I mean the book. The place it takes us and how it takes us.
Why this sudden outpouring? Last time in the UK I picked up 11.22.63 by Stephen King. Now I’ve never shied away from admitting I’m a massive King fan; my thirty-odd-and-still-growing collection is testament to that. This book is no exception. I just can’t put it down. It’s one of those books where you go to sleep at night with it in your mind and you wake up in the same state.
On my other blog I posted a short story (and by the looks of it not a very popular one… it’s flying season I guess) called A Wing and a Prayer and in it I mentioned reading Albert Camus’ The Outsider. It’s what I had just finished reading and was immediately to hand. It could have been Jack & the Beanstalk, it wasn’t relative to the story, just a little piece of setting I added. Anyway, to cut a short story shorter, The Outsider, good that it is, just didn’t transport me back to Algiers the way Stephen King transports me back to Maine.
That, my friend, is the magic of the book. And no TV, cinema or radio can do that for me.