King, Stephen (Vol. 26)
Stephen King 1947–
American novelist, short story writer, and scriptwriter.
King is primarily known for his modern Gothic novels in which supernatural events reflect psychological disturbances or moral problems. Critics praise King's ability to present aspects of American culture and vernacular. However, some feel that he is derivative in a field that too easily lends itself to imitation and cliché. King's work is a hybridization of the traditional horror tale, as written by Edgar Allan Poe, and the modern thriller, which capitalizes on trendy concerns such as parapsychology, telekinesis, and ESP.
King wrote his first novel, the popular culture classic Carrie, in 1974. Since then he has produced seven novels, two collections of short stories, an autobiography, and a screenplay. Among his recent novels is The Dead Zone, a thriller dealing with paranormal psychology. Different Seasons, a collection of four novellas, is King's bid for recognition as a more serious writer. Another recent addition to the King canon is the novel Christine, a tale of horror about a boy and his vintage car.
(See also CLC, Vol. 12; Contemporary Authors, Vols. 61-64; Something about the Author, Vol. 9; and Dictionary of Literary Biography Yearbook: 1980.)
[The] arrival of a new Stephen King novel is something of an event: a minor event, perhaps, but still an event. And even when that novel is less than totally satisfying, as is the case with The Dead Zone, it is only slightly less.
King, who explored psychokinesis in Carrie, vampirism in Salem's Lot, mediumship and places of evil in The Shining, applies his considerable writing skills to psychometry (not the science, but the paranormal phenomena) in The Dead Zone. His hero, John Smith—a name choice more playful than profound—awakes from a 4 1/2-year coma with the ability to fully "know" people's present and future circumstances just by touching them or an object they have touched. This skill, in the hands—literally—of good, decent and affable Smith, becomes progressively more curse than blessing, and leads to a final confrontation with a corrupt and dangerous politician whose future Smith knows and deeply fears.
There are two fundamental problems with The Dead Zone: the first is that it is really a meshing (or perhaps overlapping) of two novellas, suggesting that King did not have enough material for one full-length hard-cover novel. Too much of this book is spent demonstrating Smith's strange ability and agonizing over it. The second is that we have come to expect more from Stephen King; if this is unfair, so be it, but the fact remains that his earlier work is still...
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Alex E. Alexander
To be sure, [Carrie] is a special kind of fairy tale: it is an adult fairy tale explicit in matters of sex, killing and revenge, and if the young appreciate it, it may be because their tastes have grown ahead of their chronological age. But Carrie is nevertheless a fairy tale: rites de passage, supernatural powers, magic and rites of sacrifice. Since fairy tales feed on such themes, the folktale opus is quite similar the world over. But Carrie, made into a highly popular movie, and thus rendered into a series of images, largely does away with the one unshakable source of ethnicity in folklore, namely the language of the people. The film medium as well as the inexpensive translations into many languages made by the industry of successful paperbacks assure Carrie of a wide, international diffusion and turn it into the new universal fairy tale.
The German romantic poet Friedrich Schiller (1759–1805), once said: "deeper meaning lies in the fairy tale of my childhood than in the truth that is taught by life." (p. 282)
The fairy tale … suggests, implies, hints about significant problems facing the child, and does so through imagery rather than discourse. In Brothers Grimm's "Little Snow White," we read:
(The Queen) whilst she was sewing and looking out the window, at the snow, she pricked her finger with the needle, and three drops of blood fell...
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A master of psychic terror returns with [Firestarter], yet another study of strange phenomena guaranteed to enthrall his audience. Two college students sign up as paid guinea pigs for a secret and unknowingly dangerous government experiment in telekinesis…. When the subjects marry and have a baby, however, their child develops not only telekinesis but pyrokinesis as well; in short, the tot can not only push things with her mind, but set them ablaze as well. The government's plan to use the girl as a human weapon set King's plot into action, and an extended chase ensues with the expected havoc wreaked in vivid detail. King's highly visual style, almost akin to Hollywood special effects, sends the blood splattering, the flesh ripping, and the bodies flying in particularly gruesome fashion.
