I loves me some Stephen King.
I loves his storytelling and I really loves his length. There’s just something about settling in with a thousand-plus page book that just makes me want to put life on hold and curl up and grab a beer and just read ’till my eyes bleed.
His newest, Under the Dome, is all about a small town in Maine that’s suddenly cut off from the rest of the world by a huge, impenetrable, semi-permeable, invisible dome. Think of the world’s biggest salad bowl slam down, cupping your world.
At first, the inhabitants of Chester Mill treat this weird anomaly as a strange, larger than life, mostly unbelievable, novelty. But then, it begins to collectively dawn on them that they are well and truly trapped like specimens in a jar. And that’s when Stephen King weaves his magic.
I’ve always loved the way Stephen King’s books feel and read like a long story told by an old and loving grampy.
If I ever had me an old and loving grampy.
But I didn’t and that’s a hole nother story.
I loved the book and while I wasn’t real crazy about the ending, maybe at 1072 pages Stephen King got a little tired and just needed to wrap it up. Or maybe that’s the only way the story could end. I don’t know and don’t really care.
The story was that good and that fun and just get it and go baby.
A woman I work with is currently reading this book. It’s HUGE. (And in all those pages, I bet there’s no swooning, is there?) Stephen King is an amazing author, but I’m much too big a scairdy cat to pick up anymore of his books. Sigh.