The Long Walk

“Garraty was getting a firsthand lesson in the psychology of the grapevine. Someone found something out, and suddenly it was all over. Rumors were created by mouth-to-mouth respiration. It looks like rain. Chances are it’s going to rain. It’s gonna rain pretty soon. The guy with the radio says it’s gonna shit potatoes pretty quick. But it was funny how often the grapevine was right. And when the word came back that someone was slowing up, that someone was in trouble, the grapevine was always right.”

The personification of “the grapevine” lends credibility to the rumor mill. The boys’ reliance on the telephone-like means of communication emphasizes their youthful vulnerability, and the metaphor of “mouth-to-mouth respiration” shows the boys’ desperate attempts to use communication to leverage their own survival. The boys negotiate the tension between relying on isolation and relying on friendship.

“Just go on dancing with me like this forever, Garraty, and I’ll never tire. We’ll scrape our shoe on the stars and hang upside down from the moon.”

McVries follows this pronouncement with a blown kiss, and Garraty isn’t sure what to make of it. McVries’s sexual ambiguity often causes Garraty to feel off-kilter, uncomfortable as he realizes that he enjoys his friend’s presence and reciprocates some of his feelings. McVries’s description of the Walk as a dance demonstrates a survival method on which he often relies: By trying to find value or entertainment in the Walk, he manages to keep himself sane.

“Do you think we could live the rest of our lives on this road? That’s what I meant. The part we would have had if we hadn’t… you know.”

Garraty asks McVries about the potential for them to lose the rest of their lives to the Walk. The gravity of the situation has set in, enabling a moment of vulnerability for both boys. As they attempt to navigate this survival of the fittest and accept their dystopian circumstances, they find both solace and sorrow in asking rhetorical questions.

“What do you think about the Prize? [...] I think about it […] Not so much the Prize itself as the money. All that money.”

Baker’s statement to Garraty is the first mention of the Prize, clarifying an important plot point for readers who may have wondered why the boys signed up for the Walk. In another instance of suspense-building, King’s narrator has omitted small details of worldbuilding like breadcrumbs, creating tension as the narrative slowly reveals the rules that govern this dystopia.

“‘We don’t bring anything into the world and we sure as shit don’t take anything out.’ ‘Yes, but the period between those two events is more pleasant in comfort, don’t you think?’”

Garraty is far less enamored of the idea of the Prize than Baker, whose desire for money supersedes his will to survive. Garraty has adopted an existentialist view of the Prize, but McVries points out the potential comforts of capitalism. Adoration of and reliance on money juxtaposes overreliance on religion and ritual; within this dystopia, capitalism emerges as an unholy god to worship.

“Posters of the Major were raised and lowered rhythmically on sticks so raw and new they were still bleeding sap.”

The Major has already been established as a false idol who doesn’t deserve to be worshipped. Here, the image of this undeserved attention emphasizes the tension between the environment and capitalism. Within this dystopia, men (boys) attempt to conquer nature, exploiting it for their own gain. Through the word choice “bleeding,” King emphasizes that this totalitarian government destroys the world around it.

“Fenter was licking his lips. The word was that his foot had stiffened up on him badly. When he was shot ten minutes later, Garraty didn’t feel much. He was too tired. He walked around Fenter. Looking down he saw something glittering in Fenter’s hand. A St. Christopher’s medal.”

By this point, Garraty has become inured to violence, and the contrast between this exhausted acceptance of death and his earlier fear of it demonstrates the extent to which he has become embittered, exhausted, and less capable of resistance. Fender’s reliance on religious iconography failed him, and once again King suggests that to rely too heavily on religion is to misdirect faith in a higher power.

“It’s your mind […] using the old escape hatch. Don’t you wish your feet could?”

McVries’s metaphor conveys the feeling of helplessness. He personifies the mind, suggesting that the boys are capable of involuntarily freeing themselves from a stressful situation. In ascribing agency to both “mind” and “feet,” McVries offers an escape, showing Garraty that he can find an iota of control within this terrifying hellscape.

“Somehow, the word started coming back—some people still had breath to spare, apparently. The word was that this hill was a quarter of a mile long. The word was that it was two miles long. The word was that no Walker had ever gotten a ticket on this hill. The word was that three boys had gotten tickets here just last year. And after that, the word stopped coming back.”

The “telephone” effect filters through the march as boys compare rumors that multiply and evolve. The juxtaposition of incongruous statements conveys the childlike nature of the boys’ communication; maintaining one through-line of adult conversation is too difficult, and their attempts at confident conviction that they know what awaits them fall flat as they once again confront expectation versus reality.

“He wondered if their sign was for Go-Go Garraty, ‘Maine’s Own.’ Somehow he hoped not. Somehow the idea was a little repulsive.”

