence at the end, ha, ha, wouldn't it be funny!
He must have envisioned such a situation at one time or another.If he did climb out with great difficulty, would he have a way to change into ordinary clothes and escape from the prison neighborhood without being discovered?
In the end, it is assumed that he climbed out of the tube, escaped from Shawshank before the alarm went off, and arrived at Bucksden to find the rock......
What if there's nothing underneath?
It's not necessarily as dramatic as finally finding the right spot, only to find that a tall apartment has been erected there, or a supermarket parking lot; It may be that some children who like treasure hunting saw this volcanic rock glass, turned it over, saw the safe key, and took the key and the volcanic rock home as souvenirs; Or maybe the November hunter kicked the stone and let the key out, and the squirrel or crow that liked shiny things took it away; Or maybe one spring flood swept away the wall, and the key was lost.All in all, any kind of accident can happen.So whether I'm guessing or not, for a while, Andy didn't dare to act rashly.After all, if you don't bet at all, you can't lose.What else does he have to lose, you ask?
The library is one thing, and the restricted, drug-like quiet life in the prison is another.In addition, he may have lost the opportunity to start again in the future with a new identity.But he succeeded, as I told you earlier.He finally dared to try......
And, oh my God!
The way he succeeded was amazing!
But, you ask, did he really escape?
What happened next?
When he reached the pasture and turned over the stones......
Assuming the stone is still there, what happened?
I can't describe what it was like because I, as an institutionalized person, are still living in prison and are expected to live in prison for several more years.But I can tell you that in the late summer of 1975, in fact, on September 15, I received a postcard from a small town in Texas called McNnery.McNary is located right on the U.S.
-Mexico border.The space on the back of the card was blank, but I knew it at first glance, and I knew in my heart who sent it, as if I knew that everyone would die one day.He crossed the border from McNary.McNary, Texas.Well, that's my story.I couldn't believe it took so much time and so many pages to write this story.When I received the postcard, I began to write down the whole story until January 14, 1976.I used up three pencils and an entire book.I hid my manuscript carefully, but not many people recognized my ghostly handwriting.--------------- chapter 4 (8) of "The Shawshank Redemption", --------------- while writing, it evokes more memories for me.Writing your own story is like sticking a branch into the clear water of a river and stirring up the mud at the bottom of the river.I've heard people say, you're not writing your own story, you're writing Andy's story, you're just a small character in your own story.But you know, it's not, every word in it is actually a portrayal of myself.Andy represents the part of me that they will never be able to lock down, the part that will rejoice when the prison doors finally open for me, and I walk out of the prison gates in a cheap suit and twenty dollars.No matter how old, embarrassed, and scared the rest of me was, I would still be happy in that part.But I think Andy has a lot more than I do in that part, and he knows how to use it better than I do.There are a lot of people here like me, and they all remember Andy.We were all glad he was gone, but also a little sad.Some birds are born with too bright feathers, too sweet and too wild to sing, so you have to let them go, or they will find a way to run away when you open the cage and feed them.You know it's not right to keep them in, so you'll be happy for them, but then the place where you live will still look bleak and empty because they're gone.I'm glad to write this story, and even though it doesn't seem to have an end, the story reminds me of the past (like a tree branch churning up the mud in a river), and I can't help but feel a little sad and old.Thank you for your patience in listening to this story.And, Andy, if you do make it to the south, please look at the stars, feel the sand, play in the water for me when the sun goes down, and feel completely free.い?
I never thought that this story would go on, but I am now sitting at my desk and adding three or four more pages, this time in a new book.I bought this book from the store, I walked into a store on Capitol Street in Portland and bought it.I thought I had finished the story on a gloomy January day in 1976, but now it's May 1977 and I'm sitting in my room at a cheap hotel in Portland, adding a new page to the story.The windows were open, and from time to time there was the noise of the cars outside, which was deafening and quite scary.I kept looking at the window to make sure there was no iron fence on it.I often don't sleep well at night because the bed is still too big and too luxurious for me despite the cheap rent.I woke up at half past six every morning, dazed and scared.I often have nightmares where the feeling of regaining my freedom is like a sudden drop in free fall, which is both scary and exciting.What's wrong with me?
