In the first paragraph, Atwood situates Stephen King halfway between Salvador Dalí and Norman Rockwell, and that’s about the most accurate description of his work that I’ve ever heard. This latest King novel, the much-hyped sequel to The Shining, follows from its heavily Rockwellian predecessor—where almost everything can be explained as metaphorical or madness-inspired—and tacks hard over to the Dalí side. Danny Torrance, grown up but still experiencing his “psycho-intuitive powers,” must protect a new friend—another shiner—who’s being hunted by a near-immortal gang called the “True Knot,” who “lust to drink her spiritual mist.” Take from that what you will… I’m a little disappointed. I don’t think Kubrick would’ve touched this new one.
Charles makes Lahiri’s latest novel—released in the U.S. just two days ago and already on the Booker longlist—sound like an excellent premise that gets bogged down by a lack of dramatic action. He praises Lahiri’s excellent prose but throws up some caution flags.
This is a pretty great review, half because Barry insightfully dissects some of Davis’s prose, and half because she so blushingly pretends not to understand what sounds like a whole lot of sex. Like this: “And you find out not only does Miss Vicks know him, they are romantically involved, and he can make things vanish or “vibrate at unprecedented frequencies,” including her privates, he can sow fear inside anything, and then you read that he can fit his entire hand inside her. Time stutters. What? His entire hand what?”