130, WG64, M65, E119, C2, B10 / NG66, F65, D11, NA12

Neil Gaiman, The Sandman Library VIII: Worlds' End

In der gesamten Sandman-Serie geht es um Geschichten, Stories in allen Arten und Formen und in diesem Band scheint alles zu kulminieren. Unzählige Geschichten werden ineinander verschachtelt - wie russische Puppen wie Stephen King in seinem Vorwort bemerkt - bis sie am Ende in eine Geschichte münden, die der erste Erzähler ganz am Anfang in einer Bar erzählt. Aber ist dies auch wirklich der Abschluß?
Selbst nach kanpp 20 Jahren habe ich immer noch nicht genug vom Sandman und irgendwie war diesmal dieser Band an der Reihe. Vielleicht hänge ich auch noch "The Wake" dran, den hab ich auch schon länger nicht mehr gelesen ...
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These are great stories, and we're all lucky to have them. To read Now, and maybe again 'Then', later on, when we need what only a good story has the power to do: to take us away to worlds that never existed, in the company of people we wish we were ... or thank God we aren't.

(Stephen King, aus dem Vorwort zu Neil Gaimans Worlds' End, the Sandman Library VIII, 1994)

40, WG18, M23, E40

Stephen King, End of Watch (Bill Hodges Trilogy Book 3)

Der letzte Band mit Bill Hodges und vielleicht der beste, definitiv der traurigste. Und immer wieder gut zu lesen.
Übrigens fiel mir einmal mehr der Name Frederica Bimmel auf. Aber natürlich ist das Buch ja auch Thomas Harris gewidmet.
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He looks over at the card players as he says this, especially the two baldies. One looks good (as Hodges himself looks good), but the other is cadaverous and hollow-eyed. One foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, Hodges's father would have said. And the thought that comes to him is too complicated - too fraught with a terrible mixture of anger and sorrow - to be articulated. It's about how some people carelessly squander what others would sell their souls to have: a healthy, pain-free body. And why? Because they're too blind, too emotionally scarred, or too self-involved to see past the earth's dark curve to the next sunrise. Which always comes, if one continues to draw breath.

(Stephen King, End of Watch, 2015)

39, WG17, M22, E39

Stephen King, Finders Keepers (Bill Hodges Trilogy Book 2)

Bei diesem Band interessierte mich neben Holly - die hier ein wenig in den Hintergrund gedrängt wird - die Story von Peter Saubers Zufallsfund und wie er mit dem Geld seine Familie über Wasser hält. Morris Bellamys Teil eher weniger, obwohl es dort auch schöne Stellen gibt.

For readers, one of life's most electrifying discoveries is that they are readers - not just capable of doing it (which Morris already knew), but in love with it. Hopelessly. Head over heels. The first book that does that is never forgotten, and each page seems to bring a fresh revelation, one that burns and exalts: Yes! That's how it is! Yes! I saw that too! And of course, That's what I think! That's what I feel!
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The things of the world fell by the wayside, you lost your speed and your eyesight and your fucking Electric Boogaloo, but literature was eternal, and that was what was waiting for him: a lost geography as yet seen by no eye but its creator's.
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Under such circumstances the question is beyond bizarre, but it's also sincere. Honest. Pete realizes that the fictional Andrea, Jimmy's first love, is real to this man in a way Pete's sister is not. No human being is as real to Red Lips as Jimmy Gold, Andrea Stone, Mr. Meeker, Pierre Retonne (also known as the Car Salesman of Doom), and all the rest. This is surely a marker of true, deep insanity, but that must make Pete crazy, too, because he knows how this lunatic feels. Exactly how. He lit up with the same excitement, the same amazement, when Jimmy glimpsed Andrea in Grant Park, during the Chicago riots of 1968. Tears actually came to his eyes. Such tears, Pete realizes - yes, even now, especially now, because their lives hang upon it - mark the core power of make-believe. It's what caused thousands to weep when they learned that Charles Dickens had died of a stroke. It's why, for years, a stranger put a rose on Edgar Allan Poe's grave every January 19th., Poe's birthday. It's also what would make Pete hate this man even if he wasn't pointing a gun at his sister's trembling, vulnerable midsection. Red Lips took the life of a great writer, and why? Because Rothstein dared to follow a character who went in a direction Red Lips didn't like? Yes, that was it. He did it out of his own core belief: that the writing was somehow more important than the writer.
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(Stephen King, Finders Keepers, 2015)

