![]() ![]() Two things have happened since then: first, in the wake of nonsupernatural and so more culturally acceptable novels such as the claustrophobic masterpiece Misery, King has grudgingly been admitted by lit-crit folk into the ranks of "actually good writers" as opposed to mere megaselling dimestore artists. Good for cheap thrills, but not literarily improving, except in the way that completely indiscriminate and insatiable reading might eventually turn out to be. ![]() In those days, King's reputation was that of a pulp master, with the emphasis firmly on "pulp". (There's another horrible moment to do with reflections in this new novel.) At that age I was reading all the Stephen King I could get my hands on, a fact that might have worried my parents more had I not also been reading anything else I could get my hands on too. I had read Stephen King's 1975 'Salem's Lot, and it had really screwed with my tiny mind. F or several months, when I was 10 or 11, I avoided windows at night, because I didn't want to see a hideous child vampire staring back at me. ![]()
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