Excavating Stephen King: A Darwinist Hermeneutic Study of the Fiction 1793628629, 9781793628626

Citation preview

Excavating Stephen King

Excavating Stephen King A Darwinist Hermeneutic Study of the Fiction James Arthur Anderson

LEXINGTON BOOKS Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Lexington Books An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.rowman.com 6 Tinworth Street, London SE11 5AL, United Kingdom Copyright © 2021 by The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. Excerpt(s) from THE STAND by Stephen King, copyright © 1978, 1990 by Stephen King. Used by permission of Doubleday, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved. Excerpt(s) from THE SHINING by Stephen King, copyright © 1977 by Stephen King. Used by permission of Doubleday, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved. Excerpt(s) from CARRIE by Stephen King, copyright © 1974 by Stephen King, copyright renewed 2002 by Stephen King. Used by permission of Doubleday, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Control Number: 2020944424 TM

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

To Lynn Llorye

Contents

Acknowledgments

ix

Introduction: Stephen King—Fast Food or Five Star?

xi

Part I: Archetypes and Universals 1 The Hero’s Quest 2 The Trickster 3 In the Beginning . . . The Creation of the Multiverse 4 Silenced by Science: The Anthropocene Apocalypse in Cell

1 3 11 19 25

Part II: Coevolution and Human Universals 5 The Stand: Survival of the Ethical Fittest 6 Religion: King as the “Dark Theologian” 7 Free Will: Robots or Wildcards? 8 Navigating the Past in 11/22/63 9 Nostalgia and Things Past

37 39 53 63 71 81

Part III: Affective Emotions 10 The Battle of the Sexes 11 What’s Love Got to Do with It? 12 Family and Children 13 Rage and Sweet Revenge 14 Fear: Why We Like Scary Stories

vii

91 93 107 117 127 137

viii

Contents

Part IV: Darwinism and the Arts 15 The Symbolic Animal: Imagination and Creativity 16 The Arts: Soothing the Savage Beast 17 King’s Symbolic Animal: Language and Storytelling 18 The Thematic King 19 The Literary King

147 149 165 177 195 205

Conclusion: Darwinist Hermeneutics and Stephen King

215

Works Cited

221

Index

231

About the Author

237

Acknowledgments

This book could not have been completed without the assistance of my friends and colleagues at Johnson & Wales University and the university’s Faculty Research Fellowship Program, which awarded me much needed time and energy to complete this project. I would like to thank, specifically, Professor Carol Koris, and Rachel Diaz, my college chairs, Michelle Garcia, the dean of academics, and Larry Rice, the campus president for their encouragement and support, and of course my fellow faculty in the College of Arts & Sciences, especially Michael Moskwa who suggested that I invent my own word for the literary theory I was using that didn’t really have a name. Thanks also are due to the Horror Writers Association, which granted me a Rocky Wood Memorial Scholarship to fund the acquisition of some muchneeded research materials. I am indebted to Holly Buchanan at Lexington Books for believing in this project, and to my peer reviewers who made valuable suggestions to make this study better. And, of course, my love and gratitude to my wife, Lynn, who endured the role of a “writer’s widow” while this project was being completed, and who suffered through the task of helping me to proofread this book.

ix

Introduction Stephen King—Fast Food or Five Star?

Stephen King began his writing career in a most humble fashion, writing short stories for men’s skin magazines that paid him modest checks, which, along with his day job, barely paid the bills. His dream, of course, was to publish novels, but in the 1970s, when the horror genre consisted of just a handful of books, it seemed impossible to imagine that the author of fiction published in Cavalier and Adam would one day be one of the world’s topselling authors, a brand name in his own right. Possibly even more difficult to believe would be the fact that King, who once described his own work as “the literary equivalent of a Big Mac and fries” (Different Seasons 506), would find his fiction written about and discussed by professors like me with alphabet soup after their names. I find it doubtful that King himself could have imagined receiving awards from the National Book Foundation and from the president of the United States, let alone be selected to guest edit The Best American Short Stories 2007. Admittedly, King is not embraced by all, or even most literary scholars. However, despite his self-deprecation, “Bestsellasaurus Rex” (Beahm 7), King has come a long way since he received his first check for Carrie, a manuscript that his wife Tabitha rescued from the trash. Over the years, King’s critics have been harsh. Esteemed scholar and critic the late Harold Bloom accused King of the “Dumbing Down of American Letters” (“Dumbing”), claimed his books are “not literary at all” (“Afterword” 207), and that “the triumph of the genial King is a large emblem of the failures of American Education (“Introduction” 2). Dwight Allen has recommended not reading King “unless you are maybe fifteen and have made it clear to your teachers and everybody else that you aren’t going to xi

xii

Introduction

touch that literary ‘David Copperfield kind of crap’ with a ten-foot pole” (“My Stephen King Problem”). Noted horror critic S. T. Joshi writes that King “delivers a predictable effect on his readers, in the same manner as McDonald’s or Budweiser” (Unutterable Horror 626) and that “the great proportion of his work will, as with so many of the bestsellers of prior ages, lapse into oblivion with the passage of time” (632). So, why have the critics been so severe and dismissive of an author who has, over a forty-year career, become an icon of popular culture? There are a number of reasons, some simple, and some more complex. First of all, Stephen King writes bestsellers and there is a pronounced critical bias on the part of scholars toward anything that appeals to the masses. As Darrell Schweitzer noted in 1985, “King seems to have pleased almost everyone except conventional mainstream literary critics, who are immediately suspicious of anything which isn’t theirs and which is successful” (Discovering Stephen King 5). And while book reviewers and the reading public in general have accepted and even embraced the validity of “pop culture,” the academy has been slow to catch up with this trend. As McAleer and Perry admit in the introduction to their 2014 anthology of criticism, “it is hard to not begin from a defensive standpoint when engaged in a sustained critical piece of scholarship that address King” (2). Part of this is a belief by many academics that scholars are the arbitrators of good taste (a topic I will address in more detail later) and that ordinary non-scholars need to be told what is best for them; scholars establish the literary canon and then feed it to students through the development of a curriculum of literature that is included in the accepted textbooks. In the past, this idea has had lamentable consequences in the dismissal and ignoring of female authors, authors of color, and other underrepresented peoples and cultures while instead privileging “dead white males” in school curriculums. My own public high school experience, for example, completely ignored the Harlem Renaissance, but favored Longfellow and Kipling. The scorn for bestselling fiction means that a good number of educators and scholars don’t even read it, let alone teach it. In “Canon Construction Ahead,” Kelly Chandler cites a case of English teachers excluding King from the curriculum without even having read his works: “Refusing to read King seemed like a point of honor, a finger in the dike between popular culture and the classroom” (112). In her book Teaching Stephen King, Alissa Burger notes, “King has often been dismissed out of hand as just a genre writer and in this assessment his popularity has frequently been marshalled against him on the argument that fiction that appeals to the masses cannot be simultaneously literary” (3). Dwight Allen, a self-professed “snob,” admits that he refused to read King’s books, and had an aversion to horror fiction. His analysis of Stephen King as a writer is based on four novels that he reluctantly read; he never got around to reading what critics con-

Introduction

xiii

sider King’s best works, including “The Body,” The Green Mile, and Lisey’s Story, but bases much of his condemnation of King on his reading of Christine and The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, certainly not vintage Stephen King books. Though he claims to have read King with “an open mind,” I think that he doth protest too much, especially as he whines about the lack of sales of “literary” novels, the kind that he and his friends write—perhaps a bit of the green-eyed monster? Another reason King is eschewed by mainstream scholars is because he not only writes genre fiction, as has been alluded to in the critical distain of bestselling authors, but he writes horror, the worst form of genre fiction. As Bloom has said, “King . . . emerges from an American tradition one could regard as sub-literary: Poe and H. P. Lovecraft” (207). Of course, those who study horror fiction disagree with Bloom: “Horror literature is capable of expressing elements of the human condition in ways philosophical discourse often cannot,” says Jacob Held in his introduction to Stephen King and Philosophy (6). Perhaps the major reason that King has been either ignored or attacked by mainstream critics, though, lies in the nature of critical study itself. In virtually all schools and even most colleges, literature is taught using simplistic and outdated theories that privilege style over story. Thus, in most literature classes, students still use American New Criticism (which, ironically, dates back to I. A. Richards in 1929) as their main tool in analyzing literature. This method is easy to teach and assumes that there is a “meaning” in the text that must be meticulously pulled out. Students, therefore, duteously examine symbolism, theme, setting, characterization, etc., in order to find this hidden meaning and parrot it back to their teacher in a five-paragraph essay. Academic critics privilege style over story, and thus favor stories with poetic language, stories that take the familiar and make it seem extraordinary, rather than speculative fiction, which makes the fantastic seem realistic. Dwight Allen, one of King’s harshest critics said, “among the things I hope for when I open a book of fiction is that each sentence I read will be right and true and beautiful, that the particular music of those sentences will bring me a pleasure I wouldn’t be able to find the exact equivalent of in another writer.” And, no, for the most part, King does not write the beautiful language Allen is looking for. His use of brand names, common language, slang, blue-collar characters, and focus on story over style has been harshly criticized by those seeking a poetic narrative. However, critics from various schools of thought have attacked this poetic ideal of American New Criticism, from Marxist critics such as György Lukács, who examine culture and ideology in narrative (17), to psycho-linguistic critics such as Michelle Scalise Sugiyama, who make a strong argument, based on neuroscience, that story and action determine a narrative’s success (183).

xiv

Introduction

As I have said earlier, old-school critics like Harold Bloom have set themselves up as the arbiters of good taste. Bloom, for example, has not only attacked contemporary popular authors (Stephen King, Anne Rice, and J. K. Rowling among others have been his targets), but believes that all literature has been merely a copy of a copy: “The great poets of the English Renaissance are not matched by their Enlightened descendants, and the whole tradition of the post-Enlightenment, which is Romanticism, shows a further decline in its Modernist and post-Modernist heirs” (“Anxiety” 1800). According to Bloom’s theory, then, every story is a copy of one made before it and, like a photocopy of a photocopy, after enough duplication, literature will be reduced to a blank page. Since the classics were written, each generation has watered down the last—hence, King and others are now “dumbing down” literature. The problems with this argument are many, but perhaps the most obvious is that Bloom, a psychoanalytic critic by his own definition, is working with Freudian theories that have been proven to be obsolete (Carroll, Joseph 37). Furthermore, this “dumbing down” of America is also untrue. As Boyd has noted, “despite complaints about the dumbing down of culture . . . no epidemic of intellectual obesity threatens us, and . . . IQ levels have risen with each decade since they were first measured” (“Evolutionary Theories” 154). Gottschall reminds us that “the novel is a young genre, but for a century, critics have been writing and rewriting its obituary” (177). Traditional criticism looks at literature in a way that does not favor genre writers like Stephen King, who place story above style. Many of these critics prefer artistry to story, and celebrate books that no one reads, perhaps for their snob appeal. In fact, it sometimes seems that modern poets and literary writers are writing for each other and not for readers at all. Gottschall sums it up well: “novelists who target highbrow readers shouldn’t complain when those are the only readers they get” (179). Many of these novels that the critics rave about contain little or no plot and subscribe to the Gertrude Stein philosophy of stories where “nothing much happens.” Says Gottschall, “nothing much happens, and aside from English professors, no one much wants to read them” (55). A number of scholars also criticize postmodern theory as being overly political at the expense of narrative. According to Carroll, poststructuralism currently dominates the academy and, by blending deconstructionism, Freudianism, and Marxism, “in its political aspect . . . treats . . . normative intellectual, moral, and social structures within Western Culture as fraudulent and oppressive” (17). Thus, politics and culture become more important than the works themselves, and authors may be attacked on their beliefs rather than on the quality of their work, a situation that Lovecraft scholars are all too familiar with. Boyd says that there are more fruitful ways of looking at literature than “analyzing how ideology . . . determines narrative” (Origin 130), and while I believe that analyzing the culture in which a work was

