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930 pages, Paperback
First published September 24, 1990
Four short novels (not so short, actually) of one of the best contemporary writers out there. The Langoliers (my favorite) carries the reader together with the protagonists into a parallel dimension. The unknown and the fear of what we do not know are the main themes, and the atmosphere resembles that of "The Twilight Zone", the acclaimed TV show. One of the best story I ever read. Secret Window, Secret Garden talks about what I suppose is the nightmare of every writer, ie being accused of plagiarism. The Library policeman is the story of an adult experiencing once again a trauma occurred when he was a kid. In The Sun Dog a boy gets a camera out of the ordinary.
Four past midnight... and you will not sleep anymore.
Vote: 8,5
Quattro lunghi racconti di uno dei migliori romanzieri contemporanei in circolazione. I Langolieri (il mio preferito dei quattro), trasporta il lettore, assieme ai protagonisti, in una dimensione parallela. L’ignoto e la paura per ciò che non conosciamo sono il tema principale, e l’atmosfera che si respira ricorda molto quella de “Ai Confini della Realtà”, la fortunata TV serie cult. Uno dei migliori racconti che io abbia letto. Finestra Segreta, Giardino Segreto parla di quello che immagino sia l’incubo di ogni scrittore, ossia essere accusato di plagio. Il Poliziotto della Biblioteca racconta della vicenda di un adulto che rivive un trauma avvenuto quando era un ragazzino. Ne Il Fotocane, un ragazzo riceve in dono una macchina fotografica fuori dal normale.
Quattro dopo mezzanotte... e non dormirete più.
Voto: 8,5
Everything, Sam Peebles decided later, was the fault of the goddamned acrobat.—leads to some over-the-phone dialogue in the opening scene that was playful in a way I don't connect with King.
The Castle Rock LaVerdiere's Super Drug Store was a lot more than just a drugstore. Put another way, it was really only a drugstore as an afterthought. It was as if someone had noticed at the last moment—just before the grand opening, say—that one of the words in the sign was still "Drug." That someone might have made a mental note to tell someone else, someone in the company's management, that here they were, opening yet another LaVerdiere's, and they had by simple oversight neglected yet again to correct the sign so it read, more simply and accurately, LaVerdiere's Super Store . . . and, after making the mental note, the someone in charge on noticing such things had delayed the grand opening a day or two so they could shoe-horn in a prescription counter about the size of a telephone booth in the long building's furthest, darkest, and most neglected corner."Although it was named LaVerdiere's Super Drug Store, "drugstore" must have been an afterthought, as suggested by the miniscule prescription counter tucked away in the back." There, was that so hard? Anyway, we've established what kind of store it is. I wonder what real-life store King was mad at? In any case, now a character of significance can walk in—
The LaVerdiere's Super Drug Store was really more of a jumped-up five-and-dime more than anything else. The town's last real five-and-dime, a long dim room with feeble, fly-specked overhead globes hung on chains and reflected murkily in the creaking but often-waxed wooden floor, had been The Ben Franklin Store. It had given up the ghost in 1978 to make way for a video-games arcade called Galaxia and E-Z Video Rentals, where Tuesday was Toofers Day and no one under the age of twenty could go in the back roomThank you for spending a whole paragraph on a place that doesn't exist and became a place that has no bearing on this story. Now can we—
LaVerdiere's carried everything the old Ben Franklin had carried, but the goods were bathed in the pitiless light of Maxi-Glo fluorescent bars which gave every bit of stock its own hectic, feverish shimmer. Buy me! each item seemed to shriek. Buy me or you may die! Or your wife may die! Or your kids! Or your best friend! Possibly all of them at once! Why? How should I know? I'm just a brainless item sitting on a pre-fab LaVerdiere's shelf! But doesn't it feel true? You know it does! So buy me and buy me RIGHT . . . NOW!Uhh, can I call someone for you, Uncle Steve?
There was an aisle of notions, two aisles of first-aid supplies and nostrums, an aisle of video and audio tapes (both blank and pre-recorded). There was a long rack of magazines giving way to paperback books, a display of lighters under one digital cash register and a display of watches under another (a third register was hidden in the dark corner where the pharmacist lurked in his lonely shadows). Halloween candy had taken over most of the toy aisle (the toys would not only come back after Halloween but eventually take over two whole aisles as the days slid remorselessly down toward Christmas). And, like something too neat to exist in reality except as a kind of dumb admission that there was such a thing as Fate with a capital F, and that Fate might, in its own way, indicate the existence of that whole "other world" about which Pop had never before cared (except in terms of how it might fatten his pocketbook, that was) and about which Kevin Delevan had never before even thought, at the front of the store, in the main display area, was a carefully arranged work of salesmanship which was billed as the FALL FOTO FESTIVAL.Congratulations, the characters have been mentioned. None of them are present yet, and the whole thing so far could have been, "Pop walked into the local generic store that happened to sell Polaroid cameras and film because the story requires this," but just for funsies I'm going to ride this out until I hit the Goodreads character limit, because you must suffer as I have suffered.
