Bag of Bones

Ah, what can be better than an evening with a cup of hot tea and a piece of genious by Stephen King? I'll tell you what - nothing.

I don't remember myself being this hooked since I read Misery by the Man himself. Yes, of course, some credit of getting me hooked goes to the wonderful Mrs. J. K. Rowling. But this is no story about Harry Potter. This is about Michael Noonan. This is about a man who has suffered his wife's death and a writer's block. This is about the white shroud thing and about the ringing moose's bell and weeping dead children and moving magnets on the refridgerator. This is just about freakin' brilliant!

How can you not love these words: ''Do you know how the sun looks at the end of a hot day in August, all orange and somehow squashed, as if an invisible hand were pushing down on the top of it and at any moment it might just pop like an overfilled mosquito and splatter all over the horizon?''

Of course, amongst my favorites are also: ''I could picture John Storrow sitting alone in his Park Avenue office, bellowing like a lunatic and scaring the cleaning ladies'' ; ''go on, put an egg in your shoe and beat it'' ; ''run like the gingerbread man'' ; ''the bookberry tree had died'' ; ''basic thousand-yard stare'' and ''the Book-of-the-Month Club Gestapo''. I could go on and on, but I just feel I have to stop.

Anyway, I haven't finished reading it yet. There are several more pleasant evenings for me left to spend with Michael Noonan. Several more evenings to be scared along with him, to raise my head from the book to check if my surroundings were OK, if they were the usual ones, to listen if I didn't hear the eerie crying of a child or the thumping in the basement. That's how vivid it is.
Well for one thing I am sure - I'm glad I have no magnetic alphabet on the door of my fridge.

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