Introduction

xv

created is a useful tool both in understanding a narrative and in enlightening readers about society past and present, I do not think it should be the dominating factor in determining artistic merit. So, if the mainstream scholars have been so harsh, how do we account for Stephen King’s unparalleled popular success as a writer of horror fiction? Does King’s Constant Reader lack literary taste? The answer may lie not in the traditional realms of the literature departments of the academy, but in the fields of evolutionary psychology, linguistics, and neuroscience. According to the latest scholars working in these areas, story and narrative developed as a result of human evolution: storytelling as a trait has enabled Homo sapiens to be a more successful species. Storytelling is one of the oldest forms of art, and it has developed as an adaptive function (Sugiyama 177). According to Boyd: Narrative arises from the advantages of communication in social species. It benefits audiences, who can choose better what course of action to take on the basis of strategic information, and it benefits tellers, who earn credit in the social information exchange and gain in terms of attention and status. That combination of benefits, for the teller and the told, and the intensity of social monitoring in our species, explain why narrative has become so essential to human life. (Origin 176)

This importance of story over style is King’s trademark and certainly explains his popular success as a best-selling author. “In fiction, the story value holds dominance over every other facet of the writer’s craft; characterization, theme, mood, none of these things is anything if the story is dull” King says in his foreword to Nighshift (xx). According to Lisa Cron, humans are “wired for story,” which means that “storytelling trumps beautiful writing every time” (20). Gottschall says that “we are, as a species, addicted to story” (xiv). Research into narrative shows that King is correct in putting story first. As Richard Gerrig noted in 1993, readers are “transported by a narrative by virtue of performing that narrative” (2). With new technology, MRI studies of the brain in 2009 have confirmed this idea. Using MRI studies of subjects reading stories, scientists from the Dynamic Cognition Laboratory at Washington University in St. Louis conclude that our brains simulate the action in the story, echoing it as we read. According to Nicole Speer, director of operations for the Intermountain Neuroimaging Consortium: Readers use perceptual and motor representations in the process of comprehending narrated activity, and these representations are dynamically updated at points where relevant aspects of the situation are changing. Readers understand a story by simulating the events in the story world and updating their simulation when features of that world change. (qtd. in Everding)

xvi

Introduction

In other words, readers’ brains are actually experiencing the actions of characters in a story “using brain regions that closely mirror those involved when people perform, imagine, or observe similar real-world activities” (Everding). Modern literary critics are now combining cognitive psychology, brain science, and linguistics in order to help understand literature. Linguists and psychologists believe that the ability to learn language is “a distinct piece of the biological makeup of our brains” (Pinker 4) and that “the seemingly infinite flexibility and open-endedness of language is one of the hallmarks of the human species” (Ramachandran 160). Boyd, Carroll, Gottschall, and others have taken this idea one step further to show that the ability to effectively tell and comprehend story and narrative is an evolutionary adaptation that has enabled humans to become the dominant species on the planet. “Fiction allows our brains to practice reacting to the kinds of challenges that are, and always were, most crucial to our success as a species” (Gottschall 67). Language and the ability to tell stories is what distinguishes humans from every other species. Evolutionist critics, therefore, are looking at stories from the perspective of the master storyteller who can captivate audiences with fiction, films, or even video games that rely on narrative. This Darwinian approach privileges story over style and can help us understand the power of Stephen King’s fiction. As Boyd explains, “an evolutionary approach . . . can show the problem situations of storytellers aiming to engage the attention of wide audiences” (Origin 389). According to Joseph Carroll, “literature represents human motives and concerns, and it is written and read because it satisfies human needs” (107), and these motives and concerns can be thought of as “human universals.” In literature, these universals are most often expressed in themes of survival and adventure, power and personal success, and love and romance (109). Thus, “the function of narrative . . . would appear to be the representation of the problems humans encounter in their lives and the constraints individuals struggle against in their efforts to solve them” (Sugiyama186). Most of Stephen King’s fiction involves the instinct for survival; in some novels, such as The Stand and Cell, it is not just the survival of the individual, but the survival of the human species itself, a Darwinian “universal” if there ever was one. Characters in all of his books are not just confronted with normal, everyday problems, but struggle with extraordinary conflicts that represent life and death. “Stories allow us to simulate intense experiences without actually having to live through them,” says Cron. Alan Jacobs makes this point in his essay defending King: It is often said that such situations are unrealistic. This is incorrect; it conflates the unrealistic with the uncommon. People do confront such utterly decisive moments: A theater full of people in Aurora, Colorado confronted one quite

Introduction

xvii

recently, and some of them had only an instant to decide whether to save their own lives or protect the ones they loved. It doesn’t get any more real than that. We can argue about whether Stephen King writes this kind of story well; but what’s not really arguable, I think, is that such tales are worth writing and worth reading, even if beauty of language and subtlety of characterization get sacrificed along the way. Not all stories have to do the same things.

A good story, claims Boyd, must hold a reader’s attention, “to attract and arouse an audience” (232), something that King certainly does well. Boyd acknowledges “the accomplishment of any storyteller who can secure an audience, wide or select, brief or enduring. There is nothing ‘mere’ about audience appeal” (Origin 253). As Brewer and Lichtenstein have demonstrated, readers preferred stories that produced suspense and/or surprise and judged those that did not produce these elements not to be stories at all (374–76). The evolutionary critics agree that character and plot are the essential elements to achieve this goal, and that successful stories keep the reader wondering what will happen next. Roland Barthes linguistically describes the creation of action and suspense in terms of semiotic codes—the action code and the hermeneutic code (19). It is the action of the story and the “what happens next” that keep readers turning the pages. “You can celebrate Finnegan’s Wake as an act of artistic revolt, but you can’t enjoy it as a story that takes you out of yourself and infects you with the need to know what happens next” (Gottschall 55). Because of the latest advances in neuroscience, writers and those who educate them are, in fact, using brain science to “reverse engineer” stories, a process that allows authors to connect with their readers on a cognitive level. The idea is to take a successful story, like The Godfather or a Stephen King horror story, and work backward from the cognitive effect it has on the reader—in King’s case, fear. This effect can be “hacked” and turned into a new, successful story, according to these writing professors. Angus Fletcher, a core faculty member at Project Narrative at Ohio State University, uses this method to reverse-engineer stories for film. Lisa Cron who teaches at UCLA is doing this for fiction. It should be obvious that Stephen King has mastered the secret of attracting and keeping audiences over a career that has spanned forty years and more book sales than we can reasonably count. I would venture to say that his critics would happily trade royalty checks with him, even if it meant being thought of as a “master of post-literate prose” (qtd. in Herron 22). Furthermore, despite condemnation of many mainstream academics, King is carving a name for himself as an author of some substance. Professors Tony Magistrale and Michael Collings have recognized King’s skill for decades, and others are beginning to appreciate the depth of his work as well. In her PhD dissertation, Jenifer Michelle D’Elia says that The Stand has “the depth

xviii

Introduction

expected of a serious literary work—themes, imagery, symbols, a certain ‘arresting strangeness’ and a resonation with readers . . . all the things a literary critic looks for. . . .” (149). Samuel Schuman, a literature professor at the University of North Carolina, posits that “King is a master of plot and setting; a skillful and self-conscious manipulator of the English language; a rather stern moralist; and a first-class creator of literary characters” (158). Not only has King’s works captivated millions, both with his fiction and film adaptations, but his works do exhibit more complexity than they are given credit for. He uses the popular novel to delve deeply into numerous important contemporary issues, including racism and the death penalty (The Green Mile), teenage suicide (End of Watch), and alcoholism (The Shining). According to Gottschall, “fiction seems to be more effective at changing beliefs than nonfiction, which is designed to persuade through argument and evidence” (150). King also explores a wide range of philosophical ideas in his fiction, such as Utilitarianism, Hindu philosophy, and the nature of evil (see Jacob Held). As a former English teacher, King references other authors in nearly all of his books. As critics begin to reexamine Stephen King’s books from the context of evolutionary literary theory, narratology, and cognitive psychology, all of which emphasize story, his fiction will be better understood and appreciated. Hoppenstand calls King “a consummate storyteller, perhaps the best storyteller of our era” (7). King, an avid reader himself, recognizes the delight that a good story can provide: “I want the ancient pleasure that probably goes back to the cave,” he says (“Best” xvii). In this study I will expand on my previous book, The Linguistics of Stephen King, and examine some of his works using a variety of critical methods based on both evolutionary and linguistic theories, since I strongly believe that no single critical method is comprehensive and capable of fully explaining and elucidating meaning from a literary work. Linguistics-based methods, which include semiotics, deconstructionism, and other postmodern ideas are useful in bringing certain themes to life in a literary work. Narratology and structuralist methods can expose narrative techniques and methods that show how a piece of fiction is organized, structured, and retains the attention of readers. Finally, Literary Darwinism, as it is currently labeled in the literature, can shed light on why certain stories are not only accepted by the reading public, but can, in fact, become part of the collective unconsciousness and enter the domain of lasting popular culture. At the risk of seeming overly self-important, I feel it necessary to adopt a new term for the critical method I will be using, since it does utilize and blend the often conflicting theories of postmodernism, which privileges language and style, and Literary Darwinism, which incorporates theories of evolution, anthropology, psychology, linguistics, narratology, and even neurolinguistics in an attempt to merge various disciples in an effort to

Introduction

xix

achieve understanding from multiple perspectives. This idea of combining the disciplines of science and the humanities, was proposed by E. O. Wilson and termed Consilience: “the greatest enterprise of the mind has always been and always will be the attempted linkage of the sciences and humanities,” according to Wilson (8). I will use this method of combining methods from both science and the humanities, which I am calling Darwinist Hermeneutics, to examine Stephen King’s novels from diverse critical viewpoints, and will, where applicable, refer to their interconnectedness: it is well documented (Wiater, and others) that the Dark Tower series interconnects many (if not most) of King’s novels into the deliberate oxymoron of a single multiverse, with the tower representing the hub of a wheel that spokes out to the various novels, and, in fact tendrils many of them together in a web-like construction. This work will be structured into four parts, each applying specific theories and techniques to the novels. Part I will discuss structural story archetypes of Joseph Campbell and Jung and how they relate to evolutionary theory. Part II will explore human universals, including altruism. Part III will explore affective emotions and how King’s work taps into our basic instinctual emotions in order to capture and hold his readers’ attention. Finally, part IV will consider King’s work in terms of the arts, including the realms of creativity and the imagination in general, and the specific roles of music and dancing, the visual arts, and storytelling from a Darwinian perspective. In my previous book, The Linguistics of Stephen King, I analyzed King’s fiction using an assortment of approaches derived from modern linguistic theory, including postmodern techniques like semiotics, deconstructionism, and Marxism, as well as more traditional approaches including structuralism and narratology. From this study I realized that multiple approaches allow the critic to look at different elements in a work of literature, and that a merger of these analyses gives richer meaning to a text. Author E. O. Wilson has suggested an even broader approach, combining the seemingly contradictory disciplines of science and the humanities in order to read a deeper understanding of both literature and the world we live in. Joseph Carroll and others have successfully applied science and evolutionary theory to literature in their theory of “Literary Darwinism,” which has caused some controversy among postmodern critics, since this theory has been extremely critical of their ideas that language and texts can deconstruct all meaning. Since my goal is not to prove or disprove the validity of one theory over another, but to come to a better understanding of literature in general and the fiction of Stephen King in particular, I have employed a multifaceted approach in my study. I’ve termed my theory Darwinist Hermeneutics to reflect my use of both the science of evolutionary theory and a modern and post-modern closereading of the text. I will avail myself of multiple theories, including narratology, semiotics, structuralism, deconstructionism, formalism, and Marx-

xx

Introduction

ism, as needed, and also employ ideas from psychology, sociology, natural selection, and even neuroscience in order to come to as complete an understanding as possible of both the themes and meanings of Stephen King’s works, and expose his use of narrative techniques, metaphor, and human universals that make him both a critical success and a bestselling icon of popular culture. I will introduce the background and concept of each theory as needed and will apply various theories to individual works in order to elucidate the themes and meanings of King’s fictional works. One of the main tenets of evolutionary theory is that natural selection has resulted in specific psychological “universals,” which are “cultural phenomenon common to all known cultures” (Carroll, Evolution 158). The most widely accepted theory is that these universals are transmitted thorough multilevel selection (Wilson, D. 72), which involves both genetic and cultural factors that are passed down through generations of humans. This theory might explain themes that permeate human culture, such as the collective unconscious ideas of Jung and the structuralist archetypes explored by Claude Levi Strauss and Joseph Campbell. Regardless of the mechanisms of transmission, these universals have become major themes and deep structures in our literature and reflect what we think of as human nature. Successful authors like King are able to tap into these universals, which not only attract audiences, but become further embedded in popular culture.

