the picture of john torrance , thirty years old , who had once published in esquire and who had harbored dreams-not at all unreasonable dreams , he feltof becoming a major american writer during the next decade , with a shovel from the sidewinder western auto on his shoulder , ringing doorbells ... that picture suddenly came to him much more clearly than the hedge lions and he clenched his fists tighter still , feeling the fingernails sink into his palms and draw blood in mystic quarter-moon shapes .