I’m not exactly a fan of Stephen King. I could say he is a victim of his own popularity: I’ve seen so many of the movie adaptations from his novels, I don’t feel the need to check out the book versions. And the first book of his that I’ve read almost 30 years ago is The Stand , which started with great storytelling and compelling characters and devolved later into self-indulgent filler and confusion. So, it’s been too long since I put him on the backburner, mislabelling him as a commercial hack who found a successful niche in the horror genre.
I’m about to write now a full retraction from my biased and hasty judgement, based almost entirely on two of the four novellas included in the present collection. The man can write! Gripping, deeply felt human interest stories with little too none supernatural props and strong, direct prose, convincing dialogue and incredible emotional intensity.
Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption is the source material of the top movie on the imdb all time best 250 list. The reason for this can be sumed in one little quote:
It always comes down to just two choices. Get busy living or get busy dying.
The story of Andrew Dufresne struggle to keep his sanity and his dreams alive inside the Shawshank prison becomes the story of each and every one of us and should be an inspiration to never give up, just like it was for Red, the lifer who managed to adapt and use the system for his own survival and comfort. What does it matter if the author ‘borrowed’ the storyline from Leo Tolstoy, or if some parallels could be drawn to Papillon by Henry Carriere? King made the best use of the material with uncharacteristic restraint in terms of page length and, I again feel the need to stress, great dialogue and straightforward prose.
We get to know Andy Dufresne indirectly, through the eyes of Red, the hardened con who can get you anything you need for a price:
He was a short, neat little man with sandy hair and small, clever hands. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles. His fingernails were always clipped, and they were always clean. That’s a funny thing to remember about a man, I suppose, but it seems to sum Andy up for me. He always looked as if he should have been wearing a tie.
The initial portrait serves to underline how much Andy is not like the rest of murderers and criminals sent behind bars for life in one of the most notorious prisons in the country. Sure, like everybody else except Red, he claims he is innocent and that he didn’t kill his wife and her secret lover in cold blood, but he is inside now, and he must learn to survive by the brutal rules that govern this alternate and rigidly governed world. The first thing he asks of Red is to provide him with a pin-up poster of Rita Hayworth, to be followed in the long years of his imprisonment by further images of beauty queens to hang on the walls of his cell:
They mean the same thing to me as they do to most cons, I guess. Freedom. You look at those pretty women and you feel like you could almost ... not quite but almost ... step right through and be beside them. Be free.
Most of the story is taken up by the refusal of Andy to accept his fate and to succumb to mistreatment at the hands of older cons or corrupt wardens. His accounting talents, his fighting spirit and his honorable behaviour will slowly earn him a friendship with Red and a reputation among the other cons. Andy rarely explains himself, leaving Red to decode his character through his actions and through later revelations that I would leave out in order not to spoil the outcome, but here’s my favorite speech from Andy:
Guys like us Red, we know there’s a third choice. An alternative to staying simon-pure or bathing in the filth and the slime. It’s the alternative that grown-ups all over the world pick. You balance off your walk through the hog-wallow against what it gains you. You choose the lesser of two evils and try to keep your good intentions in front of you. And I guess you judge how well you’re doing by how well you sleep at night ... and what your dreams are like.
Stephen King has a reputation for inserting autobiographical notes in his novels. I don’t believe we can assume he has direct knowledge of the prison system, but Red, his narrative voice here, makes some remarks about writing down his experiences and about his general outlook on life that could be extended to apply to the art of writing in general (“Writing about yourself seems to be a lot like sticking a branch into clear river-water and roiling up the muddy bottom.”) Red, like many of us approaching or passing middle age, has taught himself over decades of imprisonment to give up all dreams and to live in a painfully real and cynical world. Would Andy’s dreams have the power to inspire and awaken the spark of hope in his weary soul? Read to the end to find out ...
Apt Pupil is in the difficult position of following up after Shawshank, and suffers in comparison, perhaps unjustly. I understand there’s a movie version for this too, but I haven’t seen it yet. Best way I can describe it is as a horror story where the monsters are the ordinary people living on the street next to your own door. A quiet pensioner and a bright young kid meet in what an outsider would later call “black serendipity”, brought together by a morbid interest in the atrocities that took place in the deathcamps of the Third Reich.
Todd Bowden, the total all-American kid: thirteen years old, five-foot eight and a healthy one hundred and forty pounds, hair the color of ripe corn, blue eyes, white even teeth, lightly tanned skin marred by not even the first shadow of adolescent acne. is blackmailing his elderly neighbour Dussander into conversations about his time as the commander of one of the extermination camps in Poland. Todd’s curiosity was awakened on Career Day at his school, when he got to write an article about war crimes:
It’s like a key turning into a lock or falling in love for the first time. I’ve found my GREAT INTEREST!
