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11/22/63: A Novel, by Stephen King
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About the Author
Stephen King is the author of more than sixty books, all of them worldwide bestsellers. His recent work includes The Institute, Elevation, The Outsider, Sleeping Beauties (cowritten with his son Owen King) and the Bill Hodges trilogy, End of Watch, Finders Keepers, and Mr. Mercedes (an Edgar Award winner for Best Novel and an AT&T Audience Network original television series). His novel 11/22/63 was named a top ten book of 2011 by The New York Times Book Review and won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Mystery/Thriller. His epic works The Dark Tower and It are the basis for major motion pictures, with It now the highest grossing horror film of all time. He is the recipient of the 2018 PEN America Literary Service Award, the 2014 National Medal of Arts, and the 2003 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. He lives in Bangor, Maine, with his wife, novelist Tabitha King.
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Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
8 On Monday, March 25, Lee came walking up Neely Street carrying a long package wrapped in brown paper. Peering through a tiny crack in the curtains, I could see the words REGISTERED and INSURED stamped on it in big red letters. For the first time I thought he seemed furtive and nervous, actually looking around at his exterior surroundings instead of at the spooky furniture deep in his head. I knew what was in the package: a 6.5mm Carcano rifle—also known as a Mannlicher-Carcano—complete with scope, purchased from Klein’s Sporting Goods in Chicago. Five minutes after he climbed the outside stairs to the second floor, the gun Lee would use to change history was in a closet above my head. Marina took the famous pictures of him holding it just outside my living room window six days later, but I didn’t see it. That was a Sunday, and I was in Jodie. As the tenth grew closer, those weekends with Sadie had become the most important, the dearest, things in my life. 9 I came awake with a jerk, hearing someone mutter “Still not too late” under his breath. I realized it was me and shut up. Sadie murmured some thick protest and turned over in bed. The familiar squeak of the springs locked me in place and time: the Candlewood Bungalows, April 5, 1963. I fumbled my watch from the nightstand and peered at the luminous numbers. It was quarter past two in the morning, which meant it was actually the sixth of April. Still not too late. Not too late for what? To back off, to let well enough alone? Or bad enough, come to that? The idea of backing off was attractive, God knew. If I went ahead and things went wrong, this could be my last night with Sadie. Ever. Even if you do have to kill him, you don’t have to do it right away. True enough. Oswald was going to relocate to New Orleans for awhile after the attempt on the general’s life—another shitty apartment, one I’d already visited—but not for two weeks. That would give me plenty of time to stop his clock. But I sensed it would be a mistake to wait very long. I might find reasons to keep on waiting. The best one was beside me in this bed: long, lovely, and smoothly naked. Maybe she was just another trap laid by the obdurate past, but that didn’t matter, because I loved her. And I could envision a scenario—all too clearly—where I’d have to run after killing Oswald. Run where? Back to Maine, of course. Hoping I could stay ahead of the cops just long enough to get to the rabbit-hole and escape into a future where Sadie Dunhill would be . . . well . . . about eighty years old. If she were alive at all. Given her cigarette habit, that would be like rolling six the hard way. I got up and went to the window. Only a few of the bungalows were occupied on this early-spring weekend. There was a mud- or manure-splattered pickup truck with a trailer full of what looked like farm implements behind it. An Indian motorcycle with a sidecar. A couple of station wagons. And a two-tone Plymouth Fury. The moon was sliding in and out of thin clouds and it wasn’t possible to make out the color of the car’s lower half by that stuttery light, but I was pretty sure I knew what it was, anyway. I pulled on my pants, undershirt, and