Part I

Archetypes and Universals Structuralism Meets Darwin

According to Carl Jung, certain universal poetic and story themes, or archetypes, arise from the “collective unconscious” (1000), and are “the psychic residua of innumerable experiences of the same type” forming mythological figures and primordial images (1001). Claude Levi-Strauss, Vladimir Propp, Tzvetan Todorov, and other structuralists have attempted to codify stories into a narrative grammar, breaking down story structure into distinct textural parts of speech. Joseph Campbell examined the similarities of folk tales and world mythology and proposed the existence of a “monomyth” from which all stories are derived. These studies have shown the presence of certain universal stories common to virtually all cultures. Some of these include the hero’s quest, the trickster, creation narratives, and stories of the apocalypse. The consilience of the biological and social sciences has confirmed that there are, in fact, story types that can be considered narrative universals. But unlike earlier theories that proposed a biological component (an individual “gene” for each story), or a purely cultural explanation, scientists now believe that these primeval stories developed through both biological and cultural evolution. These story structures are posited to have originated independently at different times and places by different peoples as a survival function for both the individual and the group. Some of these stories have attained the status of world epics (Gilgamesh, The Odyssey, and Paradise Lost come to mind). The hero’s quest, for example, is still used today as the basis of blockbuster Hollywood films (Star Wars and the Batman franchise) and

2

Archetypes and Universals

bestselling novels (including those of Stephen King). The fact that these stories have been told from antiquity to the present-day attest to their power and popularity. Even “literary” fiction may employ these devices, and modern and post-modern fiction (such as Ulysses, for example) has sometimes twisted them to the point of parody in an attempt to “make it new,” as Gertrude Stein would say. Popular writers like Stephen King have exploited these archetypes in order to attract readers with universal narratives that appeal to wide audiences. In his fiction, King has incorporated these basic narratives structures into his fiction in a way that makes his stories easy for readers to follow, but also complex enough to warrant critical study.

Chapter One

The Hero’s Quest

One of the most popular and best-known narrative universals or archetypes is the hero’s quest, described in detail by Joseph Campbell as a series of steps. This formula is as old as Gilgamesh and has been so successful over the centuries that it has been reverse-engineered and taught in film writing courses. The recipe for this narrative follows a specific pattern: “a separation from the world, a penetration to some source of power, and a life-enhancing return” (28). The details are described in Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces and begin with the hero’s departure from home with a call to action, a refusal of the call, the receiving of supernatural aid, crossing the first threshold, and the belly of the whale. The journey’s next step, initiation, includes the road of trials, a meeting with the goddess, woman as the temptress, atonement with the father, apotheosis, and the ultimate boon. The hero’s quest ends with the return, consisting of the refusal of the return, the magic flight, rescue from without, the crossing of the return threshold, master of the two worlds, and, lastly, the freedom to live. While not all these elements are present in every hero’s quest story, Campbell’s list presents “in the form of one composite adventure the tales of a number of the world’s symbolic carriers of the destiny of Everyman” (28). While Campbell posits that the quest story rises from the subconscious mind, looking at the heroic journey from a Darwinist point of view examines the narrative as addressing human universal needs. The most basic human need, of course, is survival and “survival is the basis of all adventure stories” (Carroll, J. 109). These adventure stories mirror the tales of our Paleolithic ancestors who told tales of hunting, survival, and conquest as they sat around the communal fire. The attraction of these stories has been hard-wired into our brains, since these prehistoric survival stories were not only entertaining, but instructive, passing down knowledge to the next generation of hunters. In 3

4

Chapter 1

modern America, where basic survival is not such a critical concern, readers enjoy experiencing the primeval adventures and quests as a form of catharsis. “The prehuman and human ancestors were hunter-gatherers, forced to search constantly for game and vegetable assets within their foraging range. Discoveries of rich new sources of water, animal herds, or vegetable food were lifegiving for the tribe, and the source of many stories and legends,” says E. O. Wilson (Origins 99–100). According to Gottschall, “fiction is a powerful and ancient virtual reality technology that simulates the big dilemmas of human life . . . and allows our brains to practice reacting to the kind of challenges that are, and always were, most crucial to our success as a species” (67). Adventure stories, stories of survival, are among the oldest lessons told by fiction in both oral and written form, and even in the digital age films such as the Treasure of Sierra Madre and the Indiana Jones series (100). “Heroes are real and all around us. Their good deeds are the safety net of civilization” (Wilson, E. O. Origins 92). Most of King’s novels have adapted some form of the hero’s quest and are stories of survival. The horror genre in particular is all about surviving as the hero battles to destroy whatever evil is trying to kill him. The Stand, patterned after Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, follows the traditional archetype with several characters that can be considered heroic figures. In this section I will combine the structuralist theories of Campbell with recent discoveries in the sciences to show how The Stand succeeds in both the realms of popular culture and literature. Stu Redman may be considered the primary hero of the quest since he is the first to appear and survives the adventure. An ordinary man with no special talents or abilities, his call to adventure begins when the plague invades his small town in Texas, changing the world forever. He is no longer able to remain in Texas, hanging around with his friends at the gas station and leading a life without any clear purpose or goals. Redman is a symbol of the common Everyman, not special at first glance, and not having the background or skill sets that would identify him as a potential hero. This is a typical feature of many quest stories, where ordinary protagonists like Frodo Baggins and Harry Potter are ripped out of their comfortable if unexciting world and forced into extraordinary circumstances. This trope is very popular with audiences who enjoy seeing others like themselves prevail. It also does, to a great extent, reflect the real world where people are often called upon to perform heroic acts, and who usually step up to the challenge. News stories of people putting themselves in danger and rescuing others from burning buildings or vehicles are much more common than one might expect, and illustrate the human trait of altruism referred to in chapter 5. From a Darwinist point of view, such stories demonstrate and celebrate the innate altruism and courage of everyday people, and these heroic protagonists act as role models to inspire heroic acts within ourselves.

The Hero’s Quest

5

Most average people are not anxious to step out of their comfort zone and into danger, so the hero of the quest often initially refuses the call to adventure. As the infection spreads, Stu is taken into quarantine, where he complies with authorities. He soon begins to realize that something terrible has happened however, and he begins to think that he has to take action. Stu receives supernatural help, the next step in the quest, according to Campbell, when he experiences the dreams of Mother Abigail and Randall Flagg. First he dreams of the corn, with music from an acoustic guitar. “This is where I ought to go to, Stu thought dimly. Yeah. This is the place, all right.” Then he sees the “burning red eyes” of Flagg: “Him, he thought. The man with no face. Oh dear God. Oh dear God no” (111). The dreams show him the two roads ahead, the choice between the light and the dark. As the Everyman hero, Stu will, of course, choose what is right, both in his dreams and once his adventure begins. Although mainstream literary critics tend to dismiss the supernatural, it is a staple not only in quest stories but in literature in general. This aid often appears as an old man or woman, a concept that can be found in the mythology of East Africa, Native Americans of the Southwest, and in the fairy godmothers of the European fairy tale (Campbell 57–59). Sometimes the supernatural force is a witch or wizard, or in Christian stories, a saint; the good witch fills this role in The Wizard of Oz, Gandalf in the Lord of the Rings, and Mother Abigail, first introduced through dreams in The Stand. This supernatural figure, according to Campbell, “represents . . . the benign, protecting power of destiny” and the assurance that “protective power always and ever present within the sanctuary of the heart” (59). And if we think that modern-day Americans are too enlightened to believe in magical powers, in 2011, a Gallup poll showed that nine out of ten Americans believe in God (Newport), and the PEW Research Center reported that 65 percent believe in the supernatural (May). Since written literature in English began with Beowulf, horror and the supernatural have come along for the ride and, no doubt, were a part of the very earliest traditions of oral storytelling. Is it any wonder that, despite the disdain of many critics, horror, fantasy, and the supernatural are still powerful elements in narrative today? The crossing of the first threshold occurs when Stu kills Dr. Elder and escapes from his prison. He immediately falls into what Campbell calls “the belly of the whale” (74), an image best known from the Biblical story of Jonah. This step is often a metaphorical swallowing and may involve a descent into Hell, a death or near-death experience with a rebirth, or a burial. This is the case with Stu, who becomes claustrophobic, lost, and disoriented inside the research building after he escapes his cell. “Claustrophobia caressed him with a rubber hand and suddenly the elevator seemed no more than telephone-booth-size. Premature burial anyone?” (262). After passing through what seemed like endless corridors of dead and dying people, and

6

Chapter 1

convinced there is no escape, Stu finally bangs open a door and falls out onto the grass in a symbolic rebirth. “I’m alive, thank God I’m alive, thank You, God, thank You, God thank You—” he cries (265). He begins his new life, and his adventure, by heading west, a trope that has become an integral part of the American cultural mythology. Campbell’s second series of steps are the trials and victories of initiation, and they begin with the Road of Trials. In order to reach his destination, Stu will have to undergo a series of tests and challenges as he meets up with others who will join his quest, including Kojak the dog, Glen Bateman, Fran and Harold, and others. His first stop is at the medical facility where he was a prisoner, and he convinces Harold that his story is true and there are no authorities to help them. Then Mark, one of the party, comes down with appendicitis. Stu attempts to perform emergency surgery, but Mark dies anyway, reminding them that even though they have survived the superflu, they are not immune to other mundane diseases and injuries. Stu’s greatest challenge comes when his group runs into a larger group of survivors who ambush them. Stu’s group prevails in a gunfight. Dayna Jurgens and Susan Stern, who had been held captive by the four men in the larger group, are freed and join the journey west. Stu’s heroic quest also contains an element of romance as he and Frannie fall in love. Since romance and love are a major human universal driven by the need for genes to reproduce themselves, it is no surprise that this theme should appear in King’s fiction. Romance novels, a sort of “quest” story of their own, are the top-selling form of fiction, and subplots of love pervade most narrative, from The Iliad, to Pride and Prejudice to Star Wars. “Nothing fascinates our species more than sex and love. The Trojan War began because of the beauty of Helen, and the first mythological story known— Gilgamesh—is infused with sexuality and love” (Williams 145). And just as a romantic story usually involves a love triangle, Harold Lauder is the third wheel in The Stand, where Fran’s rejection of him turns him toward Randall Flagg and his fate. Stu’s meeting with the Goddess occurs when his group reaches Boulder, but rather than this being the end of his quest, it is really just the beginning. Mother Abigail orders him to go to Las Vegas and destroy Randall Flagg. “God didn’t bring you folks together to make a committee or a community. . . . He brought you here only to send you further, on a quest. He means for you to try and destroy this Dark Prince, this Man of Far Leagues” Mother Abigail tells them on her deathbed (917). Fran acts the part of temptress as she insists that Stu doesn’t go, even when Mother Abigail heals her injuries. The Goddess reminds them “There’s always a choice. That’s God’s way, always will be. . . . But this is what God wants of you.” Stu answers the call, by accepting God’s will, Campbell’s

