There seemed to be a consensus: hanging was too good for Annie Wilkes. I'm against it in 1932 Or all of them at once.
He didn't need a psychiatrist to point out that writing had its autoerotic side you beat a typewriter instead of your meat, but both acts depended largely on quick wits, fast hands and a heartfelt commitment to the art of the farfetched. "Rocket Man was my favorite. It featured a picture of Carl Wilkes, looking slightly older. Not Ian, he thought, looking out at the barn. He pulled himself inside and shut the door. Not to make myself look better (although I probably would) and not to make Annie look worse (she couldn't). Like an idol, she gave only one thing: a feeling of unease deepening steadily toward terror. Good.