I just finished reading Black House by Stephen King and Peter Straub. I devoured it in just a few days, despite the fact that I’ve read it five or six times before, relishing how wonderfully rich and imaginative and King-ish it felt. It was like finding a childhood teddy bear and cuddling up with it for the night.
My confession? I love me some Stephen King books. I adore them. Yeah, they’re full of gore and spatter and some really weird shit, but what I love is the voice. The narrators always sound so darn folksy that I can’t help but be drawn in again and again and again. I can’t help but feel as if everything really could happen. That those worlds really do exist, I just haven’t found the right door to them yet. I feel like if I just leaned forward the tiniest bit, I could topple right into the story I’m reading and I vacillate between leaning forward to see if I could tip in, and very studiously leaning back. Because nothing good happens to strangers in King’s worlds.
These childish feelings – and the fact that there are hundreds of books on my reading list that I haven’t read dozens of times like I have with each of the good King’s – are why they have become my secret obsession. Oh, I’ll admit to anyone who asks how much I adore his stories, but I don’t indulge nearly as often as I used to. I save ‘em for when I’m having a really craptastic weekend.
You know, like this one.
Tags: Books, confession, Life
August 4, 2008 at 4:29 pm |
Hi, I’m a big King fan, too and I’m re-reading Black House right now, too, so I had to comment. My favorites are The Shining, ‘Salem’s Lot, It, the whole Dark Tower series and Lisey’s Story.
I think you’re right about the voice. It just sucks you right in. That’s pure reading pleasure.