I spent the weekend with Stephen King. He’s written another doorstop, this one about traveling back in time to prevent Oswald from killing Kennedy. Denigrate horror if you like; you’d not be talking about Stephen King. For my money (and by that I mean library late fees) he transcends the genre.
And I don’t say so because I’m flattered that many of the characters in 11/22/63 are librarians (I’ll say no more except that the man obviously has a thing for us); I say so because once again I opened the (cellar) door into King World and by the time he deposited me at the exit, dazed, and with a smear of ectoplasm on my chin, a couple of days had passed. That’s good and not good. Weekends are short enough already.
There’s a reason Stephen King is Stephen King (and John Grisham is John Grisham, and John le Carré is… well, this could go on). Read him and find out what it is:
'Salem's Lot
The Stand
Full Dark, No Stars
On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft
The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon
The best is last: The Shining
