STEPHEN KING –
FINDERS KEEPERS – 2015
“Mr. Mercedes” was a prodigy in
Stephen King’s long and voluminous work. But this sequel is a miracle this time.
And there are so many reasons that I can only give you a few.
First the suspense is perfect. The
end is unpredictable, really, at most one among many others. It is centered on
a teenager, a junior in high school who is totally trapped by life. And the big
event in his life is the 2009 depression that makes his father unemployed and
his mother unemployed and then employed in a lower job. Then there is the
phenomenal Mercedes terrorist attack at the job fair at the Municipal center. The
son is suffering because his parents are bound to end up in separation and
divorce and he hates the idea, for them, for himself and for his younger
sister. What can HE, HIMSELF and HIM
AGAIN do about it?
That’s the genius of Stephen
King. He knows how to center his stories on children, teenagers particularly,
and he seems to be able to capture their psyche, their strange mind and growing
personality, growing in tortured anguish, awe and angst, permanently victimized
by their own self-centered altruistic ego. They want to do something for other
people and yet it is always for their own sake and that’s why it hurts. So what
happens then? They launch themselves on the most incredible schemes that are
supposed to bring salvation and epiphany, redemption and regeneration to
everyone they may think of, but first of all and mostly to themselves. Then
they will twist their minds and their psyches and their neurons, mirror or not,
because their schemes are bringing some wounds and pains to those they love
instead of only helping them along.
Stephen King has always been able
to do that, to describe that, to delve, dive and soak himself in such
contradictory antagonistic and dialectical good bad-doing or bad good-doing. You
would use a long M word, and that would not be Mercedes, if it were some solitary
play, but these teenagers or tweenagers cannot do anything without involving
other people in their intentions or in their targets, and good morning Vietnam,
let me introduce you to the catastrophe of the century who kills quite a few
people and nearly kills a few more. The criminal, the psychopath, the
sociopath, and whatever else you may think of along that path, is an ex-convict
on parole who is absolutely crazy, I mean a “path” of any type you can think
of: sociopath, psychopath and even, that’s new, just out of the magic hat,
culture-path. The poor man, because it has to be a man, is so fixated on the
work of the writer he killed out of vanity and disillusion that he is able to
kill half a dozen people to just have the chance of reading the novels this
writer never published. Bad luck all along since he is frozen feces-less by his
own intellectual mother and he gets drunk and he rapes a woman, a substitute
for his mother that he would have liked to rape, that he should in his small
logic have raped twenty times at least as soon as he was something like 12.
Then the heart of the novel is
that the money he stole and the notebooks he stole too from that assassinated
writer, he buries them before being caught raping a woman and before being railroaded
down into some penitentiary for life. Then the whole novel is the peregrination
of the money, that ends up in some charitable saving plan, and the notebooks, that
end up all burnt up in the final catastrophic and abysmally apocalyptic scene, though
six were saved by the teenager who plays hero – maybe he is in a way – and Stephen
King seems to forget about these and seems to assume that they have all been
destroyed. Maybe he should check the loose board at the back of the closet of
this young teenager.
That kind of suspense novel is
perfect, absolutely perfect and Stephen King manages to include some allusions
to some of his short stories and films, but forget about it. It is gently vain
and funnily gentle.
But the book has a tremendous
symbolic value. 185 minus 6 notebooks (if I am not wrong on the numbers) get
burnt up at the end of the book. An “autodafe,” an act of faith my foot, an act
of barbarity from another time, another civilization, another barbarism,
another monstrous inquisition in some Mesoamerican or south American Spanish or
Portuguese colony based on burn them all, the male Indians, and keep the
females for your service. And burn them all they did there in the basement of
that closed and disaffected and abandoned Municipal Centre. All except six of
them. How can Stephen King even imagine such a crime against humanity and
against human culture? I swear I will hate him forever for this act but I must
admit it is the perfect climax in the grisly repellent suspense crime story
this book contains.
And Stephen King cannot obviously
resist putting some “magic” or supernatural energy somewhere, but I can’t
reveal it since it is going to be the starting point of the next volume of this
psychopathic series.
Enjoy the novel, especially at
night, and in the middle of the night get your courage up in your hands and
feet and walk to the out-house at the back of the yard outside in the pitch-dark
night, if you still have an out-house, and imagine the monsters that are going
to catch you while you are tiptoeing along to that small bungalow of your
physiological needs, but please do not wet your pants, underwear or pajamas, or
whatever you are wearing, or the grass if you are wearing no encasement for
your family jewels, just an XXX-large T-shirt you have put on as a nightshirt
with some provocative inscription on it, front and back, like Bill Hodges’s
assistant.
Have a good reading session under
the full moon of all crimes.
Dr Jacques Coulardeau
# posted by Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU @ 2:21 PM