John Brosnahan, in his review of "Firestarter," in Booklist (reprinted by permission of the American Library Association; copyright © 1980 by the American Library Association), Vol. 76, No. 20, June 15, 1980, p. 1464.
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[Firestarter is an] improvement over The Dead Zone, with King returning to his most tried-and-true blueprint. As in The Shining, the psi-carrier is a child, an eight-year-old girl named Charlie; but instead of foresight or hindsight, Charlie has fire-starting powers…. Dumb, very, and still a far cry from the excitement of The Shining or Salem's Lot—but King keeps the story moving with his lively fire-gimmick and fewer pages of cotton padding than in his recent, sluggish efforts. The built-in readership will not be disappointed.
A review of "Firestarter," in Kirkus Reviews (copyright © 1980 The Kirkus Service, Inc.), Vol. XLVIII. No. 14, July 15, 1980, p. 930.
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[Firestarter is another] smasheroo from a writer whose books haunt bestseller lists as well as impressionable imaginations. This is your advanced post-Watergate cynical American thriller with some eerie parapsychological twists, and it's been done so distinctively well that we'd better talk about genius rather than genre. Complex characterizations, credible dialogue and a no-nonsense prose style are among the uncommon virtues King brings to popular fiction, and his novels will be read long after this year's Prix Limburger winner has gone the way of all big cheeses for a season. As scary as Carrie.
Paul Stuewe, "American Thrillers: 'Firestarter', 'Brass Diamonds', 'Brain 2000'," in Quill and Quire (reprinted by permission of Quill and Quire), Vol. 46, No. 10, October, 1980, pp. 40-1.∗
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H. P. Lovecraft once called Nathaniel Hawthorne's The House of the Seven Gables "New England's greatest contribution to weird literature." Pace Hawthorne scholars, there's a new contender, out of Maine, for the title. At least booksellers today would be unanimous in citing Stephen King, author of Carrie, The Shining, Salem's Lot, The Stand, The Dead Zone, and now Firestarter, best sellers all, as the northeast's preeminent scribe of the spooky.
King has not been taken very seriously, if at all, by the critical establishment. Unfortunately for him, it's all too easy to take cheap shots at his material by lifting bits of it out of context; what is ghastly when the mood has been set can be risible when the lights are up, so to speak. (p. 38)
But King's real stigma—the reason he is not perceived as being in competition with real writers—is that he has chosen to write about ghoulies and ghosties, about things that go bump in the night. Rats and vampires, necromancers and mind-readers, deadly plagues and telekinetic children: it may sound silly but, as King is well aware …, there's a long, as the saying goes, and honorable tradition.
It's a familiar list, these distinguished folk who've been intrigued with what Lovecraft termed "the overtones of strangeness in ordinary things": Dickens, Henry James, Kipling, Walter de la Mare, de Maupassant. And there are many best...
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I defend [Stephen King as a SF writer] now because I have a good excuse: The Dead Zone. (p. 164)
Technology doesn't enter into this tale. The occult does, however, for Johnny's talent is occult. It is of the light, though, not the dark; and he uses it to fight for the good. And here is the key to King's choice of themes. He writes of good versus evil, putting a usually shaded white up against the blackest black. He uses the occult, I suspect, solely because it lends itself to tales of horror, and perhaps because it makes good and evil seem more akin. Yet he treats it as rationally as he can, given its nature. It is a source of power, but one with limits that restrict his heroes. And, at least in The Dead Zone, it is not quite the sort of occult beloved of the masses. On that silliness [King] heaps scorn. Johnny's mother goes all out for flying saucers, interstellar and subpolar True Christians, and all the other goodies in the cosmic fruitcake. An occult-oriented tabloid seeks Johnny as a "house psychic" and gets the bum's rush. Fans are avoided like the ten plagues of Israel.
Does Steve King write science fiction? It's a fair question, for to most people he is a horror writer, a fantasist. But his premises that the occult (especially ESP) is real and evil can be personified are hardly foreign to our field. And he is as much a rationalist, free-will advocate, and moral reactionary ("absolutist,"...