shoes. Then I slipped out of the cabin and walked across the courtyard. The chilly air bit at my bed-warm skin, but I barely felt it. Yes, the car was a Fury, and yes, it was white over red, but this one wasn’t from Maine or Arkansas; the plate was Oklahoma, and the decal in the rear window read GO, SOONERS. I peeked in and saw a scatter of textbooks. Some student, maybe headed south to visit his folks on spring break. Or a couple of horny teachers taking advantage of the Candlewood’s liberal guest policy. Just another not-quite-on-key chime as the past harmonized with itself. I touched the trunk, as I had back in Lisbon Falls, then returned to the bungalow. Sadie had pushed the sheet down to her waist, and when I came in, the draft of cool air woke her up. She sat, holding the sheet over her breasts, then let it drop when she saw it was me. “Can’t sleep, honey?” “I had a bad dream and went out for some air.” “What was it?” I unbuttoned my jeans, kicked off my loafers. “Can’t remember.” “Try. My mother always used to say if you tell your dreams, they won’t come true.” I got into bed with her wearing nothing but my undershirt. “My mother used to say if you kiss your honey, they won’t come true.” “Did she actually say that?” “No.” “Well,” she said thoughtfully, “it sounds possible. Let’s try it.” We tried it. One thing led to another. 10 Afterward, she lit a cigarette. I lay watching the smoke drift up and turn blue in the occasional moonlight coming through the half-drawn curtains. I’d never leave the curtains that way at Neely Street, I thought. At Neely Street, in my other life, I’m always alone but still careful to close them all the way. Except when I’m peeking, that is. Lurking. Just then I didn’t like myself very much. “George?” I sighed. “That’s not my name.” “I know.” I looked at her. She inhaled deeply, enjoying her cigarette guiltlessly, as people do in the Land of Ago. “I don’t have any inside information, if that’s what you’re thinking. But it stands to reason. The rest of your past is made up, after all. And I’m glad. I don’t like George all that much. It’s kind of . . . what’s that word you use sometimes? . . . kind of dorky.” “How does Jake suit you?” “As in Jacob?” “Yes.” “I like it.” She turned to me. “In the Bible, Jacob wrestled an angel. And you’re wrestling, too. Aren’t you?” “I suppose I am, but not with an angel.” Although Lee Oswald didn’t make much of a devil, either. I liked George de Mohren--schildt better for the devil role. In the Bible, Satan’s a tempter who makes the offer and then stands aside. I hoped de Mohrenschildt was like that. Sadie snubbed her cigarette. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were dark. “Are you going to be hurt?” “I don’t know.” “Are you going away? Because if you have to go away, I’m not sure I can stand it. I would have died before I said it when I was there, but Reno was a nightmare. Losing you for good . . .” She shook her head slowly. “No, I’m not sure I could stand that.” “I want to marry you,” I said. “My God,” she said softly. “Just when I’m ready to say it’ll never happen, Jake-alias-George says right now.” “Not right now, but if the next week goes the way I hope it does . . . will you?” “Of course. But I do have to ask one teensy question.” “Am I single? Legally single? Is that what you want to know?” She nodded. “I am,” I said. She let out a comic sigh and grinned like a kid. Then she sobered. “Can I help you? Let me help you.” The thought turned me cold, and she must have seen it. Her lower lip crept into her mouth. She bit down on it with her teeth. “That bad, then,” she said musingly. “Let’s put it this way: I’m currently close to a big machine full of sharp teeth, and it’s running full speed. I won’t allow you next to me while I’m monkeying with it.” “When is it?” she asked. “Your . . . I don’t know . . . your date with destiny?” “Still to be determined.” I had a feeling that I’d said too much already, but since I’d come this far, I decided to go a little farther. “Something’s going to happen this Wednesday night. Something I have to witness. Then I’ll decide.” “Is there no way I can help you?” “I don’t think so, honey.” “If it turns out I can—” “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate that. And you really will marry me?” “Now that I know your name is Jake? Of course.”
