(1982) Every year I try to rediscover King, because I’m a sucker for nostalgia. He loves making fun of literary fiction but no literary author would dream of indulging in the hundreds and hundreds of pages of mundane, mediocre detail and filler the way he does. He’s actually insanely boring. And yet I keep trying. More than childhood memories, it’s the mix of the speculative and the familiar that I’m after—the extraordinary in an everyday setting, everyday at least for this New Englander.
So now I’m just taking my chances with his short fiction. “The Raft” is a fast piece of pastoral horror told with pure storytelling instinct: the quick intro to the characters; the timely placed foreshadowing to nudge a reader’s ever-waning interest along; the way King confuses the horror with more ordinary anxieties, such as jealousy or cowardice.
He doesn’t capitalize on the moral dilemmas such a nightmarish situation would present, and the beats leading up to the horror (here’s a strange black spot on the lake, now it’s moving, now comes fear, etc.) are handled better than when it’s explicit. In this the story is similar to “The Mist,” from the same collection. And the ending is a letdown. But I liked the way King doesn’t let up on the tension. The creature keeps getting bigger, more agile, seemingly hungrier, the safe spots on the raft smaller, the weariness more and more unbearable, the trance irresistible. The rhythm of the prose even becomes quite poetic during the climax.
My only real problem was it was sad to see the poor girls die so horribly. Guess I’m getting soft in my old age.