Can't you guess?
They granted me parole.After 38 years of repeated hearings and rejections, my parole application was finally granted.I guess the main reason they let me out was that I was fifty-eight years old, and at such an advanced age, it was unlikely that I would do anything wrong again.I almost burned the story you just read.They search prisoners who are about to be released on parole in as much detail as they search for new inmates.My "memoirs" contained enough explosive material to put me in prison for another six to eight years, and on top of that, it contained a record of what I guessed about Andy's whereabouts.The Mexican police would be happy to work with the American police, and I don't want to end up sacrificing Andy for my own freedom – and on the other hand, I don't want to give up on the hard work of writing a good story.At this point, I remembered how Andy had smuggled $500 into prison in the first place, so I smuggled out the pages of the story in the same way.To be on the safe side, I was careful to rewrite the pages that mentioned Zivataniho.So even if this story was found and I had to go back to jail, the police would go to a small town on the Peruvian coast called Rathinchud to search for Andy.The parole commissioner got me a job as a "warehouse assistant" at a South Portland supermarket — that is, I became a very old errand boy.You know, there are basically only two kinds of people who can run errands, either they are very young or very old.But no matter what you are, no customer will ever look you in the eye.If you've ever bought something at Stoos' supermarket, I might have helped you get it out of your trolley and put it on the cart......
But you had to go there in March or April 1977 to get me, because I had only been working there for a little more than a month.At first, I didn't think I could fit in with the outside world.I portrayed the prison as a microcosm of society outside, but I didn't expect the world to change so much, people walked and spoke faster, even louder.It's hard for me to get used to all of this for a while, and I haven't fully adapted to it yet, so let's take a woman.After nearly forty years in prison, I have almost forgotten that women make up half of the world's population.All of a sudden, the place where I worked was full of women — old women, pregnant women (with an arrow pointing down to her belly on her T-shirt and a large line that read: "Baby is here"), and scrawny, braless women with protruding nipples (before I went to prison, women would have been arrested on the street if they dressed like this, thinking she was insane) and all sorts of women, and I found myself walking down the street often reacting physiologically, only to curse myself in my heart that I was a dirty old man.Going to the toilet was another thing I couldn't get used to.When I wanted to go to the toilet (and I always wanted to go to the toilet after 25 o'clock on the hour), I always had a strong urge to ask my boss to allow me to go to the toilet, and I endured it very hard every time to avoid doing so, knowing in my heart that in this bright outside world, I could go to the toilet whenever I wanted.After years in prison, every time I went to the toilet, I had to report to the nearest guard, and if I was negligent, I had to be locked up for two days, so when I was released from prison, although I knew that I didn't have to report everything, it was one thing to know in my heart, and it was another thing to fully adapt.--------------- Chapter 4 (9) of The Shawshank Redemption--------------- my boss didn't like me, he was a young man, twenty-six or seven.I could see that in his eyes, I was like a begging, annoying old leper dog crawling in front of me, and in fact I hated myself.But......
I couldn't help myself, and I wanted to tell him: young man, this is the result of spending most of my life in prison.In prison, everyone with power becomes your master, and you become a dog by the master's side.Maybe you know that you are a dog, but the other prisoners are dogs anyway, so it seems that there is no difference, but in the outside world the difference is great.But I couldn't let someone so young understand how I felt.He would never know, not even my parole officer.I had to report to the parole officer every week, and he was a military veteran with a big red beard and a basket of Polish jokes, and he saw me for five minutes a week, and every time he finished a Polish joke, he asked, "Red, didn't you go to the bar?"