The Hero’s Quest

7

atonement with the Father: “we can’t stop him except like Glen says. White magic. Or the power of God” (921). Stu’s apotheosis, or enlightenment, occurs when he falls in the desert, breaks his leg, and realizes that he will die. He forces his friends to abandon him, understanding that the destruction of Flagg is more important than his life. He accepts his death, writes a note to Frannie for Kojak to take to her when he dies, and finally understands his place in the world. Stu’s reward, the ultimate boon, is his sight of the beautiful sunset and the mushroom cloud that tells him Las Vegas, and Randall Flagg’s dictatorship, has been destroyed. The final stage of the quest is the return home. This is often initiated by the refusal of the journey home, which occurs in The Stand when Stu essentially gives up hope and accepts the certainty of his own death. The magic flight and the rescue from without occur when Stu is nearly dead and Tom Cullen emerges from the desert to help him, along with Tom’s magical communication with the spirit of Nick, who instructs Tom on how to collect and administer the medicines that will save Stu’s life. Then Stu and Tom make the long and arduous journey back to Boulder, crossing the threshold of return. The result is that Stu has become what Campbell calls the master of two worlds, having conquered Randall Flagg and the fear of death, and returning to Boulder with Frannie and his new family. At the very end of the novel, he is given the freedom to live, and does so by choosing to take his family back to Maine to begin a new life. As an epic work of fiction of over 1,100 pages, The Stand presents other heroic journeys as well. Larry undergoes the transformation from a selfish rock musician to a leader and a martyr after initiating his own journey to the west, complete with an initial refusal of the call, supernatural aid from the dreams of Mother Abigail, his journey through the Holland Tunnel (the belly of the whale), his own road of trials, meeting the Goddess, and Nadine as the temptress that would have lured him onto the dark path. Larry’s hero’s quest, of course, ends with the ultimate boon, the destruction of Flagg and his thanking God, so there is no return from the journey. Harold Lauder’s hero’s quest turns into a failure once he succumbs to the temptress—before that, he still had a chance at redemption. Evolutionary theories incorporating biology, psychology, and culture have demonstrated that the hero’s quest story is a major component of world narrative, from Native American folktales to epic stories, to modern film. That begs the question, though, of whether or not these stories can be considered “literature” (with the capital “L”). Some, like Gilgamesh, The Iliad, and The Odyssey, have been unquestionably recognized as great works of literature. Until recently, folktales from the oral traditions of indigenous people have been placed in the category of popular culture but are currently appearing in world literature textbooks and are receiving critical study. However, just because a story follows the formula of a human universal, be it the hero’s quest or any other, that does not

8

Chapter 1

make it literature or else we would be studying the value of mass-produced romance plots in graduate school English classes. So what, exactly, does King do with his hero’s quest that makes it more than just pulp fiction? As Paquette has observed, he “weaves tales about characters who make readers think and includes fundamental questions about human nature that allow readers to probe their own feelings about the future of humanity” (15). The Stand is not just a hero’s quest but is a cautionary tale warning about a terrible but possible future where biological weapons get out of control. Although the use of these weapons has been banned by the Biological Weapons Convention, anthrax was used by a lone terrorist after 9/11, and Syria was reported to have used chemical weapons in 2016, a reminder that the threat of such weapons is more than just science fiction. Much of King’s fiction serves as a warning against technology and the trustworthiness of governments, but the first third of The Stand presents this terror with exceptional realism and plausibility in prose that is easy to understand, but difficult to forget. The novel presents a realistic view of both the biology of the plague and the sociology that might result in a post-plague world. Some of this debate is presented in the persona of Glenn Bateman, the sociologist; however, readers can recognize the common sense behind Bateman’s academic words. In- and Out-groups would undoubtedly form in a post-apocalyptic world, and while some survivors would try to rebuild civilization, others would certainly take advantage of the situation and adopt chaos and lawlessness. The book presents the classic philosophical debate: is humankind essentially “good” and corrupted by government, or is it savage and needs society to rein it in with religion and/or government? King ultimately answers the question by showing both sides, and, as the theory of evolution predicts, cooperative groups defeat uncooperative groups over time, a concept we will examine further in chapter 5. The Stand shows the value of cooperation and teamwork, and also shows that when altruism and teamwork groups become too big and too powerful, they can undermine society. The scientists working on the superflu virus were obviously a cooperative group, a team, but the team was so large that at least one “free-rider” managed to escape and spread the flu into the world. When teams become too self-focused, or focused on the wrong things, disaster can result. Mother Abigail warns the heroes of this directly when she reminds them that they weren’t brought together to make rules and run committees. Stan understands this at the end of the novel when he decides to leave Boulder and return to a small town in Maine. At the novel’s close, we are left with the idea that the world will re-civilize itself and create new committees and bureaucracies and make the same mistakes all over again in a never-ending cycle. Some critics have accused King of creating characters that are stereotypes, a criticism that I believe is unfair, since so many of these characters are memorable long after the story has been read. As Paquette observes, “each King character has a distinct personality beyond his or her traits, and individuality that

The Hero’s Quest

9

allows readers to see them as more than walking caricatures” (72). In The Stand he has created two characters in particular that metaphorically demonstrate the value of people whose value might not ordinarily be seen, and, though they might be seen as evolutionary “mistakes,” they wind up being critical to the survival of both the Boulder Free Zone and the human species. Nick, the deafmute, is an unlikely hero, to say the least, yet his keen perception, intelligence, and ability to lead are the glue that unites the Boulder community, especially when Mother Abigail is gone. She immediately recognizes him as one of the key players in the battle that is about to unfold. “Nick, God has put his finger on your heart” (513). Nick is a hero in his own right, and embarks on his own hero’s quest, beginning with being beaten up, to his trek to Boulder, and his ultimate boon in being “reborn” in spirit to help Tom save Stu’s life. His death in the bombing is the spark that unifies the group against a common enemy and inspires them to take action against Randall Flagg. Ironically, the man who can’t hear or speak is the best communicator of the group, and develops from drifter to charismatic leader who helps Mother Abigail’s God defeat the dark man. Tom Cullen, of course, is the other character who proponents of the nineteenth-century “science” of eugenics would consider a throwaway. What Tom lacks in intellect, he more than makes up for in goodness, kindness, and morality. He proves to be loyal, courageous, and intuitive enough to trust his instincts. His innocence, as Paquette has noted, makes him a major player in the fight against Randall Flagg (96). He and Nick form a mismatched team that should be destined to fail—one man who can only talk through his writing and another who can’t read—yet they prove to be powerful instruments against Randall Flagg. With these two characters, King reminds us that every human life has value, and this value may show itself in times and places where we least expect it. The Stand is ultimately successful both in its simplicity and its complexity. The novel reads like an action adventure film—and has, indeed, been adapted for film in two different versions—and can be read purely for entertainment by anyone with average reading skills. Yet the novel is deceptively complex as well, unveiling themes about humanity, religion, the nature of free will, and the importance of every person on the planet, despite outward appearances. Looking at the book from a Darwinist point of view invites us to read the novel on a different, more elemental level, showing its depiction of human universals that explain its popularity over the decades since its original publication. Multiple readings of the novel also show its insights into themes such as free will, religion, and even language itself, themes that pervade King’s work and will be examined further in later chapters.

Chapter Two

The Trickster

Another universal myth is the story of the trickster, a character who appears in tales, legends, myths, and folklore of every society. Joseph Campbell has called this creature “the chief mythological character of the Paleolithic world of story” (qtd. in Leeming and Page 24). He (the trickster is usually male) often appears in animal form, as in Raven or Coyote in Native American tales, and Spider, Hare, and Tortoise in African folktales. The Greek god Hermes is a trickster who stole Apollo’s cattle, as is Prometheus who gave fire to humankind. The Norse Loki was an especially malicious trickster who fought against the gods in Ragnarok, the destruction of the world and the gods. In polytheistic societies, this character is usually a god, or part-god and has supernatural powers, including the ability to change shapes and appear in many places. He is often a messenger between earth, the world of the gods, and the underworld, and is associated with doorways. He has a voracious appetite, for food, sex, or power. He is either immoral or amoral (Leeming 302) and can be “obscene, aggressive, selfish . . . an agent of chaos, he disrupts harmony” (Scheub 6). In monotheistic cultures the trickster has evolved to be more of a tempter, as in the serpent in the Genesis story. In modern world, Hyde posits that he is often portrayed as the “confidence man” and in a nation where everyone is constantly traveling, “‘America’ is his apotheosis; his pandemic” (11). While he is often foolish and humorous in folk tales, the trickster has developed into a more malevolent character in modern stories, as in the Joker character of the Batman universe. Although he is often compared to Satan, he is not the devil, per se, but may be a supernatural agent of evil in contemporary narrative, especially horror stories where he is personified by characters such as Freddy Kreuger from the Nightmare on Elm Street films, or the classic vampire, who uses his charm to gain entrance into people’s homes and steal their 11

12

Chapter 2

blood. Pennywise, from Stephen King’s It, is a perfect example of how the foolish clown of the circus has morphed into a malevolent creepy trickster in contemporary society. As a human universal, the trickster is a reminder of our basest instincts, Freud’s “Id,” or what Edgar Allan Poe terms the “Imp of the Perverse” that lives inside us and tricks us into doing the very thing that will cause the most harm to ourselves. In folktales and mythology, the trickster was often a culture hero, as when Prometheus brought fire to humankind. Today’s trickster, though, allows us to experience the dread and fear of an evil from which we cannot escape. And since fear is a universal human emotion, a part of human nature (Stewart-Williams 37), we are attracted to the horror story in general, and the character of the trickster specifically in order to experience fear in a nonthreatening way. Stephen King has incorporated the trickster into a number of his stories and has taken this character from the amusing pranksters of African legend and transformed it into a purely evil entity, from the Fornits who write stories in “The Ballad of the Flexible Bullet” to the unseen Wendigo in Pet Sematary that brings things back from the dead. Probably his best-known trickster is Pennywise the Clown from It, a character that has been frightening children and adults for over three decades now, turning clowns into creepy Halloween pranksters. He also appears as the proprietor in Needful Things, where he will sell the customer their heart’s greatest desire, for a price, as the vampire in ‘Salem’s Lot, and perhaps as Stephen King himself, the ultimate creator/trickster behind the Dark Tower books. While the trickster usually inhabits polytheistic societies and we think of contemporary society as monotheistic—or atheistic, Stephen King’s multiverse, as outlined in the Dark Tower books does consist of a pantheon of “gods” and heroes, immortals, supernatural beings and “short timers,” human beings who inhabit the bottom of the tower. In all of his appearances throughout the King canon, Randall Flagg may be considered an example of a trickster. He exhibits many of the characteristics of the trickster in The Stand, where he appears as a man and in the form of a Raven, a Native American trickster. He is a magician in The Eyes of the Dragon, a force of corruption, and the man in black and Marten, another court magician, in the Dark Tower books. Although not a “god” like some of the tricksters from mythology, he is an agent of a god; as we see in the Dark Tower series, he serves the Crimson King, and although The Stand does not allude to this directly, he obviously serves a higher force, be it Satan, or the Crimson King, the driving force behind the horrors that appear throughout the multiverse. In The Stand, Flagg can change shape at will, be anywhere he wants instantly, is immoral, malevolent, Satan-like, and extremely powerful. He exists simply to destroy, both in The Stand and in the Gunslinger books, where he is also responsible for a superflu in a different universe and is

