Forty Years of Stephen King

[dropcap]F[/dropcap]orty years ago, Stephen King’s first published novel was released to the world. In the decades which have elapsed since, the Maine-born writer has become regarded as one of the most prolific and influential literary figures of modern times.

The novel which set such a successful career in motion is Carrie; a book capable of inciting such fervour that it achieved iconic status decades ago. Its shelf-life has endured to the present day, wherein it still stands as one of the truly great original works of horror and pathos. Its original hardback edition sold a mere 13,000 copies in its first year, but the subsequent paperback copy was given a much broader release, and by the end of 1975 King had over one million book sales under his belt. It’s not hard to understand why: Carrie is an excellent debut; a striking and fiercely dark account of a girl bullied at high school, who simultaneously struggles to grapple with the twin throes of pubescence and her own burgeoning ability to wield a destructive form of telekinesis.

Thanks to this intriguing concept and its epistolary narrative, Carrie makes for a stylish and gripping read, one forged from newspaper clippings, letters, and book extracts. This series of disparate accounts allows the tale of Carrie White to be traced from multiple perspectives, building towards an apocalyptic climax in which the (thankfully fictional) town of Chamberlain is levelled by Carrie’s psychic capabilities. In terms of scale and havoc, it’s highly impressive, but what really gives Carrie strength and balance is that its bloodlust is counterweighted with profound tragedy. With varying degrees of success, the novel’s two film adaptations have highlighted the tragic arc of the titular character: a tortured girl whose wretched life is poisoned completely only seconds after she achieves a state of genuine happiness. The seeds of King’s future greatness are all traceable through the pages of Carrie, manifest in his deft weaving of the sinister and the mundane, his arrangement of hugely climactic set-pieces, and his keen eye for the minutiae amid the carnage.

To date, King has had over seventy of his individual works given extensive publication, including straightforward novels, collections of short stories, books written under the Richard Bachman pseudonym, and a number of non-fiction entries including Danse Macabre and On Writing. This substantial library has amassed over 350 million worldwide sales, and hatched a variety of additional texts in other mediums, including film and television adaptations, graphic novel spin-offs, and even a work of musical theatre: Ghost Brothers of Darkland County, for which King provided a libretto. [pullquote style=”left” quote=”dark”]Such a fruitful career has positioned King as an institution unto himself, to the point that he has been titled the “master of horror” by countless readers.[/pullquote]

Personally, I have a bit of a gripe with the “horror” label which so ubiquitously categorises his oeuvre. Although on the surface, it’s the simplest heading under which to brand his novels, there are many more features to King’s prose than providing simple scares. In his own treatise to King’s work, comedian Patton Oswalt highlighted the author’s skill for encapsulating the truths of aging as well as tapping into primal fear, and there’s a lot of credence to the parallel Oswalt has drawn between the output of King and Steven Spielberg, both of whom experienced creative purple patches through the late ’70s and early ’80s. In their individual mediums, both writer and filmmaker alike produced work which analyse the mundane within the magical, and vice-versa. Here are books and films which bury authentic truths and commentaries on everyday strife beneath more ornate surfaces. Beneath the terror and intrigue of alien landings, supernatural occurrences, and monster attacks, there are examinations of broken families, the emotional constriction of suburbia, and studies of characters forced to grow up too swiftly. Consequently, in the case of Spielberg, it would be a disservice to reduce him to the “master of sci-fi” and overlook his other achievements. Likewise, it seems slightly inappropriate to blithely lump King’s work under a catch-all genre, which risks concealing the more subtle facets of his writing.

That being said, it is understandable as to why King has been deemed the master of horror so extensively: he has penned some searingly tense passages in his catalogue. King’s brand of slow-burning, highly descriptive writing takes its time to build, but in his best offerings, the scenarios he creates become so pressurised and claustrophobic that his novels take on explosive qualities; their peaks of unyielding suspense and inevitable brutality so intense that the results are positively incendiary. A prime example of King’s poise and power in this regard can be found in Misery, one of the most unnerving and agonising stories King has put to the page.