King’s narrator deliberately parses out bits of information at a time; rather than offering exposition that contains considerable worldbuilding, the narrative slowly dispenses pieces of information about this dystopian world. This sign is the first hint at a national scope of competition. By not immediately divulging all worldbuilding information, the narrative heightens both the sense of suspense and the claustrophobic tone.

“‘It took me a while to figure it out, but it was faster after I got around that mental block. Walk or die, that’s the moral of this story. Simple as that. It’s not survival of the physically fittest, that’s where I went wrong when I let myself get into this. If it was, I’d have a fair chance. But there are weak men who can lift cars if their wives are pinned underneath. The brain, Garraty.’ McVries’s voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper. ‘It isn’t man or God. It’s something […] in the brain.’”

McVries thinks his realization only confirms his inevitable death. As the boys adjust their expectations to accommodate their new reality, they must accept their own weaknesses and limitations, forsaking their sense of youthful infallibility and confidence. While God was previously as unapproachable, McVries now puts man and God on the same pedestal but suggests that mental fortitude is more powerful than either man or God.

“The soldiers on the halftrack raised their guns to high post, ready to shoot the animal if he interfered with any Walker’s progress, but the dog only chased back and forth along the shoulder, bravely voicing defiance and territoriality from a safe distance. Someone yelled thickly at him to shut up, goddammit.”

The dog’s ability to voice defiance elicits envy from some of the boys, who wish that they’d the same freedom of speech. However, even dogs in this universe recognizes their essential powerlessness and must remain a safe distance away from threats; the sense of promised violence is so pronounced that even animals can sense it. This doesn’t bode well for the Walkers, who are beginning to realize that attempts to resist their oppressive circumstances had the best chance of succeeding when they weren’t exhausted.

“Thinking, Garraty thought. That’s the day’s business. Thinking. Thinking and isolation, because it doesn’t matter if you pass the time of day with someone or not; in the end, you’re alone. He seemed to have put in as many miles in his brain as he had with his feet. The thoughts kept coming and there was no way to deny them. It was enough to make you wonder what Socrates had thought about right after he had tossed off his hemlock cocktail.”

The reference to Socrates invokes the consequences of being punished for mocking the gods. Socrates’s death by forced, legislated suicide foreshadows the inevitable ending for each Walker; 99 boys will die for the state while maintaining the illusion that they had agency and willingly chose this path.

“Then his head swiveled back to Percy again. Percy was the real show, wasn’t he? Percy was standing with both his feet on the weedy border of the pine forest now. He was as frozen and as sculpted as the man who had shot him. The two of them together would have been a subject for Michelangelo, Garraty thought. Percy stood utterly still under a blue springtime sky. One hand was pressed to his chest, like a poet about to speak. His eyes were bright, and somehow ecstatic.”

The narrative describes Percy’s last moments through artistic metaphors that lend beauty to a horrific scene, juxtaposing the incongruity of young boys and unfathomable ends. As “the real show,” Percy has managed to achieve aesthetic pleasure even in death. The phrase “somehow ecstatic” evokes a sensation of religious fervor, suggesting that Percy has achieved a higher state of being unattainable in life.

“‘Death is great for the appetites,’ McVries said. ‘How about those two girls and Gribble? They wanted to see what screwing a dead man felt like. Now for Something Completely New and Different. I don’t know if Gribble got much out of it, but they sure as shit did. It’s the same with anybody. It doesn’t matter if they’re eating or drinking or sitting on their cans. They like it better, they feel it and taste it better because they’re watching dead men.’”

McVries’s reference to a Monty Python skit, “And Now for Something Completely Different,” evokes irony as he applies a comic reference to serious subject matter. He’s disgusted by the oversexualized spectators’ excitement at the prospect of “claiming” a competitor. Gribble felt “chosen,” but his anonymity was a condition of the coupling.

“‘Piss on you,’ McVries said calmly. ‘I pay my debts, that’s all.’ He looked at Garraty. ‘We’re square, man. It’s the end, right?’ He walked away, not hurrying, and was soon only another colored shirt about twenty yards ahead.”

Olson is furious that McVries saved Garraty, but Garraty maintains that this was an essential reciprocation of kindness. The description of saving Garraty as a “repayment” shows that the language of capitalism bleeds into nearly every interaction.

“There was still the unshakable, blind assurances that this organism Ray Garraty could not die. The others could die, they were extras in the movie of his life, but not Ray Garraty, star of that long-running hit film, The Ray Garraty Story. Maybe he would eventually come to understand the untruth of that emotionally as well as intellectually…maybe that was the final depth of which Stebbins had spoken. It was a shivery, unwelcome thought.”