The Trickster

13

working with the Crimson King to destroy the multiverse itself by tearing down the Dark Tower. Sligo has produced a list of five trickster characteristics amalgamated from earlier definitions and “reconsidered in what has been said in list of the trickster in modern times” (206). His five traits are: gift-giver and disrupter of status quo to create a new social order; juvenile, lacking self-awareness; violence; shape-shifter; and evading conventional analysis. Randall Flagg, as portrayed in The Stand, fits this model quite nicely. He is a gift-giver by bestowing the red-eye charm to both Lloyd and Trashcan Man as a talisman. He also gives the technicians who have survived the plague the gift of a renewed civilization, a new social order with Flagg in charge. He shows his lack of self-awareness by not realizing the mistakes he has made until it is too late, and, as Sligo has said of trickster in general, “responding to situations as they arise, but unable to formulate a . . . long-term plan” (222). He enjoys childlike magical pastimes like levitating just for the fun of it, and when attacked by Dayna, he turns her knife into a ripe banana, a child-like prank. He is obviously violent, torturing and executing anyone who doesn’t obey him, and he is a shape-shifter, appearing under different names and guises, and as a raven and a wolf. When Flagg first appears in The Stand, it is not in the flesh, but in Stu Redman’s dream of “two burning red eyes far back in the shadows, far back in the corn. Those eyes filled him with the paralyzed, hopeless horror that the hen feels for the weasel” (111). He is not fully introduced until chapter 23, where he is described by the omniscient narrator: There was a dark hilarity in his face and perhaps in his heart, too, you would think—and you would be right. It was the face of a hatefully happy man, a face that radiated a horrible, handsome warmth, a face to make waterglasses shatter in the hands of tired truck-stop waitresses, to make small children crash their trikes into board fences and then run wailing to their mommies with stakeshape splinters sticking out of their knees. It was a face guaranteed to make barroom arguments over batting averages turn bloody. (181)

Nicknamed “The Walkin’ Dude” (184), he epitomizes the trickster’s nomad way of life as he walks south on a highway through the desert wasteland. A master of portals and gateways, Flagg can come and go at will, and can manipulate the doorways between worlds of the multiverse controlled by the Crimson King. He was born and reborn and could suddenly do magic (184), and he knew that a “huge thing, a great thing” was coming, and that he would be part of it. The trickster tends to be a master manipulator, adept with words, and Flagg, in his many incarnations, had been a con man (181) and a speechwriter (183). Like the serpent in Genesis, Flagg tricks Harold Lauder into coming to the dark side, using the temptation of sex, and tricks Nadine Cross into

14

Chapter 2

having his child. He quotes the Bible in an ironic twist when he meets Lloyd, telling him that “the meek will inherit the earth” (367); the truly meek, Nick, Tom, and Mother Abigail, end up winning the war. As an agent of chaos, the dark man enters the dreams of the survivors of Captain Tripps, tempting and terrifying them at the same time. The selfish, the individualists, those without morals, the violent, the destructive and the psychopathic are all drawn to him, while the altruistic, the humble, the creators, and those who believe in rebuilding a better civilization are horrified and repelled. He has a hypnotic effect on Lloyd and Trashcan Man, and recruits outsiders who have an urge to belong, using the same tactics employed by criminal gangs. “Lloyd felt terror, but something else as well: a kind of religious ecstasy. A pleasure. The pleasure of being chosen” (366). And thus he builds his army, founded upon the idea of destruction for destruction’s sake, taking great delight in the suffering of those who cross him or do not follow his orders to the letter. Flagg is a modern-day trickster, seducing women for sex, manipulating and intimidating survivors to follow him, and offering friendship to criminals, rapists, and violent psychopaths like Lloyd and the Trashcan Man, who are willing to give their lives for him. Typical of tricksters, he has a voracious sexual appetite and an enormous penis that reaches all the way up to Nadine’s womb (988). In trickster tales, the trickster often brings about his own demise, and this is also the case in The Stand. While the heroes from the Free Zone make it to Las Vegas, they are on the verge of execution when Flagg’s plans literally blow up in his face as Trashcan Man detonates a nuclear weapon. Trashcan Man, an agent of chaos himself, was chosen by Flagg, a trickster who thought too highly of his own powers and failed to plan ahead. Insomnia, published in 1994, is not only part of the Dark Tower universe, but is its “keystone book” (Vincent 202). In the series, King invents an entirely fictional multiverse complete with its own mythology, including a myth of creation and destruction, and several trickster characters. This novel features the characters of Lachesis, Clotho, and Atropos, named for the three fates of Greek mythology, who spin, draw out, and cut the threads of human life. These three agents of death are “Long Timers,” not immortal (“All Timers”) but they live so long that they might as well be immortal in comparison to humans. In this novel, Lachesis and Clotho are the agents of life and purpose, and bring about the normal, purposeful deaths of humans (short timers) as deemed by fate. Atropos, however, is a “rogue” (Wiater 120) who serves the Crimson King as an agent of the Random, the chaos which brings about senseless, unnecessary deaths. His primary job in the novel is to kill Patrick Danville, a four-year-old child-artist whom the Crimson King foresees as a future enemy. If Patrick is killed, the “Tower of existence will fall” (Insomnia 683), which will fulfill the Crimson King’s mission.

The Trickster

15

Atropos can be considered a trickster character for several reasons. First, he trades in deception as he targets Ed Deepneau, a rare individual who is neither of the Purpose nor the Random and thus has the ability to change the universe. Atropos makes Deepneau go insane and turns him into becoming a kamikaze and flying his plane into a pro-choice rally. Deepeneau believes he is killing a pro-choice advocate, but the real plan is for Patrick to die in the catastrophe. Atropos, though a “long-timer,” has the juvenile disposition of a trickster. He collects objects from his victims and hoards them in his underground toy box like a serial killer collecting trophies. Among the items in his stash is a sneaker belonging to Gage Creed, the child who was hit by a tanker truck and killed in Pet Sematary. The hoard of countless items is “the faint, sorrowing voices of people who had found themselves written out of the script . . . who had been unceremoniously hauled off before their work was done or their obligations fulfilled, people whose only crime had been to be born in the Random” (633). His voracious appetite presents itself in a desire for objects that remind him of his malicious deeds over the centuries. Atropos disrupts the status quo in two ways. First, he takes people’s lives unexpectedly, causing immediate suffering and pain to the victim’s survivors. The enormity of this can be seen in the death of Gage Creed, whose untimely death led to the destruction of his entire family in Pet Sematary. Anyone who has lost a loved one to violence understands the exquisiteness of that pain, and Atropos seems to especially enjoy preying on the young and innocent. Second, he attempts to disrupt the entire universe itself. Much like Loki, the Norse trickster, Atropos initiates events that, if successful, would bring about the ultimate destruction. He is a disturber of the world, and under the direction of the Crimson King, seeks to bring about the apocalypse in all universes by destroying the Dark Tower. While the agents of the Purpose also bring death, Atropos enjoys inflicting pain and violence upon his victims. Lachesis and Clotho take lives with compassion and care, since death is a necessary part of the Purpose. Atropos, on the other hands, takes lives in a violent way, and the victims endure painful, torturous deaths. “It was one thing to hear Clotho and Lachesis say that Atropos was also part of the big picture . . . and quite another to see the faded Boston Bruins cap of a little boy who had fallen into an overgrown cellar-hole and died in the dark, died in agony, died with no voice left after six hours spent screaming for his mother” (634). Finally, Atropos defies conventional analysis. Although he is part of the “big picture” and “might even serve some Higher Purpose” (634), it is impossible for “short timers” to see the logic of how a child’s suffering might fit into this higher purpose. Stephen King, who says that “fiction is the truth inside the lie” (Danse Macabre 375), is perhaps the ultimate trickster in his own works. Hyde

16

Chapter 2

echoes this statement about tricksters: “tricksters offer special insight with ‘lies that tell a higher truth’” (284). This hidden exposure of hidden truth is one of the reasons we are attracted to tricksters; for authors, disguising often uncomfortable truths within the many layers of fiction offers a way to disseminate truth and make it palatable. In this regard, King can be thought of as a trickster who uses tricksters in his fiction. Like Alfred Hitchcock, King has made cameo appearances in a number of his films, including Creep Show (which also included his son), Pet Sematary, and The Stand (among others), and he has inserted references to his works in his fiction (for example, Insomnia and The Shining are referenced in the Dark Tower series). But his most important appearance occurs when he becomes a character in Wolves of the Calla, the fifth book in the Dark Tower series. In this book, he is shown to be the creator of Mid-World and all of its characters, including Roland, and is therefore the creator god. The character of Stephen King, a novelist, in a Stephen King novel launches a paradox of metafiction that will be discussed in more detail in a later chapter, and it both establishes the idea of free will and undermines it at the same time. When an artist puts his character into the work like this, it is “self-reflecting, like a drawing that contains a drawing of itself, or like the Native American tall tale which contains Coyote telling a tale” (Hyde 265). This metafictional tactic demonstrates both King’s playfulness and prankster nature and his ability to change the status quo by recreating it in fiction. While Stephen King the man is a caring individual and completely nonviolent, King the author has created some of the most horrible and violent scenes and characters in all of literature. His villains have become part of popular culture, recognized even by those who are not King fans. Pennywise the Clown, Cujo the rabid dog, and Annie Wilkes are just three of these characters that have become part of the collective unconscious. Characters in King’s novels suffer terrible deaths and torture, being run over by a tanker truck (Pet Sematary), being hobbled and being run over by a lawnmower (Misery), crucified, and being blown up by an nuclear weapon (The Stand), electrocuted (The Green Mile) . . . the list goes on. In King’s world, no one is safe, not even children: an eleven-year-old boy is brutally raped and murdered in The Outsider, and a ten-year old boy dies from heat stroke and dehydration after being trapped in a hot car by a rabid dog. In The Institute, children with psychic powers are kidnapped, enslaved, tortured, and forced to channel their powers into a hive-type mind in order to serve what their keepers see as the greater good. Humans are both attracted and repelled by death and violence, and so it is the currency of the author as trickster. In Danse Macabre, King describes the three levels of horror fiction: terror, horror, and the “gross-out.” While he admits that he strives for terror, he’ll settle for the gross-out. All three of these elements, it can be argued, work on an elemental level, the emotions of