”I said no, and we'll see you next week.There was also music on the radio.Before I was in prison, jazz in big bands was just starting to catch on, and now every song seems to be about sex.There are so many cars on the road, every time I cross the street, I am frightened and pinch a cold sweat.Everything is weird and scary anyway.I began to wonder if I should do some more bad things so that I could go back to the places I knew.If you're on parole, almost the slightest mistake can send you back to jail.I'm embarrassed to say that, but I do start to wonder if you might steal some money at the supermarket or take a sheep and then go back to that quiet place where at least the end of the day you know what to do and when.If I hadn't known Andy, I would probably have done it, but I was ashamed to think of how much work he had spent on pounding the cement with a small stone hammer for years just to get his freedom, and I dismissed the thought.Or you could say that he had more reasons than I did for wanting to regain his freedom – he had a new identity, and he had a lot of money.But you also know that this is not right, because he is not sure that the new identity still exists, and if he can't change the new identity, he will naturally not get the money.No, what he pursues is simply that freedom.If I casually throw away my hard-won freedom, it will undoubtedly be in front of Andy, spurning everything he has worked so hard to get back.So I started hitchhiking to the small town of Bucksden on my vacation, which was early April 1977.In the early spring, the snow is just beginning to melt and the weather is just warming up, and the baseball team is heading north for a new season.Every time I go, I carry a compass in my pocket.I'm reminded of what Andy said: There was a large meadow north of Bucksden, and on the north side of the meadow there was a stone wall, and at the bottom of the stone wall was a stone that had nothing to do with Maine meadows, it was a piece of volcanic glass.That's stupid, you'll say.How much pasture would there be in a rural place like Bucksden?
Fifty?
Hundred?
Maybe more than that.Even if I did, I wouldn't necessarily recognize it, because I probably didn't see the black piece of volcanic rock glass, or more likely, Andy put it in his pocket and took it away.So I agree with you, I can't doubt the stupidity of what I'm doing.Not to mention that for a parolee, this trip is undoubtedly a big adventure, because many of the pastures are erected with signs that say "no trampling".If you take a step in by mistake, you probably won't be able to eat and walk around.I'm stupid, but it's just as stupid to spend twenty-seven years banging through a concrete wall.But now that I'm no longer the jack-of-all-trades guy in prison, I'm just an errand boy, and there's one thing to do that makes me forget about my new life after I'm out of prison for a while, and my hobby is finding the stone where Andy hid the key.So, I often hitchhiked to Bucksden and walked along the road, listening to the birds, watching the water babble, and looking at the empty bottles that had been revealed after the snow melted – all unreturnable, useless bottles.I have to regret to say that the world seems to be squander now than it was before I was in prison – and then continue to look for that pasture.There are quite a few pastures along the roadside, most of which can be removed from the list at once.Some don't have stone walls, some have stone walls, but the direction is wrong.In any case, I still walked around those pastures, and it was comfortable to walk in the countryside, and it was during these times that I felt true freedom and tranquility.Once, an old dog followed me, and another time, I saw a deer.Then on April 23rd, even if I lived another fifty-eight years, I would never forget this day.It was a pleasant Saturday afternoon, and as I walked, the boy who was fishing on the bridge told me that the road was called Old Smith Road.It was almost noon, so I opened the lunch bag I had brought with me and sat down on a big rock by the side of the road to eat.After eating, be careful to clean up the garbage, a rule my dad taught me when I was about the same age as the boy.About two o'clock in the morning, a large meadow appeared to my left, and there was a wall at the end of the meadow, which stretched to the northwest, and I stepped on the damp meadow and walked towards the wall.A squirrel nagged at me from an oak tree.A quarter of the way from the end of the wall, I saw the big rock.Not bad at all, the jet-black glass, as bright as satin, was a stone that should not have appeared in the pasture of Maine, and I looked at it for a long time, and I felt like crying.The squirrel followed me, still nagging.My heart was pounding.When I calmed down a bit, I walked over to the rock, crouched down next to it, and touched it with my hand, and it was real.I picked up the stone, not because I thought there was anything hidden inside, in fact I probably just walked away and didn't find anything under the stone.I certainly didn't intend to take the stone away, because I didn't think I had the right to take it, and I felt that taking it away from the pasture would be the worst crime of theft.No, I just picked up the stone and touched it to feel its texture to prove that the glass stone was there.--------------- Chapter 4 (10) of The Shawshank Redemption--------------- I looked at what was under the stone for a long, long time, and my eyes had already seen it, but it took a little time for my brain to really realize what was going on.Underneath is an envelope, carefully wrapped in a transparent plastic bag to avoid getting wet.It had my name written on it, and it was in Andy's neat handwriting.I picked up the envelope and put the stone back where Andy and his deceased friend had been.Dear Red: If you read this letter, it means you're out too.It doesn't matter how you came out, anyway you came out.If you've found it, you might want to go a little further, and I think you remember the name of that town, right?