38, WG16, M21, E38

Stephen King, Mr. Mercedes (Bill Hodges Trilogy Book 1)

Nach 'If it Bleeds' war es eigentlich unvermeidlich, dass ich alle Bücher mit Holly Gibney darin nochmal lesen wollte, wenn auch mit übersprungenen Stellen zwischendurch oder etwas flüchtiger. Und auch ohne die Teile mit Brady bleibt das Buch ungeheuer spannend. Und wie auch schon bei den ersten Malen fragte ich mich, wie schwer es King fiel Janey zu töten, oder ob sie vielleicht als Charakter einfach zu perfekt war und dadurch verzichtbarer. Leichter als bei Bill Hodges im dritten Band war es aber wohl doch.

34, NG21, M17, E34

Stephen King, If it Bleeds

Ich hatte den neuen King-Band schon vor einiger Zeit blind vorgestellt und guckte auch jetzt nicht vor dem lesen in die Synopsis. Darum war ich etwas überrascht, dass es sich hier nicht um einen Roman sondern um längere Kurzgeschichten oder, im Fall von der Titelstory, eine Novelle handelte. Und dann noch überraschter, als sich die Titel-Novelle als neue Holly Gibney-Story entpuppte. Die anderen drei Stories hätten mir auch schon gereicht, aber spätestens da hatte ich das Gefühl, es könnte nicht besser kommen. Okay, vielleicht mit noch einer Holly-Story - aber wir wollen mal nicht zu gierig sein...
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Man, talk about your trips down Memory Lane. I saw emails from long ago, photos of my dad from before his hair started to go gray, and IMs back and forth between me and Billy Bogan. No news in them really, just jokes, and illuminating information like I just farted, and incisive questions like Did you do your algebra. We'd been like a couple of kids with Del Monte cans connected by a length of waxed string. Which is what most of our modern communications amount to, when you stop to think of it; chatter for the sake of chatter.
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(aus: Mr Harrigan's Phone)
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"I love you, Mom," Holly says, and ends the call.
Is that true? Yes. It's liking that got lost, and love without liking is like a chain with a manacle at each end. Could she break the chain? Strike off the manacle? Perhaps. She's discussed that possibility with Allie Winters many times, especially after her mother told her - proudly - that she voted for Donald Trump (oough). Will she do it? Not now, maybe never. When Holly was growing up, Charlotte Gibney taught her - patiently, perhaps even with good intentions - that she was thoughtless, helpless, hapless, careless. That she was less. Holly believed that until she met Bill Hodges, who thought she was more. Now she has a life, and it is more often than not a happy one. If she broke with her mother, it would lessen her.
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(aus: If it Bleeds)
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I love Holly. It's as simple as that. She was supposed to be a minor character in 'Mr. Mercedes', no more than a quirky walk-on. Instead, she stole my heart (and almost stole the book). I'm always curious about what she's doing and how she's getting along. When I go back to her, I'm relieved to find she's still taking her Lexapro and still not smoking. I was curious, frankly, about the circumstances that made her what she is, and thought I could explore that a little ... as long as it added to the story, that is. This is Holly's first solo outing, and I hope I did it justice.
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(aus: Author's note)
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(Stephen King, If It Bleeds, 2020)
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31, WG13, M15, E31