There are those who don’t find as much to enjoy in King’s writing, and it must be admitted that his is far from an unblemished oeuvre. Naturally, in a body of work so broad, there are bound to be a few duds here and there, and there are a handful of novels wherein the plots feel stodgier, the characters overly familiar, and the concepts too gimmicky. One of his most recent tomes, for instance, treads very close to this line. Under the Dome is a master class in building tension and community, but falls short in its final act, which – while still intriguing – hinges on an audacious plot twist, which threatens to capsize the whole story. As exquisite as it is for King to gradually ramp up the heat like some sadistic child with a magnifying glass, the story’s payoff isn’t as enjoyable as reading about the lives of the townsfolk themselves, and witnessing these everymen coping, interacting, fretting, and conspiring in the face of their increasingly grave situation.

It’s an issue which afflicts several of King’s novels: his conclusions can occasionally feel slight in comparison to what precedes them. Yet, as mentioned, King’s strengths lie in world-building, and even when indulging his more fantastical tendencies, the worlds he creates feel thoroughly real and inhabitable. Under the Dome itself makes the sleepy town of Chester’s Mill feel as tangible as any other New England borough, and The Stand manages to juggle its wealth of characters so successfully that by the time its brooding final act arrives, the reader cares deeply about the fates of each of the men sent to stand against Randall Flagg.

But when it comes to audience investment, nothing tops what has been widely regarded as King’s magnum opus: the Dark Tower series. I spent my own college years gorging on this seven-book set – which was recently augmented by a new volume, The Wind Through the Keyhole – and it remains a gargantuan achievement in King’s canon. Indebted equally to J.R.R. Tolkien and Sergio Leone, the Dark Tower series is a sprawling epic, rooted deeply in the iconography of the western film genre. Led by the iconic protagonist of gunslinger Roland Deschain, King transports his readers on a quest to reach the titular tower; the nexus of a number of worlds which are slowly falling apart. As the journey continues, Roland finds himself pulled between damnation and redemption, his stout morality cracked as he is forced to make a series of agonising choices in his attempts to reach his goal.

The first four volumes are easily some of the brightest jewels in King’s crown; four distinct but mutually enriching books which are as transporting and imaginative as any other work of fantasy. The subsequent instalments are all riveting (and the final tome is the most emotionally devastating of all), but the plots do become messier and overly metatextual, and King even goes so far as to insert his own persona into Roland’s world; a move which slips just too far into self-indulgence to justify its portentous deployment. In this way, one would be hard-pressed to call the series perfect, but even so, this does not diminish what rewards the saga does offer its readers. In the Dark Tower series, King offers up a sweeping, textured universe, some truly majestic set pieces, and a plethora of characters who we grow to care for deeply. The travels of Roland, Jake, Eddie, Susannah, and Oy are weird, wonderful, and refreshingly frank in their humanity.

That’s another key strength of King’s writing: he allows his characters to be flawed, ugly, and even misshapen. Their adventures are peppered with barbed sarcasm, various colloquialisms, and nods to pop-culture: spiky traits which add a great level of flavour, and an appreciation for fictional lives lived outside of the pages which King provides. Even in their heroic moments, we are reminded that the protagonists are drawn from flesh and blood, and thus, even the most outlandish scenarios are threaded with plausibility. At one point in the Dark Tower series, Eddie courageously saves another character from death, but in doing so endures a particularly painful experience. In the aftermath of such a pulse-pounding event, rather than whooping with exaltation, Eddie offers three simple words: “Cheap fucking vasectomy.” Such zest is exactly what makes King’s best characters burst from the page: they are identifiable, charismatic, and fun to spend time with.

Yes, in the small library with which Stephen King has provided the world, there are a handful of disappointments, gimmicky concepts, and missed beats. But when the writer is firing on all cylinders, there are few literary experiences which can match the ferocity of his compulsive prose. With his vivid dexterity, intensely human characterisation, and those trademark twists, there are few writers who can match King’s ability to make reading such an exhilarating and awe-inspiring pastime. And for that, in the words of Roland Deschain, we should all say thankya.