But is he in control of the situation, or is he falling under the spell of the old devil? His mind is slowly poisoned by the stories he hears, and he doesn’t have the strength and the wisdom to keep his ‘great interest’ from infecting his everyday life. The stakes are raised higher and higher as the young and the old battle for control of the situation, with actual victims soon to fall prey to their criminal mind games. To me, the whole set-up felt contrived and the character of Todd a little too gullible and too mentally unbalanced given the opening portrait of a bright kid, but King managed to keep me interested in the story despite these reservations. Again, I will stop before going into spoilers, and recommend the novella as a good example of his talent for building characters and suspense. Final quote:
Maybe we know that under the right set of circumstances the things that live in the catacombs would be glad to crawl out.
The Body is my personal favorite in the collection, even as I admit that Shawshank is probably better written and with the deeper message. It helps probably that “Stand By Me” as the movie version is titled is also one of my all time personal favorites, and that includes the fantastic soundtrack whose songs are actually mentioned in the novella. The secret ingredients that worked their magic on me are probably the persistent nostalgia about the summer adventures of my teenage years, those enduring friendships and an early awareness of death:
I was twelve going on thirteen when I first saw a dead human being. It happened in 1960, a long time ago ... although sometimes it doesn’t seem that long to me.
Gordie Lachance, Chris Chambers, Teddy Duchamp, Vern Tessio meet in a treehouse in Castle Rock, Maine, where they smoke illicit cigarettes and discuss the world away in idle summer heat. All of them come from disfunctional families and are largely self reliant, free range kids that when they hear of a dead body lost in a nearby forest, set out on a two day trip to check it out before the authorities or the older kids take it away.
There were games and endless bolted meals, lawns to mow, places to run to, walls to pitch pennies against, people to clap you on the back. And now I sit here trying to look through an IBM keyboard and see that time, trying to recall the best and the the worst of that green and brown summer, and I can almost feel the skinny, scabbed boy still buried in this advancing body and hear those sounds.
The technique of using an older narrator reminiscing about his younger days is one I’ve encountered countless times, but in Gordie Lachance I have met a kindred soul, one I like to think reflects the author’s own experiences in what is for me his most honest and vulnerable guise. Gordie is a natural storyteller and throughout the adventure he treats his friends to improvised sessions where he tests and develops his skills orally before putting them on paper. Some of his stories are a bit awkward and unpolished, as they should, given his inexperience and teenage taste for gross out humour (That tale about the eating contest being a perfect example of knowing his audience’s preferences and playing up to them). The strongest passages in the book though are the ones that are happening inside the mind of Gordie, the ones that are the most difficult to put into words and to explain to strangers: a deer silently coming out of the mist to cross the rail tracks before sunrise,while everybody else is sleeping; the shock of empathy for the kid killed by the train, the pain of growing old and missing your childhood friends.
My wife, my kids, my friends – they all think that having an imagination like mine must be quite nice; aside from making all this dough, I can have a little mind-movie whenever things get dull. Mostly they’re right. But every now and then it turns around and bites the s—t out of you with these long teeth, teeth that have been filed to points like the teeth of a cannibal. You see things you’s just as soon not see, things that keep you awake until first light.
Through Gordie, Stephen Kings talks not only about his adolescence, but also about writing (“When you don’t know what happens next, that’s the end.”), dreams, family, growing old. Final quote:
The most important things are the hardest to say, because words diminish them. It’s hard to make strangers care about the good things in your life.
Breathing Method is the last novella included here, and again suffers by being placed after a masterpiece. There’s little to complain about here, it’s a craftly spun yarn about the power of stories to entertain and to disturb us out of complacency, to feed our imagination and relieve the boredom of routine.
Actually there are two nested tales in here, one about an elderly gentleman in New York who gets invited to an exclusive private club, and one about a possibly supernatural occurence that reminded me of the works of Edgar Allan Poe.
Many tales have been spun out in the main room, Mr. Adley, tales of every sort, from the comic to the tragic to the ironic, to the sentimental. But on the Thursday before Christmas, it’s always a tale of the uncanny. It’s always been that way, at least as far back as I can remember.
The final novella serves as a good example of why Stephen King is famous for his dark and creepy subjects. For me the main atraction was the club itself, a haven for impossible books like the ones in the Library of Dreams from Neil Gaiman’s “Sandman” universe or Carlos Luis Zafon’s “Library of Forgotten Books” in Barcelona – a place where dreamers and storytellers gather to pass the time in their favorite environment.
In conclusion, “Different Seasons” may have been born as an afterthought of the editor, gathering King’s lesser works between his big commercial projects, but it turned out to be for me his most honest and accomplished offering, good enough to convince me I should read more books by him. I will close my review with what is actually King’s opening gambit, a phrase he borrowed from Flaubert to maybe explain why he wrote these stories, lest he forgets what life is all about:
Tout s’en va, tout passe, l’eau coule, et le coeur oublie.