Stephen King, Bag of Bones

Obwohl ich es längere Zeit nicht mehr gelesen habe, rangiert dieses Buch von King bei mir ziemlich weit oben auf meiner Stephen King Topliste (sind es eigentlich schon hundert oder sogar mehr?). Abgesehen davon, dass ich eine Schwäche für Geistergeschichten habe, finde ich in diesem Buch auch interessant wie das Geschäft mit Büchern funktioniert. Davon abgesehen hatte ich einiges total vergessen, wie z.B. die Nachrichten aus Kühlschrankmagneten. Schon seltsam.
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This is how we go on: one day at a time, one meal at a time, one pain at a time, one breath at a time. Dentists go on one root-canal at a time; boat-builders go on one hull at a time. If you write books, you go on one page at a time. We turn from all we know and all we fear. We study catalogues, watch football games, choose Sprint over AT&T. We count the birds in the sky and will not turn from the window when we hear the footsteps behind us as something comes up the hall; we say yes, I agree that clouds often look like other things - fish and unicorns and men on horseback - but they are really only clouds. Even when the lightning flashes inside them we say they are only clouds and turn our attention to the next meal, the next pain, the next breath, the next page. This is how we go on.
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What the publishers want in return, especially from an author who can be counted on to sell 500,000 or so copies of each novel in hardcover and a million more in paperback, is perfectly simple: a book a year. That, the wallahs in New York have determined, is the optimum. Three hundred and eighty pages bound by string or glue every twelve months, a beginning, a middle, and an end, continuing main character like Kinsey Millhone or Kay Scarpetta optional but very much preferred. Readers love continuing characters; it's like coming back to family.
Less than a book a year and you're screwing up the publisher's investment in you, hampering your business manager's ability to continue floating all your credit cards, and jeopardizing your agent's ability to pay his shrink on time. Also, there's always some fan attrition when you take too long. Can't be helped. Just as, if you publish too much, there are readers who'll say, 'Phew, I've had enough of this guy for awhile, it's all starting to taste like beans.
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Stupid, maybe, but sometimes things work just because you think they work. It's as good a definition of faith as any.
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Murder is the worst kind of pornography, murder is let me do what I want taken to its final extreme. I believe that even make-believe murders should be taken seriously; maybe that's another idea that I got last summer. Perhaps I got it while Mattie was struggling in my arms, gushing blood from her smashed head and dying blind, still crying out for her daughter as she left this earth. To think I might have written such a hellishly convenient death in a book, ever, sickens me.
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(Stephen King, Bag of Bones, 1998)

28, WG11, M13, E28

Stephen King, Misery

Eigentlich wollte ich das Buch schon länger mal wiedergelesen haben, aber scheute dann doch immer wieder davor zurück, weil ich soviele Szenen als zwar nicht un- aber doch schwer erträglich in Erinnerung hatte. Aber da war soviel was mich reizte, vor allem Paul Sheldons Gedankenprozesse rund ums Schreiben, seine Theorie um das Scheherazade-Syndrom und diese Ironie, wie ihn genau das rettet, an dem er vorher fast zugrunde gegangen war. Und ja, ich gebe es zu, die bewußten Stellen hab ich ziemlich schnell gelesen.

There was no ten-second deadline, of course - he'd had no contract for the book, had written it on spec, and hence there was no delivery date to think about. Yet there was always a deadline, a time after which you had to leave the circle, and most writers knew it. If a book remained roadblocked long enough, it began to decay, to fall apart; all the little tricks and illusions started to show.
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The gotta.
It was something he had been irritated to find he could generate in the Misery books almost at will but in his mainstream fiction erractically or not at all. You didn't know exactly where to find the gotta, but you always knew when you did. It made the needle of some internal Geiger counter swing all the way over to the end of the dial. Even sitting in front of the typewriter slightly hungover, drinking cups of black coffee and crunching a Rolaid or two every couple of hours (knowing he should give up the fucking cigarettes, at least in the morning, but unable to bring himself to the sticking point), months from finishing and lightyears from publication, you knew the gotta when you got it. Having it always made him feel slightly ashamed - manipulative. But it also made him feel vindicated in his labor. Christ, days went by and the hole in the paper was small, the light was dim, the overheard conversations witless. You pushed on because that was all you could do. Confucius said if man want to grow one row of corn, first must shovel one ton of shit. And then one day the hole widened to VistaVision width and the light shone through like a sunray in a Cecil B. DeMille epic and you knew you had the gotta, alive and kicking.
The gotta, as in: 'I think I'll stay up another fifteen-twenty minutes, honey, I gotta see how this chapter comes out.' Even though the guy who says it spent the day at work thinking about getting laid and knows the odds are good his wife is going to be asleep when he finally gets up to the bedroom.
The gotta, as in: 'I know I should be starting supper now - he'll be mad if it's TVdinners again - but I gotta see how this ends.'
I gotta know will she live.
I gotta know will he catch the shitheel who killed his father.
I gotta know if she finds out her best friend's screwing her husband.
The gotta. Nasty as a hand-job in a sleazy bar, fine as a fuck from the world's most talented call-girl. Oh boy it was bad and oh boy it was good and oh boy in the end it didn't matter how rude it was or how crude it was because in the end it was just like the Jacksons said on that record - don't stop til you get enough.

(Stephen King, Misery, 1987)