The Trickster

17

disgust and fear that humans have evolved in order to survive. Fear has helped us to survive and outlast Paleolithic monsters, like Smilodon, the saber-tooth tiger, and disgust (or the gross-out) has kept us from eating spoiled or poisonous food. “The work of horror is not interested in the civilized furniture of our lives,” King says, “. . . but . . . the simple and brutally plain hole of a Stone Age cave-dweller” (Danse Macabre 18). Stephen King the novelist is, indeed, a shape shifter who can not only write horror but who can shift between the genres of science fiction (The Tommyknockers), mystery (Mr. Mercedes), fantasy (Eyes of the Dragon), and even mainstream fiction (“The Body”). Like all tricksters, he is adept with words, so much so that he enjoys an audience of millions of readers who preorder his books before they are even published. As an author/trickster he not only changes the status quo by putting and keeping horror on the best-seller list for over five decades, and having it analyzed in scholarly studies such as this one, but he also attempts to change society with his contemporary themes. He takes a close and honest look at the death penalty in The Green Mile, examines alcoholism, teenage suicide, and mental health in several novels, including The Shining and the Hodges trilogy, sheds light on a runaway consumer society (Needful Things) and even tackles the controversy of school shootings in Rage, one of the Bachman books. In fact, when looked at critically, each of his novels explores controversial human issues in a way that is entertaining rather than didactic. Finally, Stephen King the author defies analysis on a traditional level because he is a best-selling genre writer who has also won awards in the horror, fantasy, mystery categories, and was also the recipient of the 2003 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. Mainstream critics and scholars seem to have a particularly difficult time with King and his popular and financial success. While Harold Bloom and other critics have predicted that his work will not endure, he has, in fact, been almost continually on the worldwide best-seller list for nearly than fifty years, and has published more than fifty novels. With such a legacy, critics are beginning to take note of his work, and graduate students are writing dissertations on his fiction. King is a contradiction in the literary world, a genre novelist who has achieved both popular and critical success. The Trickster has been an iconic character since the first humans sat around a campfire and told stories, and he is alive and well in contemporary fiction as well. “The very fact that Trickster exists as a universal phenomenon, as a character who deals with moral concerns, goes to prove that our human sense of morality is, at base, extremely similar across the globe” (Williams 114). While the trickster may be readily seen in folk tales and mythology, he is evident in the modern world as well, as the confidence man, the stand-up comedian, and the leader of a religious cult. According to evolutionary theory, recognizing and understanding the trickster has been an im-

18

Chapter 2

portant part of our tools for survival since Paleolithic times. “Trickster reveals our selfish genes, the most primitive parts of the brain; our contradictory brain modules, our obsession with hierarchy and status. Our constant desire for food and sex” (Williams 286). In some ways, the trickster as revealed in the genres of fantasy and horror allow modern readers the freedom to see this character more clearly. In mythology and religion, the supernatural aspects of trickster figures are grounded in faith. “Trickster tales are an integral part of the mythic literature attempting to answer things like: Is the Creator good or evil?” (Williams 133). Modern readers are more willing to understand them through imaginative fiction, where the characters can be imagined through Coleridge’s “willing suspension of disbelief” (677) as opposed to realism. Still, critics of popular culture have identified the trickster figure in living people. Modern figures who fit into the trickster model include Donald Trump (Sligo), Andy Warhol (Cresap), internet trolls (Radford), and computer hackers (Nikitina). The appeal of some of these tricksters is in their ability to change the status quo, either for the better or the worse. In conclusion, King has capitalized on the mythical figure of the trickster in his fiction, and I believe further study would reveal tricksters in his other works. Even inanimate objects, like the Overlook Hotel in The Shining, or the automobile in Christine have trickster characteristics, not to mention Greg Stillson, the politician in The Dead Zone. While it is doubtful that King consciously sets out to create trickster characters—or to become one himself—the argument can be made that this character is part of our evolutionary and cultural heritage and has become part of our collective unconscious, if you will. It is only natural, then, that today’s most popular novelists would retell these ancient stories that audiences enjoy so much.

Chapter Three

In the Beginning . . . The Creation of the Multiverse

In the last chapter, it was shown that Stephen King himself plays the trickster when he inserts himself into his stories by making a cameo appearance, or, as in the case of the Dark Tower novels, making himself a character that is an integral part of the story. In the Dark Tower books, King is more than just the trickster, though. In that series, and throughout most of his novels, he has, in fact, created a multiverse complete with its own mythological characters, including the Crimson King, the Green King, the Men in Yellow Coats, the Dark Man or the “Man in Black,” and a host of others. Within this multiverse he has created Mid-World (the universe of Roland, the Gunslinger), Keystone (the contemporary world that we “short timers” inhabit), and other worlds where John Kennedy was not assassinated, or Ernest Hemingway published more books. These worlds contain short-timers, long-timers, and all-timers, but at the very top of the multiverse is its creator and God, the novelist Stephen King himself. Throughout human history (and probably prehistory), humans have told stories about creation, about how the universe was and came to be. The most common creation story is an all-powerful god that creates the universe ex nihilo, from nothing. The creation process may include thinking, dreaming, or speaking the world into existence. “The connection between thought and creation and language and creation is logical when we consider the fact that it is through thought and language that we humans make creation at large conscious of itself” (Leeming and Page 153). Io, the god of the Maori people of the South Pacific, spoke the universe into existence, “telling the darkness to become light” (154). The Uitoto Indians of Columbia tell the story of Nainema, who “was nothing but a vision, an illusion” (157), but he took the vision and created the universe, himself, and “he, the one who was the story 19

20

Chapter 3

itself—created this story for us to hear” (158). The Mayan myth also says the world was spoken into being: “‘Let creation begin!’ the Creators exclaimed. ‘Let the void be filled! Let the sea recede, revealing the surface of the earth! Earth, arise! Let it be done!’ And so they created it. The Creators made it.” (Rosenberg 481). In the Old Testament God spoke the universe into existence. “God said ‘Let there be light’ and there was light” (Holy Bible 1), and the New Testament’s Gospel of John begins: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made” (1205). The Koran states that “It is Allah who gives life and death. He only needs to say ‘Be,’ and it is” (Leeming and Page 169). The power of words to create seems to be a human universal throughout mythology. It is language that brings us meaning and allows human beings to create their own worlds. Although there is controversy about whether language is genetically preprogrammed through a universal grammar (Chomsky 55), most biologists and evolutionary psychologists recognize that the capacity to learn language is either an evolved instinct (Pinker), developed from a protolanguage similar to the warning calls of other primates (Bickerton), or was a result of evolutionary brain development that allowed us to create and comprehend symbols and use them to understand the world and communicate (Deacon). The Stephen King multiverse is a direct result of language, story, and the written word since King, as its author, is also its creator. In his essay, “The Death of the Author,” Roland Barthes takes the control of story from the author and places it in the hands of the reader. “It is language that speaks, not the author” (143), and since each reader interprets language in a different way, the reader creates the story when it is read. By designating himself as the maker of the people, places, things and events in the Dark Tower books, King reasserts the power of the artist as a creator of his works. As an author, then, King has the power to bring things to life, and, like the gods of religion and myth, to create worlds, universes, and even a multiverse consisting of everything. In fact, King’s heroes themselves save his life in this multiverse, when they prevent his death in in Song of Susannah at the hands of a reckless driver. By saving him, they not only save themselves, but insure that the Dark Tower series will be completed. Of course the rebirth of the author—or perhaps the undeath of the author might be a more appropriate phrase—ignores the philosophical question of the role of the reader in creating art. Post-structuralists claim that if there is no reader, then there is no story. This, however, is not a problem for King, who enjoys the patronage of millions of readers, many of whom complained bitterly about the long wait between the publication of each of the Dark Tower books. And while it is true that a reader of a narrative, a listener of

In the Beginning . . . The Creation of the Multiverse

21

music, or a viewer of art does interpret the work in his or her individual way so that it has different meanings for different people, King does remind us that without a “creator” there would be nothing to interpret. This, of course, would put critics out of business. By interlacing stories, books, and characters—even himself—throughout his work, the unseen hand of the author is always present, even if it is a shadow. As McAleer says, “it is with this planned, complex, and intricate network of fiction that King reminds us that not even the death or removal of the author would allow for readers to take over their own readership of King’s fiction because the pulls and designs of Stephen King as an author are ubiquitous and anything but negligible” (145). So how does the multiverse begin? In King’s narrative, it begins with words: “The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed” (Gunslinger 3), a sentence that the “character” Stephen King asserts is “the best opening line I ever wrote” (Song 374). As Vincent says, this opening creates “the protagonist, his adversary, and the setting in a few wellchosen words” (Road 28). This is the equivalent of “let there be light” in King’s multiverse. Stephen King is exposed as the “god” of his characters in the “11th Stanza” of Song of Susannah, when they meet the character Stephen King in the flesh. “Never had Eddie seen one [King’s shadow] that so filled him with terror and fascination. He thought, and with absolute certainty: Yonder comes my maker” (362). King doesn’t recognize Eddie because he hadn’t written him yet, but when he sees Roland he says “man, I made you. You can’t be standing there because the only place you really exist is here” (365), and he points to his head. The King they meet in 1977 has lost the outline for the rest of the story and has no plans to finish it until Roland hypnotizes him and convinces him to return to work on the book. Thus, in an interesting paradox, the characters in the story convince their author/creator to create the ones he hasn’t written about yet, and to keep Roland alive. Later, in 1999 when he’s all but given up on finishing the series, Roland and Jake return to save his life when Bryan Smith, a distracted driver, nearly kills King by running him over. This metafictional section not only makes a creation story for Roland and Mid-World, but also says plenty about the writing process itself. Roland asks King how he creates stories, how he created him. “‘It just comes,’ King said . . . ‘It blows into me—that’s the good part—and then it comes out when I move my fingers. Never from the head. Comes out the navel, or somewhere’” (385). The “Coda” to Song of Susannah contains an excerpt from the journals of the “character” Stephen King, which also alludes to the fact that the author is not in charge of the story, but is merely a vehicle for it. “It seems like I didn’t write the damned thing at all, that it just flowed out of me, like an umbilical cord from a baby’s navel. What I’m trying to say is that the wind blows, the cradle rocks, and sometimes it seems to me that none of this

22

Chapter 3

stuff is mine, that I’m nothing but Roland of Gilead’s fucking secretary” (523). He goes on to say that “I have no more idea what’s inside that damned tower than . . . well, Oy does!” (531). This creates another paradox; the novels that King writes continually remind us of the presence of the all-powerful creator, the author, who, despite Barthes’s obituary, is still alive and well. But Stephen King, the authorcharacter in his own book, admits that the book virtually wrote itself, which, in a sense it did since King was hypnotized by Roland into writing it. This fits into Jung’s collective unconscious theory at some level—that stories are already in the author’s mind and just need to be teased out. And we can say that, while this may be true for the character of Stephen King in the Stephen King novel, the real Stephen King has free will over what he writes and is not directed by destiny, or ka. This, however, leads to another question—is the real Stephen King in control of what he writes? In Misery, the character of Paul Sheldon complains that he is a slave of his fans and is forced to write what they want rather than what he is interested in. In The Dark Half, the character of Thad Beaumont is taken over by his pseudonym, George Stark, in a schizophrenic depiction of critical versus commercial success. King was forced to complete the Dark Tower series, in part at least, by irate fans who demanded the next books. “During the long pauses between the writing and publishing of the first four Dark Tower tales, I received hundreds of ‘pack your bags, we’re going on a guilt trip’ letters” (xvi), King writes in the rewritten version of The Gunslinger, including one from a woman dying of cancer and another one on death row. This foreword echoes the sentiments of King the character: “I had no idea of how things would turn out with the gunslinger and his friends. To know, I have to write” (xvii). In On Writing he states “my basic belief about the making of stories is that they pretty much write themselves. The job of the writer is to give them a place to grow” (163). Macherey thought of the author as a “producer of texts” (41) and that the story is “discovered rather than invented” (48). In his Marxist interpretation, the work is produced as a consumer product rather than a work of art, and, as such, drags along all of the baggage of contemporary society with it. It is, then, a product of culture and the marketplace rather than of conscious intentions of the author” (Macherey 197). Thus the author cannot help but expressing the ideology of the culture he or she was raised in, whether or not that ideology is flawed. “The work is preceded by an ideological project . . . which engulfs the conscious intentions of the individual author” (197). Applying this theory to the creation story, the Dark Tower series, and Song of Susannah in particular, echoes the importance of the artist as creator, even if King himself believes he is merely the vehicle of creation. “Good story ideas seem to come quite literally from nowhere,” King says in On Writing. “sailing at you right out of the empty sky: two previously