Garraty’s conviction that he can’t die conveys a relatable teen sense of immortality; he’s the main character of his own life, and it seems impossible that any external factors could decenter him from this experience. Garraty’s contemplation is a key factor of a bildungsroman; a major part of maturing and coming of age means realizing that one isn’t the center of the universe and accepting the terrifying existential fact that everything will continue no matter what happens to one. Through Garraty’s self-reference as an “organism,” King employs a sarcastically scientific tone to suggest that Garraty has studied himself as extensively as a scientist studies a particular object of research; he has applied this scrutiny to himself for his entire childhood but is only now forming an adult conclusion.

“‘God’s garden,’ Garraty repeated doubtfully. ‘What about God’s garden, Olson?’ ‘It’s full. Of. Weeds.’ Olson said sadly.”

Religious imagery dominates the boys’ conversations, and Olson’s delirious, almost-last words reveal his loss of faith. At the beginning of the walk, the boys had faith in God; as they each reach their existential epiphany, they realize that humanity is far more doomed than they ever realized and that trust in God can’t save them.

“‘The reason all of this is so horrible,’ McVries said, ‘is because it’s just trivial. You know? We’ve sold ourselves and traded our souls on trivialities. Olson, he was trivial. He was magnificent, too, but those things aren’t mutually exclusive. He was magnificent and trivial. Either way, or both, he died like a bug under a microscope.’”

The simile of “like a bug under a microscope” conveys the same sense of existential meaningless that Garraty’s self-contemplation provoked; like Garraty, part of McVries’s fears stem from the realization that not only is his death imminent but his life won’t have been meaningful. The juxtaposition of “magnificent” and “trivial” creates an oxymoronic sense of the boys’ lives; regardless of the importance that they ascribe to themselves, their lives are ultimately meaningless.

“I had to read it twice. I didn’t go into any fits of joy, but I was pleased. Real pleased. And confident. My feet didn’t hurt then and my back didn’t feel like somebody had shoved a rake with a busted handle into it. I was one in a million. I wasn’t bright enough to realize the circus fat lady is too.”

As McVries and Garraty compare their experiences of learning that they’d qualified for the Walk, Garraty expresses a sense of regret for his old naivete. Now embittered by knowledge that he feels he should have had, he laments that he felt valued because of his perceived individuality, not realizing that he wasn’t a valued competitor; like the circus fat lady, he was merely an entertaining side show for others to watch and mock.

“The town itself had been swallowed, strangled, and buried. In a very real sense there was no Augusta, and there were no more at ladies, or pretty girls, or pompous men, or wet-crotched children waving puffy clouds of cotton candy. There was no bustling Italian man here to throw slices of watermelon. Only Crowd, a creature with no body, no head, no mind. Crowd was nothing but a Voice and an Eye, and it was not surprising that Crowd was both God and Mammon. Garraty felt it. He knew the others were feeling it. It was like walking between giant electrical pylons, feeling the tingles and shocks stand every hair on end, making the tongue jitter nuttily in the mouth, making the eyes seem to crackle and shoot off sparks as they rolled in their beds of moisture. Crowd was to be pleased. Crowd was to be worshiped and feared. Ultimately, Crowd was to be made sacrifice unto.”

The repetition of “both God and Mammon” evokes an earlier description of the Major, clarifying the parallels between the crowd and the Major. Both are terrifying personifications of power, yet both are dehumanized. If God is the object of true worship, and Mammon (or money) is the object of false worship, then neither the Major nor the crowd deserves worship at all, since neither cares about (or protects) those whom they’re supposed to help.

“He had talked to McVries and McVries had told him the first time he had saved him out of pure reflex. Then, in Freeport, it had been to prevent an ugliness in front of a pretty girl he would never know. Just as he would never know Scramm’s wife, heavy with child. Garraty had felt a pang at the thought, and sudden sorrow. He had not thought of Scramm in such a long time. He thought McVries was quite grown-up, really. He wondered why he hadn’t managed to grow up any.”

A key element of any bildungsroman is the protagonists’ acceptance that they aren’t the main character of anyone else’s life but their own. Garraty is amazed by McVries’s ability to not only accept this but to use it to empower a new sense of selflessness, which seems the peak of maturity. Coming of Age in a Dystopian World means not just learning how to adapt to extreme circumstances but also helping others survive in those circumstances.

“Fielder’s body did a gangling but strangely graceful rhumba in the center of the road, feet kicking, body twitching, shoulders jerking. Then, apparently too tired to dance anymore, he sat down, legs spread wide, and he died that way, sitting up, his chin tucked down on his chest like a tired little boy caught by the sandman at playtime.”

The comparison of Fielder’s death throes to a popular Afro-Caribbean dance form serves creates a stark contrast between “strangely graceful” and the horror of his “gangling” movements. The simile “like a tired little boy” reiterates the notion that these are children forced into a very adult circumstance; the boys were under the illusion that they’d accepted the terms and conditions of the Walk, but the reality is that they’re no more empowered than small children playing games.