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With a master's sure feel for the power of the plausible to terrify as much or more than the uncanny, [in Cujo] King builds a riveting novel out of the lives of some very ordinary and believable people in a small Maine town, and an unfortunate 200 lb. St. Bernard…. [There is] a succession of bloody deaths and, the main event, the nerve-stretching siege of a woman and her four-year-old son, trapped in a small car by the mad dog for two broiling days and endless nights. King's work is so powerful because he troubles to give his characters' lives dimension beyond the minimal needs of the situation. His expert use of colloquial language in both dialogue and narration augments the impact of the extraordinary events he describes. These qualities and his remarkable instinct for pacing have you turning pages effortlessly from the start, and then with increasing urgency as the tension builds. This is a biting novel of gut-twisting terror and suspense. More tightly written and perhaps therefore superior to King's last couple of books, it is likely to equal or surpass their popularity.
A review of "Cujo," in Publishers Weekly (reprinted from the July 17, 1981 issue of Publishers Weekly, published by R. R. Bowker Company, a Xerox company; copyright © 1981 by Xerox Corporation), Vol. 220, No. 3, July 17, 1981, p. 80.
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Stephen King has written a dog story?
Well, yes and no. Mostly no, but it takes 30 or 40 pages to find out for certain. (p. 1)
[Cujo's] eponymous canine—a Saint Bernard belonging to the family of an aggressively uncouth auto mechanic by the name of Joe Camber—contracts rabies and turns from a gentle giant into an indefatigable engine of madness and death. Although Camber's garage lies in the boondocks well beyond Castle Rock, Maine, Donna Trenton and her 4-year-old son Tad drive out there to see about her malfunctioning Pinto. Her husband Vic, meanwhile, has flown to Boston with his partner to try to dissuade their tiny ad agency's most lucrative client from dumping them. When Cujo lays murderous siege to the stalled Pinto, and when Vic's long-distance calls to home go unanswered, the reader soon realizes that King's dog story owes more to Alfred Hitchcock than to Albert Payson Terhune.
Deft characterization and rigorous plotting, a la Hitchcock, inform the best of King's bravura experiments in the horror genre. A conscious awareness of this fact—elsewhere King has confessed especial admiration for the methods of Jack Finney, in whose work the alien and the bizarre often casually emerge from the mundane—has enabled him to develop a useful storytelling formula. By introducing believable middle- and lower-middle-class Americans into situations that defy conventional logic, King...
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[In Cujo, victims of the mad dog's] violence are two families—that of his owner, backwoods auto mechanic Joe Camber, and of Vic Trenton, an ad man struggling to keep an important account while "dealing" with his wife's infidelity and his four year old's fears. Counterpoint to the ad campaign's folksy slogan and the writer's lush reveries are nightmarish vigils in stalled Pintos where one awaits deadly assault and relentless visions of heat and horror. Beyond the façades of modern life, the ordinary world of creaky closets and baseball bats, coloring books and toy trucks, Slim Jims and shabby affairs, lies the potential for savagery unwitting and otherwise …, the menace that Aldous Huxley has termed "the imminent maniac." It is King's style of "bringing it all back home" that leads one effortlessly, if gratuitously, to the bloody denouement.
Sylvia Pascal, in her review of "Cujo," in School Library Journal (reprinted from the October, 1981 issue of School Library Journal, published by R. R. Bowker Co./A Xerox Corporation; copyright © 1981), Vol. 28, No. 2, October, 1981, p. 162.
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Dorothy M. Broderick
While the usual aura of the supernatural, of which King is master, hangs over [Cujo], the real terror is its reality. Given the right circumstances, anyone of us could find ourselves held captive in a small automobile on a blazing hot day by a rabid dog, driven to rage by his pain…. Cujo has already killed [his owner] Camber and his drinking buddy and he will kill again before the book ends.
Younger King fans may not find this quite as appealing as earlier titles since it places great emphasis on the marriage relationship of Vic and Donna Trenton as well as Vic's struggle to save the ad agency in which he is a partner. It also offers considerable insight into how women like Mrs. Camber find themselves trapped in a marriage in which poverty is the major jailer. One additional problem is the overkill of profanity that occurs early in the book and then fades away. None of this, of course, will keep King fans away; the only question is whether you will want to let them sneak it from adult or risk putting YA on its spine.