In the Beginning . . . The Creation of the Multiverse

23

unrelated ideas come together and make something new under the sun. Your job isn’t to find these ideas but to recognize them when they show up” (37). Jung would say that these ideas come from the collective unconscious, and Macherey would claim they come from the capitalist society that the author lives in, and for King, they could come from Todash space, which could be a metaphor for the imagination or the “word pool, the story pool, or the myth pool” of Scott Landon (Lisey’s Story 97), for that matter. Creation stories do more than just explain the creation of the world, but also explain its mechanisms, its rules, and the way things work. In The Dark Tower series (which includes more than just the seven-volume series), Stephen King, as the omniscient author, creates the world and its characters. But he also creates an entire pantheon of other gods, demons, and forces that explain its existence and which embed themselves into almost all of his other novels. This pantheon includes the Crimson King, the Green King (from Insomnia), the short-timers, long-timers, and all-timers, and the idea of the Purpose and the Random. It creates Randall Flagg, the sorcerer/villain who appears in several novels and in multiple incarnations and helps create the apocalypse in more than one world. He creates a minion of lesser demons, including the Low Men in Yellow Coats who appear in Hearts in Atlantis and Ur. It explains the Tower, with its multiple floors, and its position as the hub of the wheel of everything, as well as its guardians, the Bear, the Turtle, and others. Places include Mid-World, End-World, and our own world, Keystone-World, not to mention the multiple universes of Ur and 11/22/63. King even creates his own version of Mid-World English with an extensive enough vocabulary to warrant its own glossary in Bev Vincent’s The Road to the Dark Tower. Taking his cue from J. R. R. Tolkien, King’s multiverse is so complex that it required the writing of an extensive concordance by Robin Furth just to allow King himself to keep track of all of its components. In Roland’s world, Gan is the creator of Mid-World and the “creative overforce, personified in the Dark Tower” (Vincent, Companion 350) and he is the inspiration and energy behind artists, musicians, and writers. In fitting with the theme of words and creation, “fin-Gan” was the first word, which began the earth’s rotation. If King is one of the guardians of Gan, as Vincent suggests, he, as the author and creator of Mid-World, is also Gan’s creator. Furthermore, Mid-World, and the rest of the multiverse, is created with words and through artistic expression. The Tower, being the hub of the wheel of creation, links all of the beams, all of the universes, and effectively illustrates the complex interconnectedness of events, a theme that King returns to in 11/22/63. As he shows in the Dark Tower series, and in Ur, one small change in events can lead to major changes—the so-called “butterfly effect.” This creates a multiplicity of universes, and even if these universes are not “real” in the sense that we can travel to them, they can be imagined, can be dreamed of, and, as King shows,

24

Chapter 3

can be written about. This theme relates directly to the end of the novel and the circular nature of Roland’s quest. If he changes a single action each time he relives the quest, then according to this logic he will eventually discover a plan of action that works and that will save the Tower of existence forever— at least in that universe. The Dark Tower series, like all of King’s novels, attempts to explain the nature of our “Keystone” world of contemporary America by creating a multiverse and placing our universe within this. These books, then, can be thought of as a fantasy version of H. P. Lovecraft’s vision of cosmic horror that shows the smallness of humankind in the overall scheme of things. Yet, unlike Lovecraft’s fatalism, King’s characters strive no matter what the odds, as evidenced by Roland himself who will repeat his quest endlessly until he finally succeeds. So among the infinite number of possibilities, in the Dark Tower series at least, it seems as if there must be at least one with a “happy ending.” This idea seems to be contradicted in 11/22/63, of course, when it seems that the unhappy circumstance of Kennedy’s assassination is actually the best of all of the possible universes. In this way, the purpose of the creation of the Dark Tower is to reflect upon the age-old question of determinism versus free will, a theme that is repeated over and over again in King’s universe, and which deserves its own chapter later in this work. Suffice it to say that in this series, King creates an infinite series of paradoxes between the free will of an author and his characters, as King creates them, presumably out of his own free will, and they, in turn, show up on his doorstep and hypnotize him into creating them. This theme of free will is also explored in The Stand, Insomnia, Ur, and 11/22/63. In conclusion, King has returned to the ancient monomyth of creation stories that have been recorded from the Kingdom of Egypt, with the creation Geb, the god of the earth and Nut the goddess of the sky, to the current scientific creation story of the “Big Bang,” which is still being rewritten and understood with the accumulation of knowledge. Although King’s creation is intended to be fictional, it does present a scientifically plausible view of a multiple universe, and, perhaps more importantly from an artistic standpoint, resurrects the author from his grave and puts him in charge of his creations, even if these creations are discovered rather than manufactured. As in all of King’s stories, he reaches beyond the borders of popular fiction and explores the metaphysical questions of existence and human nature.

Chapter Four

Silenced by Science The Anthropocene Apocalypse in Cell

End-of-the-world stories have been around since the first stories were written down and, no doubt, long before then as part of the human oral tradition. These stories usually are followed with a rebirth, which “symbolizes the return to chaos and is always followed by a new cosmogony with the appearance of a virgin earth” (Eliade 29). Sometimes the world ends in flood, as in the Epic of Gilgamesh or in the Old Testament, and sometimes it ends in fire, as in the Norse Ragnarok rendition. In many of these stories, the end is brought about, or predicted because of the sins of humankind, which are symbolically cleansed and result in a rebirth. In the modern world, the apocalypse has become a staple of science fiction, which, as R. W. B. Lewis has posited does not look back on an early paradise but looks ahead to a catastrophic end (Robinson 66). Author H. G. Wells wrote about the destruction of the earth by a wayward meteor in his 1897 story “The Star” (a story that has been told many times since then, in fiction and in film); Vonnegut has prophesized a nuclear Holocaust in Cat’s Cradle, and Stanley Kubrick in the film Dr. Strangelove; and alien invasions have attempted to wipe out humanity in scores of films, including Independence Day. King has also tackled apocalyptic fiction in The Stand, “The Mist,” and others, where the sins of out-of-control science lead to the potential destruction of the human race, and its rebirth through the survivors. The Anthropocene has been termed the epoch where humans have changed the environment. Depending on how this is interpreted, this era could be dated from the earliest hominid tool use, estimated at 2.5 million years ago (Harari 10) to the Industrial Age. In any event, humans have left their impact on the environment with tool use, farming, and industrialization, 25

26

Chapter 4

which has changed the face of the planet. Indeed, many have predicted the Anthropocene Apocalypse, an end-of-the-world scenario caused by humans. In most of King’s fiction, science is seen as a destructive force rather than a force for good. Scientists, particularly those working for “the government,” are often the villains in these stories. In Firestarter, “the Shop,” a metaphor for the CIA, inadvertently “creates” a pyrokinetic child and then tries to destroy her to keep their secret. In The Golden Years, an innocent janitor survives another “Shop” experiment that results in reverse aging and, as he begins to grow younger, the government, again, is compelled to chase him down and kill him. In Revival, science is shown as a doorway to cosmic horror and is, thus, a metaphorical Pandora’s jar that perhaps should not be opened. And in The Institute, a coalition of governments kidnaps children with psychic talents to refine and harness their powers. It is not a very long leap to go from science being a frightening and destructive force to a force that brings about the apocalypse and ends the very Anthropocene age that it introduced once humankind discovered and harnessed technology. The best-known example of this, of course, is King’s epic work The Stand, which has become one of his most-admired classics. In this work, science, once again out of control, creates a superflu virus that exterminates over 99 percent of the world’s population, sending civilization back to a time before the advent of most current technology. Originally published in 1977, long before the term “Anthropocene Epoch” was widely known or accepted, and predating (and some say, predicting) the AIDS epidemic and COVID-19, this novel does forecast a possible Anthropocene apocalypse where human beings become the victims of a mass extinction. This post-apocalyptic world, revealed again in the Dark Tower series, is brought about by science tinkering with a biological agent, causing a virus, a living force, to infect humanity and metaphorically rid the earth of the human virus that has taken over the planet. There have been many excellent studies done on The Stand, most notably Anthony Magistrale’s A Casebook on “The Stand,” originally published in 1992, so I have chosen to focus my study on one of King’s newer works, Cell, published in 2006. While King is having some fun with the idea of smart phones creating mindless human zombies, this book, which he called “an entertainment” in the Paris Review (qtd. in Lehman-Haupt and Rich), is really quite more thematically complicated than even its author may realize. In Cell, King has taken the idea of a killer virus to a different place, transforming it into a technology-based electronic virus that doesn’t simply destroy the human race, but actually transforms it into a different species altogether, thereby threatening extinction of Homo sapiens. This version of the Anthropocene apocalypse is an interesting variation of end-of-the-world stories, combining science, zombie mythology, and dystopia to create a book that taps into our post-9/11 fears of terrorism, our discomfort with the loss of

Silenced by Science

27

freedom and privacy, and the drawbacks of living in a world that is always connected by an invisible spider web of electronic technology. With its apocalyptic motif, the novel also highlights a number of fascinating and complex themes in contemporary American culture: the effects of electronic communication; our obsession with appearance; the preoccupation with consumerism; the degeneration of language; and even the definition of what it means to be human. King touches on these themes using irony and humor, and he warns us that sometimes in a very complex world, it is the simple things that can destroy us. Cell is an obvious play on the zombie apocalypse, a modern cultural icon that has become embedded into popular culture. King’s idea of the zombie in Cell is a continuation of the zombie theme that has a long and fascinating history and has been well analyzed by Kyle William Bishop. The zombie was first documented in William Seabrook’s The Magic Island in 1929, as part of a Haitian voodoo ritual, and adapted by Hollywood in the 1932 film The White Zombie. The original zombies were victims of voodoo priests who were able to magically transform humans into robotic slaves that could be used as obedient workers or, in The White Zombie, sex slaves. These zombies were slow-moving, apathetic, and easily controlled by their masters, an idea that King himself returns to in the third book of the Hodges trilogy, End of Watch. The idea of the zombie apocalypse was invented by George Romero with the release of Night of the Living Dead in 1969. These zombies were the same slow-moving zombies of Haitian folklore, but had somehow acquired a taste for cannibalism, and were a deadly force when they gathered in a massive army and swarmed against the living. This concept is, of course, the idea behind The Walking Dead franchise, which began in 2003 with Robert Kirkman’s graphic novel, and which was adapted into the wildly popular television series in 2010. In Kirkman’s universe, zombies infest the entire planet and threaten to destroy the human race as we know it. The Zombie Survival Guide, published in 2003, gives zombies a history and even a scientific rationale, claiming that they are created from the Solanum virus (Brooks 2). Contemporary writers and filmmakers have given zombies speed and purpose, as in World War Z, which was released the same year as Cell. King’s Cell is in some ways a hybrid of the zombie stories that came before. Like Seabrook’s zombies, they are controlled by a master of some sort, though this master seems to be more of an electronic entity and not a sugar plantation owner looking for cheap labor. They begin their life cycle as violent, mindless beings after being converted by the “Pulse,” much like the typical walking dead (though they are not flesh-eating). Then they are controlled by alarms and noises, form “flocks,” and obey a hive mind. They begin to develop an intelligence of sorts, “getting smarter” through a “telepathic group-think” (King, Cell 122). Finally, they begin the process of

