The Dark Tower

After a life spenttraining for the sight!

XXXI

What in the midst laybut the Tower itself?

The round squatturret, 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 shipmanthus the unseen shelf

He strikes on, onlywhen the timbers start.

XXXII

Not see? because ofnight perhaps?—why day

Came back again forthat! before it left

The dying sunsetkindled through a cleft:

The hills, likegiants at a hunting, lay,

Chin upon hand, tosee the game at bay,—

‘Now stab and end thecreature—to the heft!’

XXXIII

Not hear? When noisewas everywhere! it tolled

Increasing like abell. Names in my ears

Of all the lostadventurers, my peers—

How such a one wasstrong, and such was bold,

And such wasfortunate, yet each of old

Lost, lost! onemoment knelled the woe of years.

XXXIV

There they stood,ranged along the hillsides, met

To view the last ofme, a living frame

For one more picture!In a sheet of flame

I saw them and I knewthem all. And yet

Dauntless theslug-horn to my lips I set,

And blew. ‘ChildeRoland to the Dark Tower came.’

Author’s Note

Sometimes I think I have written more aboutthe Dark Tower books than I have written about the Dark Tower itself.These related writings include the ever-growing synopsis (known by the quaintold word Argument) at the begi

The first half of that well-meant butoff-key essay can now be found as an introduction to the first four volumes ofthe series; it’s called “On Being Nineteen.” I thought of leaving Volume Sevenwithout any afterword at all; of letting Roland’s discovery at the top of hisTower be my last word on the matter. Then I realized that I had one more thingto say, a thing that actually needed to be said. It has to do with mypresence in my own book.

There’s a smarmy academic term forthis—“metafiction.” I hate it. I hate the pretentiousness of it. I’m inthe story only because I’ve known for some time now (consciously since writing Insomniain 1995, unconsciously since temporarily losing track of Father Donald Callaha

Readers will speculate on how “real” theStephen King is who appears in these pages. The answer is “not very,” althoughthe one Roland and Eddie meet in Bridgton (Song of Susa