The round squat turret, blind as the fool’s heart,
Built of brown stone, without a counterpart
In the whole world. The tempest’s mocking elf
Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf
He strikes on, only when the timbers start.
XXXII
Not see? because of night perhaps?—why day
Came back again for that! before it left
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay,
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,—
‘Now stab and end the creature—to the heft!’
XXXIII
Not hear? When noise was everywhere! it tolled
Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears
Of all the lost adventurers, my peers—
How such a one was strong, and such was bold,
And such was fortunate, yet each of old
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.
XXXIV
There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met
To view the last of me, a living frame
For one more picture! In a sheet of flame
I saw them and I knew them all. And yet
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,
And blew. ‘Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.’
Author’s Note
Sometimes I think I have written more about the Dark Towerbooks than I have written
about the Dark Tower itself. These related writings include the ever-growing synopsis
(known by the quaint old wordArgument ) at the beginning of each of the first five volumes,
and afterwords (most totally unnecessary and some actually embarrassing in retrospect) at
the end of all the volumes. Michael Whelan, the extraordinary artist who illustrated both
the first volume and this last, proved himself to be no slouch as a literary critic as well
when, after reading a draft of Volume Seven, he suggested—in refreshingly blunt
terms—that the rather lighthearted afterword I’d put at the end was jarring and out of place.
I took another look at it and realized he was right.
The first half of that well-meant but off-key essay can now be found as an introduction to
the first four volumes of the series; it’s called “On Being Nineteen.” I thought of leaving
Volume Seven without any afterword at all; of letting Roland’s discovery at the top of his
Tower be my last word on the matter. Then I realized that I had one more thing to say, a
thing that actuallyneeded to be said. It has to do with my presence in my own book.
There’s a smarmy academic term for this—“metafiction.” I hate it. I hate the
pretentiousness of it. I’m in the story only because I’ve known for some time now
(consciously since writingInsomnia in 1995, unconsciously since temporarily losing track
of Father Donald Callahan near the end of’Salem’s Lot ) that many of my fictions refer
back to Roland’s world and Roland’s story. Since I was the one who wrote them, it seemed
logical that I was part of the gunslinger’s ka. My idea was to use theDark Tower stories as
a kind of summation, a way of unifying as many of my previous stories as possible beneath
the arch of someüber- tale. I never meant that to be pretentious (and I hope it isn’t), but only as a way of showing how life influences art (and vice-versa). I think that, if you have read
these last threeDark Tower volumes, you’ll see that my talk of retirement makes more
sense in this context. In a sense, there’s nothing left to say now that Roland has reached his
goal…and I hope the reader will see that by discovering the Horn of Eld, the gunslinger
may finally be on the way to his own resolution. Possibly even to redemption. It wasall
about reaching the Tower, you see—mine as well as Roland’s—and that has finally been
accomplished. You may not like what Roland found at the top, but that’s a different matter
entirely. And don’t write me any angry letters about it, either, because I won’t answer them.
There’s nothing left to say on the subject. I wasn’t exactly crazy about the ending, either, if you want to know the truth, but it’s theright ending. Theonly ending, in fact. You have to
remember that I don’t make these things up, not exactly; I only write down what I see.
Readers will speculate on how “real” the Stephen King is who appears in these pages. The
answer is “not very,” although the one Roland and Eddie meet in Bridgton (Song of
Susannah) is very close to the Stephen King I remember being at that time. As for the
Stephen King who shows up in this final volume…well, let’s put it this way: my wife asked
me if I would kindly not give fans of the series very precise directions to where we live or
who we really are. I agreed to do that. Not because I wanted to, exactly—part of what
makes this story go, I think, is the sense of the fictional world bursting through into the real one—but because this happens to be my wife’s life as well as mine, and she should not be
penalized for either loving me or living with me. So I have fictionalized the geography of
western Maine to a great extent, trusting readers to grasp the intent of the fiction and to
understand why I treated my own part in it as I did. And if you feel a need to drop in and say hello, please think again. My family and I have a good deal less privacy than we used to,
and I have no wish to give up any more, may it do ya fine. My books are my way of
knowing you. Let them be your way of knowing me, as well. It’s enough. And on behalf of
Roland and all his ka-tet—now scattered, say sorry—I thank you for coming along, and
sharing this adventure with me. I never worked harder on a project in my life, and I
know—none better, alas—that it has not been entirely successful. What work of
make-believe ever is? And yet for all of that, I would not give back a single minute of the
time that I have lived in Roland’s where and when. Those days in Mid-World and
End-World were quite extraordinary. Those were days when my imagination was so clear I
could smell the dust and hear the creak of leather.
Stephen King
August 21, 2003