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Product details
Paperback: 880 pages
Publisher: Gallery Books; PAPERBACK edition (July 24, 2012)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1451627297
ISBN-13: 978-1451627299
Product Dimensions:
6 x 2.1 x 9 inches
Shipping Weight: 2.3 pounds (View shipping rates and policies)
Average Customer Review:
4.5 out of 5 stars
29,407 customer reviews
Amazon Best Sellers Rank:
#3,843 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
I enjoyed this book thoroughly, and took my time reading it. I could "hear" Mr. King's "voice" in my head as I read this on my iPad Kindle app. I felt like I was reading something from a friend---as if he had written a personal letter to me--- to give me an understanding of what he went through to become the person he is today. I think that his directives about the "how-to's" and "don't do's" were very practical. I breathed a sigh of relief when I got the feeling that writing classes and clubs are kind of a waste of time. Just write, is what I think he was telling me, I mean, his audience. I will probably read it again. What I got from his personal, real-life-lessons is this: Read a lot. Read good stuff. Write all the time. Find a place and write. Don't share your stuff unless you share it with someone you can trust. Go with your gut. Write all the time (I said that already because he said it or inferred it frequently). Don't use the same adjective over and over. Stick to the point. Don't over-do it on the descriptions. Let your audience see the movie you see in your head, because if you write it well, they will. I am glad this wasn't a "point by point HOW TO WRITE a story or a book" book, because really, writing isn't something you can do easily from a bulleted list. Writing is something you do from your heart, and you keep doing it until it's right and good. And then when that person you trust reads your stuff and offers some criticism, you can take it for what it's worth and use it or not.
I purchased this book because the description stated that it contained all 4 books including Rage. What a disappointment to receive the book and open it to find that it includes only 3 of the 4 books... no Rage! If you are looking to complete your stephen king collection, avoid this copy! Incredibly frustrated buyer!
The main reason I bought this book was that the description said that it included the story "Rage". I was dying to read that, and the other three stories would be a bonus. Well, what a major disappointment to receive the book and find that "Rage" is not included. There are three stories, not four, and I will be returning this book due to false advertising. Very, very disappointed.
Some books I rate with 5 stars just because of my pleasure in the story. These aren't always well-written or creative, or something someone else would like. Then there are those books that are so well-crafted, not just with character development or storytelling but in the writing itself. This is one of those books. I've always given Stephen King credit as the "king of the flashback" and here he gives us some of what he does best, but he also shows again his ability to get inside the head of the character in the present. From making up lyrics to songs sung by a fictional boy band and the brand names of fictional ice cream treats, to details of a Midwestern city that make those of us living in Midwestern cities think ours is the one in the story. I wondered in the beginning of the book if King was making a game in paying homage to himself with hints he dropped to reference some of his previous best sellers, but he played this game for just a short while. There are plenty of other pop-culture references in the minds of the various characters that do well to establish their ages and backgrounds.As the story unwinds after the climactic events, my emotions surprised me. I've cried while reading books before, but not while reading the words of a bureaucratic proclamation!
I have been an on-again, off-again reader of Stephen King’s over the last decade or so (I was more loyal prior to that time) as sometimes I like his stuff and sometimes I don’t. The last one I read was the awful "Under the Dome," which was long, pointless and ultimately just silly, and I wasn’t thinking of reading anything else by him until I read a couple of reviews by Charles de Lint in a recent Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. I trust Mr. de Lint’s tastes, so when he praised "Mr. Mercedes" and its follow-up, I figured I’d give them a try. Mr. Mercedes is the nickname given to a man who stole a car (guess what make) and plowed into a group of job seekers standing outside a building waiting for a job fair, killing 8 and wounding many others. Recently retired cop Bill Hodges has been drifting since his retirement, regretting that he didn’t catch certain bad guys, including Mr. Mercedes, but when he receives a letter purporting to be from the villain, instead of succumbing to depression as the writer intended, he begins to investigate. And, of course, the investigation just becomes more and more dangerous as he continues to delve into the mystery…. The reader knows who the culprit is from early on in the book, so the appeal is following the cat-and-mouse hunt as the suspense builds. King is as good as he ever was with respect to his characters and plotting, and he’s always great with the gross-out scenes (which here are not too many, thankfully). This turns out to be the first book in a trilogy, and I’ve already picked up the second, "Finder’s Keepers," with the third due out in mid-2016. Fast-paced popcorn reading, "Mr. Mercedes" just hits the spot; recommended!
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