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 beginning of each of the first five volumes,and afterwords (most totally unnecessary and some actually embarrassing inretrospect) at the end of all the volumes. Michael Whelan, the extraordinaryartist who illustrated both the first volume and this last, proved himself tobe no slouch as a literary critic as well when, after reading a draft of VolumeSeven, he suggested—in refreshingly blunt terms—that the ratherlighthearted afterword I’d put at the end was jarring and out of place. I tookanother look at it and realized he was right.

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 Callahannear the end of ‘Salem’s Lot) that many of my fictions refer back toRoland’s world and Roland’s story. Since I was the one who wrote them, itseemed logical that I was part of the gunslinger’s ka. My idea was to use the DarkTower stories as a kind of summation, a way of unifying as many of myprevious stories as possible beneath the arch of some über-tale. Inever meant that to be pretentious (and I hope it isn’t), but only as a way ofshowing how life influences art (and vice-versa). I think that, if you haveread these last three Dark Tower volumes, you’ll see that my talk ofretirement makes more sense in this context. In a sense, there’s nothing leftto say now that Roland has reached his goal… and I hope the reader will seethat by discovering the Horn of Eld, the gunslinger may finally be on the wayto his own resolution. Possibly even to redemption. It was all aboutreaching the Tower, you see—mine as well as Roland’s—and that hasfinally been accomplished. You may not like what Roland found at the top, butthat’s a different matter entirely. And don’t write me any angry letters aboutit, either, because I won’t answer them. There’s nothing left to say on thesubject. I wasn’t exactly crazy about the ending, either, if you want to knowthe truth, but it’s the right ending. The only ending, in fact.You have to remember that I don’t make these things up, not exactly; I onlywrite down what I see.

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 Susannah) is veryclose to the Stephen King I remember being at that time. As for the StephenKing who shows up in this final volume… well, let’s put it this way: my wifeasked me if I would kindly not give fans of the series very precise directionsto where we live or who we really are. I agreed to do that. Not because Iwanted to, exactly—part of what makes this story go, I think, is thesense of the fictional world bursting through into the real one—butbecause this happens to be my wife’s life as well as mine, and she should notbe penalized for either loving me or living with me. So I have fictionalizedthe geography of western Maine to a great extent, trusting readers to grasp theintent of the fiction and to understand why I treated my own part in it as Idid. And if you feel a need to drop in and say hello, please think again. Myfamily and I have a good deal less privacy than we used to, and I have no wishto give up any more, may it do ya fine. My books are my way of knowing you. Letthem be your way of knowing me, as well. It’s enough. And on behalf of Rolandand all his ka-tet—now scattered, say sorry—I thank you for comingalong, and sharing this adventure with me. I never worked harder on a projectin my life, and I know—none better, alas—that it has not beenentirely successful. What work of make-believe ever is? And yet for all ofthat, I would not give back a single minute of the time that I have lived inRoland’s where and when. Those days in Mid-World and End-World were quiteextraordinary. Those were days when my imagination was so clear I could smellthe dust and hear the creak of leather.

Stephen King

August 21, 2003