Dorothy M. Broderick, in her review of "Cujo," in Voice of Youth Advocates (copyrighted 1981 by Voice of Youth Advocates), Vol. 4, No. 4, October, 1981, p. 34.
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The movie is Creepshow [directed by George A. Romero] and the script is by Stephen King, whose novels Carrie and The Shining became stunning films by Brian De Palma and Stanley Kubrick, and whose second novel, Salem's Lot, was a CBS mini series. That's the connection between King and Romero: a studio executive saw Romero's 1977 vampire movie, Martin, at a Utah film festival and asked him to direct Salem's Lot, a project from which Romero eventually removed himself.
Nevertheless, Romero and King remained in contact, for the match of talents was irresistible. "What Stephen King and George Romero have in common is a lack of inhibitions," says Kirby McCauley, an agent who specializes in science fiction and fantasy. "Other writers and filmmakers dance around horror—those two plow right into it." (p. 72)
[It took King two months to write] Creepshow, a conscious and affectionate imitation of William M. Gaines's horror comics of the Fifties, screamers like Weird Science and Tales from the Crypt, of which King was an avid reader as a child. Like them, Creepshow consists of five short stories interleaved with advertisements for Grit newspapers, Joy Buzzers, X-ray glasses, and novelties to "Amuse and Amaze Your Friends."
Wrapped around these five stories is a sixth, situated on Maple Street, in Centerville, U.S.A. A boy named Billy...
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It will take all of King's monumental by line-insurance to drum up an audience for [Different Seasons, a] bottom-of-the-trunk collection: four overpadded novellas, in non-horror genres—without the gripping situations needed to transcend King's notoriously clumsy writing. Best of the lot is Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption…. The climax is feeble (especially after such a long build-up), the redemption theme is murky—but the close observation of prison life offers some engaging details…. [Throughout Different Seasons, we find thin] gimmicks, weighed down with King's weak characters and weaker prose (unlike his crisp short stories)—but the fans may come around yet again, despite the clear evidence that King needs the supernatural to distract from his awesome limitations as a mainstream storyteller.
A review of "Different Seasons," in Kirkus Reviews (copyright © 1982 The Kirkus Service, Inc.), Vol. L, No. 12, June 15, 1982, p. 693.
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Readers who are drawn to what Stephen King calls the "gooshy parts" of his books—arms mangled by garbage disposals, etc.—may find themselves a little disappointed by these four novellas. The title of the collection [Different Seasons] is meant to suggest a foray into something a bit closer to mainstream fiction, but three of the four stories still rely heavily on elements of the macabre. One of these, "Apt Pupil," is a disjointed tale of a teenager and the parasitic relationship he falls into with an ex-Nazi. The tone of this novella goes somehow wrong, as if King, looking for a way to exploit his characteristic combination of humor and terror, can't find anything to laugh at. The last two stories in the collection are much more successful: "The Body" describes four 10-year-olds and their first encounter with death, while "The Breathing Method" concerns a group of elderly gentlemen who sip brandy and tell horror stories, one involving a woman's bizarre application of a Lamaze-like birth technique. King is guilty of some self-indulgence here …, but there is no denying his narrative drive.
Bill Ott, in his review of "Different Seasons," in Booklist (reprinted by permission of the American Library Association; copyright © 1982 by the American Library Association), Vol. 78, No. 21, July, 1982, p. 1394.
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It's not often that a single individual puts you in mind of both J. B. Priestley and Yogi Berra, but when someone does you might as well pay attention. An extraordinary occurrence. But then Stephen King, who managed this paradoxical feat, is not an ordinary writer. Though, to further confuse the issue, it is precisely King's remarkable ordinariness that makes him what he is, one of the world's best-selling authors…. Before I further complicate my observations on King and his new collection of novellas, Different Seasons, let me get back to Priestley for a moment.
