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431 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1989












...Now this young boy Thad began writing weird stories at an early age, and as he grew up decided to use a pen name for a period of time.....sound familiar?
...Anyway, the time came to bury the alias and one George Stark with full honors....grave, headstone and publicity to boot.
...As the story progresses, a grown up Thad with wife and twins (now writing under his own name) begins to re-experience awful headaches in addition to frightening dreams. Injurious things then start to happen....grotesque murders begin, and most ominous of all...."The sparrows are flying again."
Overall, I really enjoyed this one albeit thought it a bit drawn out. Was actually torn between three and four stars for a good while, but that extra dose of KING weird with the scads of creepy birds late in the story, and the final warning nudged my rating up.
(some gore and super ickiness in this one folks)

“Inside him a voice whispered for the first time: Who are you when you write, Thad? Who are you then?I discovered this book when I was fourteen or so, a teenager safe in the invincibility of youth. It grabbed me then, had me glued to its pages, enthralled by King’s storytelling. Rereading it now, I was a bit worried to see if the magic is lost as the wrinkles are gained — but I still loved it. The story is relatively snappy (it’s definitely not one of those monstrous doorstoppers that King can be quite prone to), the dialogue is the usual King-good, the characters are nicely drawn (Alan Pangborn is a standout here). The protagonist is a writer, and you can just *feel* that King has a personal connection to the craft here, showing us the conjuring of stories as something utterly personal and yet terrifyingly alien in nature. Who and what are you when you create stories and enthrall others in your fantasy worlds?
And for that voice he had no answer.”
“You talked to them about how crazy it would be to believe not just in a vengeful ghost, but in the ghost of a man who never was. But writers INVITE ghosts, maybe; along with actors and artists, they are the only totally accepted mediums of our society. They make worlds that never were, populate them with people who never existed, and then invite us to join them in their fantasies. And we do it, don’t we? Yes. We PAY to do it.”
“He wants the same thing you or I would want if we were in his position. He wants not to be dead anymore. That’s all he wants. Not to be dead anymore. I’m the only one who might be able to make that happen. And if I can’t, or won’t… well… he can at least make sure he isn’t lonely.”When Thad was a young boy, almost dying from a brain tumor, he used to hear birds - sparrows, actually. And now George Stark climbed out of his makeshift grave, and sparrows are flying again.
“No you don’t, Alan thought. You don’t understand what you are, and I doubt that you ever will. Your wife might… although I wonder if things will ever be right between the two of you after this, if she’ll ever want to understand, or dare to love you again. Your kids, maybe, someday… but not you, Thad. Standing next to you is like standing next to a cave some nightmarish creature came out of. The monster is gone now, but you still don’t like to be too close to where it came from. Because there might be another. Probably not; your mind knows that, but your emotions—they play a different tune, don’t they? Oh boy. And even if the cave is empty forever, there are the dreams. And the memories.”
Actually, when a few years later I came across a single line in another King book about a writer in trouble, Bag of Bones and then another brief line in Needful Things, I was taken aback and yet not quite surprised at the casual reveal of Thad Beaumont’s . And yet that stopped me from revisiting this book until now — because damn you, Uncle Stevie, you can be a mean bastard.
“White sky—he saw a white sky broken by the silhouettes of houses and telephone poles. And everywhere there were sparrows. They lined every roof, crowded every pole, waiting only for the command of the group mind. Then they would explode skyward with a sound like thousands of sheets flapping in a brisk wind.”

The Sparrows are flying.





❝ The babies are insurance. Like write-protect on a floppy disk, isn’t that so, Thad?❞









“...he was, after all, a novelist...and a novelist was simply a fellow who got paid to tell lies. The bigger the lies, the better the pay.”




“But writers INVITE ghosts, maybe; along with actors and
artists, they are the only totally accepted mediums of our society. They make worlds that never
were, populate them with people who never existed, and then invite us to join them in their
fantasies. And we do it, don't we? Yes. We PAY to do it.”

