I read this book in the '80s. I believe I re-read my mother's copy (which I seem to have filched from her) in the 2010s. I tried to re-read it again while I'm doing a chronological read of King's books and I have to admit failure. At the time, I didn't know where I'd packed away my mother's copy so I was checking it out digitally from the library. But by the third time I'd had to return it without finishing it, I had to admit I couldn't read it again. It's just, well, not good. I can't imagine writing a book at 34 on anything and believing I had enough to say on the topic that hadn't already been covered by academics and obsessive hobbyists who actually loved doing research about the thing I'd decided to write a book about. Stephen King imagined differently. The most interesting parts are when he discusses his own memories of horror films as a young boy. But then I believe that all analysis and critique should be stuffed to the gills with personal anecdotes and opinions. Some really intense nerds on the Internet think so differently than me on that aspect that they sometimes tell me how terrible I am at writing comic book reviews and I'm like, "So I can't give a comic book a 10 out of 10 rating just because of one panel where you could see half of Lobo's naked ass? Well then you can't read my comic book reviews anymore!" Then they'll comment on another one of my reviews and I'll be all, "I thought I revoked consent from you! You know what you're doing by reading one of my reviews without my consent, right?! You know! That thing people can't make jokes about! That's what you're doing to me!"
This book reads like that cover. Derpy. Does that look like a trusting source of information? That looks like a guy who just accidentally drank a bottle of acid because he'd put his beer down on the tray full of bottles of acid and thought, "Well, this *might* be my beer?"
I knew I was in for a tough read when I read the newer essay at the beginning of the book where Stephen King admitted to liking the ending of Frank Darabont's The Mist. I mean, what? Is your favorite movie also Boondock Saints, you fucking hack? Because the ending of Frank Darabont's The Mist was the most nihilistic ending to any movie I've ever seen. It was pure fucking edgelord in the worst way. Sure, sure. I can see ending the movie with the guy having to kill everybody, even the kids, and then maybe wandering off into the mist on his own, sure to be struck down by a weird monster. But to have him kill everybody and then have the army move in immediately to save his ass? Fuck you, Frank. And not just because of that! Because based on that ending, Frank made the fucking lunatic religious lady the hero. She was right. They just had to stay in the supermarket and they'd all be saved. Hell, maybe even her sacrifice of somebody's child was the reason they were saved! Maybe God was all, "Fuck everybody. The Mist time!" And then when she was all, "I give you this virgin blood to save us from damnation, Lord!", God was all, "Oh, yeah, okay. Cool. Send in the army. Everybody is saved now!" Stephen King liked that ending. HE FUCKING LIKED IT! And if you liked it too, you no longer have permission to read my blog because you're too stupid to enjoy art.
Here are some more shitty opinions Stephen King had while writing Danse Macabre:
This book reads like that cover. Derpy. Does that look like a trusting source of information? That looks like a guy who just accidentally drank a bottle of acid because he'd put his beer down on the tray full of bottles of acid and thought, "Well, this *might* be my beer?"
I knew I was in for a tough read when I read the newer essay at the beginning of the book where Stephen King admitted to liking the ending of Frank Darabont's The Mist. I mean, what? Is your favorite movie also Boondock Saints, you fucking hack? Because the ending of Frank Darabont's The Mist was the most nihilistic ending to any movie I've ever seen. It was pure fucking edgelord in the worst way. Sure, sure. I can see ending the movie with the guy having to kill everybody, even the kids, and then maybe wandering off into the mist on his own, sure to be struck down by a weird monster. But to have him kill everybody and then have the army move in immediately to save his ass? Fuck you, Frank. And not just because of that! Because based on that ending, Frank made the fucking lunatic religious lady the hero. She was right. They just had to stay in the supermarket and they'd all be saved. Hell, maybe even her sacrifice of somebody's child was the reason they were saved! Maybe God was all, "Fuck everybody. The Mist time!" And then when she was all, "I give you this virgin blood to save us from damnation, Lord!", God was all, "Oh, yeah, okay. Cool. Send in the army. Everybody is saved now!" Stephen King liked that ending. HE FUCKING LIKED IT! And if you liked it too, you no longer have permission to read my blog because you're too stupid to enjoy art.
Here are some more shitty opinions Stephen King had while writing Danse Macabre:
Had King never seen an actual vagina by 34? Who the fuck thought H.P. Lovecraft was writing about a deep sea vagina that causes madness from the description?!
What are you fucking talking about? You're being sexist by pretending you noticed sexism! I also would have gone back for my cat, you stupid, dimwitted, emotionless, piece of vapid shit!
No wonder my mother raised me on Last House on the Left, The Sentinel, and Prophecy! She was using this as a parenting book! THIS IS WHY I CAN'T FEEL ANYTHING!
I really kind of wished I'd kept reading so I could rant about some other quotes from the book. But I gave up. I figure I'd read it twice in my life, I don't need to read it a third time, right? Although I did just find the book last week so, I mean, maybe I should try to get through it again? Yeah? No, no! I'll just move on to Roadwork!
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