Priestley, in his working prime, which spanned 40-odd years, seemed all but unable to stop the flow of words from his pen. Most of the words were particularly well chosen, and as the cataract poured forth he built remarkably detailed, realistic worlds, novel after novel, play after play, however fanciful the themes. We were chatting about this enormous output one snowy spring day in his comfortable study and he fixed me with what must always have been intended by the expression "a gimlet eye" and said: "Gifford, the important thing is to do the work, keep writing, whether you feel like it or not, Just keep it coming, let nothing get in your way."
I was reminded of this stricture recently as I regarded the apparently bottomless well of Stephen King's word supply. Like clockwork they come, The Stand, The Shining, Cujo, on and on, richly...
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In the afterword to [Different Seasons], Stephen King calls his "stuff" "fairly plain, not very literary, and sometimes (although it hurts like hell to admit it) downright clumsy." He summarizes a career of horror novels as "plain fiction for plain folks, the literary equivalent of a Big Mac and a large fries from McDonald's."
To find the secret of his success, you have to compare King to [Mark] Twain, [Edgar Allan] Poe—with a generous dash of Philip Roth and Will Rogers thrown in for added popular measure. King's stories tap the roots of myth buried in all our minds….
King's visionary flights in these four novellas show us the natural shape of the human soul—a shape even more horrifying, for its protean masks, than the ghouls he has conjured up in the novels. His productivity is based on his awareness that audience psychology responds to the simple elements of fiction, presented directly….
In "Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption," he hooks us blatantly with the narrator's predicted triumph. Within a page or so, he can admit the falseness of the hook—and we don't care. For King, the art is to reveal the art. We adore the special effects….
In "The Body," King shows his skill at assuming a youngster's character, at the same time expressing how Americans sound not at their best but in their everyday voices….
The most chilling story in the...
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Over the last decade Mr. King has certainly not wanted for ears; he is one of the most popular writers of our era. But unlike other vulgar—in the root sense of speaking in the voice of and to the average person—best-selling authors, Mr. King seems to have remained unsatisfied by mere popularity….
[The] author of some of the best horror stories since those of Ambrose Bierce and H. P. Lovecraft may want [understanding as well as acceptance]. And it's precisely this quest for understanding, the drive to make his vision not only well known but deeply felt, that appears to have led him to publish ["Different Seasons," an] uneven, though often surprising, volume.
The first surprise comes early: The opening prison narrative titled "Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption" shows us that the creator of such studies of the criminal mind as "The Shining" and "The Dead Zone" can effectively treat innocence as well as guilt. Set in a fictional state penitentiary in the author's home state of Maine, the tale is told in the first person by Red, a prisoner and entrepreneur who has as one of his best customers a former banker and convicted murderer, Andy Dufresne. Dufresne stands out among the lifers in the yard long before Red discovers his real story; the man is a cultivated type who, even as he's fighting off the brutal sexual advances of Shawshank's population of "sisters," apparently spends his time alone shaping and...
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Those who have already rushed out to buy Different Seasons … may be a trifle shocked by what they have brought home: a collection of four novellas, only one of which offers the chills that have become King's trademark. The Breathing Method is an eerie account of a terribly unnatural childbirth. But the other three, though sporadically gruesome, come without King's customary trimmings. Gone are varieties of telekinesis (Carrie, Firestarter) and precognition (The Shining, The Dead Zone). There are no vampires (Salem's Lot), apocalyptic plagues (The Stand) or satanically rabid Saint Bernards (Cujo). The only reader likely to find these long tales truly frightening is an old-fashioned book lover: they are spooky examples of what can be called postliterate prose.
The genre is new, its methods still in the formative stage, but King is its popular master. Different Seasons offers a dazzling display of how writing can appeal to people who do not ordinarily like to read. King uses language the same way the baseball fan seated behind the home-team dugout uses placards: to remind those present of what they have already seen. In Apt Pupil, for example, a 13-year-old boy tracks down a Nazi war criminal hiding out in his own Southern California suburb. When he confronts the fugitive, the youth is disappointed by the old man's accent: "It didn't sound … well, authentic. Colonel Klink...