This display consisted of a basket of colorful autumn leaves spilling out on the floor in a bright flood (a flood too large to actually have come from that one basket alone, a careful observer might have concluded). Amid the leaves were a number of Kodak and Polaroid cameras—several Sun 660s among the latter—and all sorts of other equipment: cases, albums, film, flashbars. In the midst of this odd cornucopia, an old-fashioned tripod rose like one of H.G. Wells's Martian death-machines towering over the crispy wreck of London. It bore a sign which told all patrons interested enough to look that this week one could obtain SUPER REDUCTIONS ON ALL POLAROID CAMERAS & ACCESSORIES!Goddamn finally a character is actually THERE.
At eight-thirty that morning, half an hour after LaVerdiere's opened for the day, "all patrons" consisted of Pop Merrill and Pop alone. He took no notice of the display but marched straight to the only open counter, where Molly Durham had just finished laying out the watches on their imitation-velvet display-cloth.
Oh no, here comes old Eyeballs, she thought, and grimaced. Pop's idea of a really keen way to kill a stretch of time about as long as Molly's coffee-break was to kind of ooze up to the counter where she was working (he always picked hers, even if he had to stand in line; in fact, she thought he liked it better when there was a line) and buy a pouch of Prince Albert tobacco. This was a purchase an ordinary fellow could transact in maybe thirty seconds, but if she got Eyeballs out of her face in under three minutes, she thought she was doing very well indeed. He kept all of his money in a cracked leather purse on a chain, and he'd haul it out of his pocket—giving his doorbells a good feel on the way, it always looked to Molly—and then open it. It always gave out a little screeeeek! noise, and honest to God if you didn't expect to see a moth flutter out of it, just like in those cartoons people draw of tightwads. On top of the purse's contents there would be a whole mess of paper money, bills that looked somehow as if you shouldn't handle them, as if they might be coated with disease germs of some kind, and jingling silver underneath. Pop would fish out a dollar bill and then kind of hook the other bills to one side with one of those thick fingers of his to get to the change underneath—he'd never give you a couple of bucks, huhn-uh, that would make everything too quick to suit him—and then he'd work that out, too. And all the time his eyes would be busy, flicking down to the purse for a second or two but mostly letting the fingers sort out the proper coins by touch while his eyes crawled over her boobs, her belly, her hips, and then back up to her boobs again. Never once her face; not even so far as her mouth, which was a part of a girl in which most men seemed to be interested; no, Pop Merill was strictly interested in the lower portions of the female anatomy. When he finally finished—and no matter how quick that was, it always seemed like three times as long to Molly—and got the hell out of the store again, she always felt like going somewhere and taking a long shower.Too much cocaine, or not enough cocaine?
So she braced herself, put on her best it's-only-eight-thirty-and-I've-got-send-and-a-half-hours-to-go smile, and stood at the counter as Pop approached. She told herself, He's only looking at you, guys have been doing the same since you sprouted, and that was true, but this wasn't the same. Because Pop Merrill wasn't like most of the guys who had run their eyes over her trim and eminently watchable superstructure since that time ten years ago. Part of it was that Pop was old, but that wasn't all of it. The truth was that some guys looked at you and some—a very few—seemed to actually be feeling you up with their eyes, and Merritt was one of those. His gaze actually seemed to have weight; when he fumbled in his creaky old-maid's purse on its length of incongruously masculine chain, she seemed to actually feel his eyes squirming up and down her front, lashing their way up her hills on their optic nerves like tadpoles and then sliding bonelessly down into her valleys, making her wish she had worn a nun's habit to work that day. Or maybe a suit of armor.
But her mother had been fond of saying What can't be cured must be endured, sweet Molly, and until someone discovered a method of weighing gazes so those of dirty men both young and old could be outlawed, or, more likely, until Pop Merrill did everyone in Castle Rock a favor by dying so that eyesore of a tourist trap he kept could be torn down, she would just have to deal with it as best she could.Pop Merrill's character was quite well established before this chapter, and the reader is 100% aware that he's going to the store to buy Polaroid film without knowing what he's doing. Please, get on with it! I'll spare you the rest; after these past four pages, him actually buying the film takes another six.
Get away! the wino screamed. Get away! Feef! Fushing feef! Fushing FEEF!This "fushing feef" nonsense appeared verbatim already in The Talisman and I hated it there for the first time. At least this confirms that was King's specific contribution, as I already suspected. What is it King has about speech impediments?