I need a good helper to help me get my business on track.Drink for me while you think about it.I will always keep an eye on you.Remember, "hope" is a good thing, perhaps the best thing in the world, and good things never die.I hope this letter will find you, and that you are doing well when you find you.Your friend Peter Stephen I didn't open the letter on the spot.A wave of fear came over me and I just wanted to get out of there as soon as possible before anyone else saw me.When I got back to my room, I opened the letter and read it, and the smell of old people cooking dinner wafted from the staircase—nothing more than noodles, which almost every low-income old man in the United States eats at night.After reading the letter, I hugged my head and cried, and enclosed twenty new fifty dollar bills in the envelope.I'm now at the Brewster Hotel, and I'm a fugitive again – I'm charged with violating the parole rules.But I guess no police would go to the trouble of setting up a barricade to arrest such a prisoner – I wondered, what should I do now?
I had this manuscript in my hand, and a duffel bag, about the size of a doctor's medical bag, and all my possessions in it.I had nineteen fifty-dollar bills, four ten-dollar bills, one five-dollar bill, and three one-dollar bills, and some change.I took a fifty-dollar bill and bought this notebook and a pack of cigarettes.I'm still thinking, what should I do?
But there is no doubt that there are only two paths to take.Strive to live, or strive to die.First, I'm going to put the manuscript back in my duffel bag.Then I had to buckle up my bag, grab my coat and walk downstairs to check out and leave the cheap hotel.Then, I'm going to go into a bar, put a five-dollar bill in front of the bartender, and ask him to bring me two glasses of whiskey, one for myself and one for Andy.This will be the first time I have been drinking as a free man since I was imprisoned in 1938.When I'm done, I'll tip the bartender a dollar and thank him well.After leaving the bar, I walked to the Greyhound bus stop and bought a ticket to El Paso via New York.Once in El Paso, buy another ticket to McNary.When I get to McNary, I guess I'll figure out a way to see if an old crook like me can find a chance to cross the border and enter Mexico.Of course I remember the name of that town, Chivataniho, which was too beautiful to forget.I found myself so excited that my trembling hands could barely hold the pen.I think only a free man can feel this excitement, a free man on a long journey to an uncertain future.I hope Andy is there.I hope I can successfully cross the U.S.
-Mexico border.I hope to see my friend and shake his hand.I want the Pacific Ocean to be as blue as I ever dreamed it would be.I hope ......**************** "The Shawshank Redemption" postscript (Stephen King) *************** I love every story in this book too, and I think I'll love these stories forever, I hope all readers will enjoy them too, and I hope these stories will be like all good stories - to make you forget some of the real problems that have accumulated in your mind for a while, and take you to places you have never been, which is the loveliest magic I know.Okay, I've got to go, goodbye, please keep your heads up, read some good books, do something useful, and live happily.--------------- Afterword to The Shawshank Redemption (Stephen King) (1) ---------------