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Revenge—the more horrible the better—is a favorite adolescent fantasy, and it is the subject of four of the five tales of horror that comprise Creepshow, an unashamedly adolescent spectacle dreamed up by director George Romero and writer Stephen King. A murdered patriarch bursts from his grave to take revenge on his family. A cuckolded husband … buries his wife and her lover up to their necks in the sand and forces them to watch each other drown on closed-circuit TV. The appearance of an ancient, very abominable snowman on a college campus gives a henpecked professor … a novel chance to do away with his shrewish wife…. And in the final story, destined to be the gross-out favorite at grammar schools, a malicious millionaire … gets his cosmic comeuppance at the hands of millions of carnivorous cockroaches.
Creepshow is conceived as an E. C. Comic come to life, complete with panels, balloons and the lurid colorings of an old issue of "Tales From the Crypt." Romero and King want to be as unsophisticated as possible, while maintaining a sense of humor, and they succeed all too well. The characters, story lines and images are studiously one-dimensional. For anyone over 12 there's not much pleasure to be had watching two masters of horror deliberately working beneath themselves. Creepshow is a faux naïf horror film: too arch to be truly scary, too elemental to succeed as satire.
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In the past, Novelist Stephen King … and Director George A. Romero … have shown that they know how to scare people through the poetry of pulp…. In Creepshow they have aimed lower, and hit the mark. The film is an elaborate tribute to Tales from the Crypt and other horror comic books of the early '50s. Five tales play with the theme of moral revenge taken on corrupt humankind by nature, alien forces or the Undead. But the treatment manages to be both perfunctory and languid; the jolts can be predicted by any ten-year-old with a stop watch. Only the story in which [the] Evil Plutocrat … is eaten alive by cockroaches mixes giggles and grue in the right measure.
Richard Corliss, "Jolly Contempt," in Time (copyright 1982 Time Inc.; all rights reserved; reprinted by permission from Time), Vol. 120, No. 21, November 22, 1982, p. 110.∗
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Despite King's plodding prose and facile characters, he's managed to concoct plots multilayered enough to sustain the length, and sometimes the scrutiny, a feature film demands. At his best, he puts everyone in touch with the nightmare anxieties of youth….
[Creepshow] is a salute to the cult-beloved EC horror comic books of the early Fifties. As a movie, Creepshow is negligible, but as a cultural indicator, it's terrific—a big clue to what even the most skillful and likable schlock-horror purveyors have been up to in all those years since 1957's I Was a Teenage Werewolf. They want to make an enormous catharsis for hundreds of thousands of slobs and to make slobs out of nonslobs. To them, the lowest common denominator isn't a term of derision but an admirable goal.
In the only relatively benign episode of Creepshow, "The Lonesome Death of Jordy Verrill," King makes the most revealing acting appearance by a writer since his literary peer, Mickey Spillane, played Mike Hammer in The Girl Hunters…. King plays the title character, a Down East hick and screw-up who thinks his life problems can be solved when a meteorite lands in his yard. Dreaming of making a killing by selling it to the "Department of Meteors" in a local college, Verrill throws a bucket of water on the meteor to cool it off, only to end up catalyzing a weedlike growth that attaches itself to his grass, his house, his...
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In ["Christine"], King drives back to familiar terror-territory in a haunted car named Christine—and there will no doubt be truckloads of readers thumbing their way through his 500-odd pages. Arnie Cunningham—a teenager who has never fit in—buys a dilapidated 1958 Plymouth Fury from an equally broken-down Army veteran, Roland LeBay. But Christine—and the soon-dead LeBay—have mysterious regenerative powers; Christine's odometer runs backwards and the car repairs itself. Arnie becomes obsessed by the car and possessed by its previous owner…. At times genuinely frightening, but at 500 pages a bit long, "Christine" contains some of the best writing King has ever done; his teenage characters are superbly drawn and their dilemma is truly gripping. However, Christine, we soon realize, is just a car, a finally inanimate machine that does not quite live up to the expectations King's human characterizations have engendered.
A review of "Christine," in Publishers Weekly (reprinted from the February 25, 1983 issue of Publishers Weekly, published by R. R. Bowker Company, a Xerox company; copyright © 1983 by Xerox Corporation), Vol. 223, No. 8, February 25, 1983, p. 80.
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