Stephen King’s been on my mind a lot lately.
That’s not surprising. Like Bruce Springsteen, King is an American artist whose work has had an incalculable impact on my life; a constant (and amazingly consistent) wellspring of brilliance, celebration, and implicit challenge. Like Springsteen, King is now in his mid-seventies, and while neither shows any sign that their talents are fading, it’s impossible as a fan not to regard with some alarm the inevitably of the passing years, and what it will ultimately mean for both men; and for those of us who will (hopefully not for another decade or two, but eventually) be left in a world without the promise of new work from them, to help us make sense of ourselves, our world, our hopes and fears.
Both men were also among my father’s favourite artists. As I hurtle toward the first anniversary of his passing, it’s deeply unsurprising that I find myself listening to Springsteen a lot (indeed, Letter To You, his jaw-droppingly brilliant 2020 album, is playing as I type) and reading a lot of King. I’ve enjoyed revisits (Night Shift, Everything’s Eventual, and the novel Finders Keepers), and I’ve also treated myself to some books from the increasingly small list of new-to-me texts; specifically From A Buick Eight (which I understand has a bit of a spotted reputation, but which I absolutely adored).
Which brings us to You Like It Darker, King’s latest collection of short stories, purchased by my kids as a Christmas present pre-order, and which arrived on my doorstep a few weeks ago. And this preamble is to give you fair warning of my overall emotional state when I picked this up; the degree to which what follows is any kind of critical essay, as opposed to a love letter to the author, is an exercise I leave for you, dear reader. I give you fair warning, and I offer no apology.
Contents
You Like It Darker: A Response by Guest Columnist Kit Power
Interstitials: George Egg – SNACK HACKER
Playout: Cast Your Fate To The Wind by Allen Toussaint