28

Chapter 4

cannibalizing the normies by metaphorically eating their minds and transforming them into phone-crazy zombies themselves. Yet, while using a traditional zombie motif as his background, King breaks new ground. The “phone crazies” are not created by the usual methods—a biological agent or radiation—but are “activated” by an electronic pulse embedded in cell phones, a computer virus rather than a biological one, and are turned into slaves of the technology. They don’t eat flesh in the traditional manner of Romero’s zombies, but they do seem to be programmed to turn every normal human into a member of the flock. Unlike the traditional “walking dead,” they are not technically “undead” but are still alive in a biological sense: they eat, sleep, and can be killed. They are not human but, perhaps most terrifying of all, are evolving into a new species that will replace human beings as the alpha species of the planet. It is the differences between the phone crazies and the traditional zombies that tap into our fears and make the novel much more complex and interesting than it might first appear. As the world’s best-selling horror novelist, King understands fear and taps into the universal fears of the human race in his fiction. Unlike the Victorians, we are more fascinated by than afraid of the traditional supernatural horrors—ghosts, vampires, demons—and have transformed these folktales and myths into pure entertainment. In the modern world of technology, our fears run much deeper, and Cell explores them in detail. Specifically, this novel explores our modern fears of terrorism, loss of privacy, technology, and, perhaps more importantly, our fear of extinction, either through our own doing or through an outside force over which we have no control. According to Bishop, the terrorist attacks of 9/11 had a profound impact on the zombie genre (11), and after a span where zombies had either disappeared or become the subject of comedy, they returned to film in 2002 with 28 Days Later and Resident Evil. Kirkman’s graphic novel series debuted in 2003, as did The Zombie Survival Guide. In 2006, World War Z, as well as Cell were released. According to Bishop, “one of the primary reasons the Zombie Renaissance was even possible was the world’s collective fears and anxieties about terrorist attacks and global pandemics” (14). The fear of a self-inflicted terrorist apocalypse had become a very realistic horror, one that King refers to directly in Cell. As soon as the initial chaos hits Boston, one of the surviving characters says “maybe it’s terrorists,” reflecting the universal fear of another terrorist attack. “As soon as the word was out of his mouth, Clay was sure he was right” (10). Several pages later, we see people jumping from buildings, bringing back vivid memories of people leaping from the Twin Towers to escape the flames, and the man who suggested it was a terrorist attack says “they’re using planes again” (16). Once the true cause of the chaos is discovered—the cell phones—terrorism is still believed to be the cause (45). It

Silenced by Science

29

would, indeed, be a devious plot, the characters speculate, since the first thing people do in a crisis is reach for their cell phones. Tom brings up terrorism as a probable cause later in the novel (83) and observes that cellphones are so pervasive in society that they can be weaponized (84). If there were to be an apocalypse, King speculates that a terrorist attack might be one very realistic way to bring it about. One of the terrors Americans fear most is the loss of privacy, and Cell touches this nerve in two ways. First, of course, is the very real fear of having our personal devices hacked and our identity stolen, leaving us, metaphorically, a zombie without a life. In 2016, 15.4 million Americans were victims of identity theft, one in sixteen adults (Sullivan). In 2014, a Gallup Poll found that 70 percent of consumers worried about identity theft, and 62 percent feared having a computer or smartphone hacked (O’Farrell). The Pulse of the cell phones in King’s novel steals identities in a graphic and physical way, taking away people’s humanity and turning them into mindless, violent creatures: “even calling them people would be wrong,” Clay says (44). This is the fear we have from the original zombie myth, that someone (or something) could take control of our lives and make us do things we wouldn’t do if we were in control. King takes the idea of identity theft from the mundane (raking up credit card debt) to the insane (violence and murder), but we must also wonder if our identity could be electronically switched to that of a convicted felon and we might find ourselves wrongfully arrested. Second, the Pulse that creates a world of zombies also exposes our fears of the loss of freedom in a more general way. In 2016, fear of the government topped the list of what Americans fear most, according to a Chapman University study (Miller). This fear of government has been explored in a number of King’s novels (Firestarter, The Dead Zone, The Running Man, The Institute, and others) that suggest a corrupt government might take away our democracy and personal freedoms. This theme and its corresponding fear has grown worse since 9/11, an event that has led to body searches at airports and Guantanamo Bay becoming a symbol of punishment for terrorists. The loss of personal freedom becomes evident after the Pulse has done its work. When a woman tries to impose her religious beliefs upon him, Tom shuts her up with “Somebody cancelled your right of free speech around three o’clock this afternoon” (66). This, of course, also means a cancellation of religious freedom, and, perhaps, taps into America’s fears of radical terrorists attempting to impose their beliefs on the United States, and concerns with the belief in a separation of church and state. A page later, another character asks if its still a free country. Clay responds ironically—“Too free” (67). On a larger scale, America herself is now open to attack because the Pulse and democracy will be lost. “All of Boston is open to the world,” Clay says, soon after the Pulse occurs. The government no longer functions, and law enforcement has no authority, or even a presence. The survivors must survive

30

Chapter 4

on their own wits and skills—and their own ethics, since the idea of law no longer exists in the traditional sense. This fear becomes even more concrete when the “phoners” round up what is left of the survivors so they can reprogram them to become part of the flock. Since our nation was built on the idea of independence and what Emerson called “self-reliance,” a hive or flock mentality goes contrary to everything we believe. King’s creation of the “phoners” taps into that universal fear we have of being an unwilling part of a cult. Cell also reveals the fear of technology, especially in older adults. At the time he wrote the novel, King admits in the bio at the back of the book that he did not own a cell phone (353), and according to the PEW Research Center, in 2017 “there remains a notable digital divide between younger and older Americans.” While the rate of cell phone usage among seniors has increased by 24 percent in three years, only 18 percent of seniors owned the devices in 2013. When fear of cell phone technology is combined with fear of the government, this theme becomes much worse, since government agencies can now extract information from cell phones to be used in the prosecution of criminal cases. Add to this the prospect of cell phone hacking, and the threat is increased. Perhaps the greatest fear that King exposes in Cell is our fear of the extinction of the human race. From the very first recorded narratives, humans have been concerned with a global apocalypse that would destroy our species. Virtually every culture has its destruction story; from the flood in the Mesopotamian Epic of Gilgamesh, to contemporary science fiction stories about an asteroid hitting the earth, the story of humanity’s annihilation has been an archetype in literature. Mythical destruction stories typically end with a renewal of the race: a new world arises after Ragnarok in Norse mythology, and according to Ovid, Deucalion and his wife repopulate the flooded earth to create a new race. The fact that these ancient myths result in a happy ending demonstrates the difficulty of our comprehending a complete extinction of our species. King’s novel has an optimistic ending as well, since the human race does survive after all. This is evident in the very beginning of the novel, which is told by a third-person narration in the voice of a historian who seems to be documenting the event: “The event known as The Pulse began at 3:03 p.m., eastern standard time, on the afternoon of October 1” (3). The narrator goes on to address the reader directly, asserting that there is a human narrator telling the story in the future, as if the text were history, and, therefore, there must be a future human audience reading it. Thus, Homo sapiens has not become extinct after all—but such an extinction was a very real possibility. Cell represents not just the possible extinction of the human race, but, perhaps even more terrifying, a replacement of them with a new species that “evolves” from Homo sapiens (King and his son Owen explore this theme

Silenced by Science

31

again in Sleeping Beauties, a different type of Anthropocene apocalypse where all of the planet’s women disappear and are “reborn” in an alternate world without men). In Cell, the new species, the “phoners,” is created by technology rather than biology, and unlike the slow process of natural selection, it occurs instantaneously. One of the ironies of the Anthropocene Epoch is that it, and the resulting rise of humans as the dominant species of the planet, was created by technology and, realistically, the end of the epoch and the human species may very well be destroyed by technology, as is evidenced by concerns about climate change, nuclear proliferation, overpopulation, and other threats caused by humans and their science. In Cell, it is perhaps even more ironic that technology, which propelled humankind to the top of the food chain, is directly responsible for its instantaneous replacement by a new species that, despite its creation through technology, might “eventually have turned out to be better custodians of the earth than the so-called normies” (342). The human fear of the extinction of our species leads us to the question of what it means to be human. King addresses this issue in a number of his books, including Pet Sematary, Revival, and The Tommyknockers, and it is a key theme in Cell. According to Katherine Allen, transhumanism philosophy speculates that humans are “biological accidents, rather than divinely crafted likenesses: we are, therefore, if not perfectible, at least improvable” (50). This idea has led scientists on a number of quests, from genetic and biomedical engineering to the search for new products and technologies that will improve our health, increase our life span, and even make us smarter. Transhumanists argue that through the careful use of technology “we can defeat (or at least defer) death and direct our own evolution, becoming self-made men and women” (51). In Pet Sematary and The Tommyknockers, Allen argues that King fictionally expresses the arguments against transhumanism as expressed by bioconservatives such as Francis Fukuyama, who “characterizes transhumanism as the world’s most ‘dangerous idea’” and McKibben and Kass, who argue “that any technologically assisted ‘becoming’ would . . . result in a creeping loss of humanity” (52). Although the phoners in Cell were created more by accident than by design, they do reveal not only the dangers of tinkering with the species but reveal some of the qualities (both good and bad) that define what it means to be human. One of the traits that defines Homo sapiens is our desire to create, obtain, collect, and possess things and objects. King has, of course, explored this theme of consumerism in great depth in Needful Things, where the residents of Castle Rock were willing to sell their souls in order to acquire the things they desire. This consumer desire is evident in the very first page of Cell, as Clayton Riddell carries a shopping bag from “Small Treasures” that contains a useless but beautiful paperweight that he hopes will impress his wife, who

32

Chapter 4

“liked such things” (4). The next few pages are liberally peppered with King’s use of brand names “Copley Square Hotel,” “MISTER SOFTEE” icecream cones, “iPods,” “AmEx” credit cards, and even a dog with a “Frisbee” (4–5). Before the Pulse, people are very concerned with brand names and with appearances, and King describes a man wearing “fashionably baggy jeans,” “women in power suits,” and a girl with a “peppermint-colored phone” (5). Clay himself has just sold his graphic novel to a publisher for a huge paycheck and has immediately begun to spend it in the city where Clay realizes that everything is expensive. While we might scorn the capitalist consumer society we have become, where even in a disaster people engage in looting, it can be argued that our desire for possessions is intrinsically at the root of the human rise to prominence on the planet. Making and owning tools are one of the major things that distinguishes humans from other creatures. Initially, tools were a survival mechanism for the species; those who could create and control them were favored in the evolutionary process and so technology and the Anthropocene Epoch were born. Although this instinctive trait has become almost ridiculous in American society where we are willing to pay outrageous prices for things we don’t really need, or which have the right designer label on them, this desire is hard-wired into our humanity and still inspires us to create new ideas, products, technology, and artistic creations. Our consumer society has created things as useless as the pet rock, and as destructive as the hydrogen bomb. Yet it has also created antibiotics and indoor plumbing, something that even the worst technophobe can agree is beneficial. Technology is a proverbial double-edged sword that both defines us and has the potential to destroy us. And, according to Jean Baudrillard, the purpose of consumption is not to generate individual happiness—as soon as we have the object of our desire we turn our desire toward something else—but to create collective happiness, since it is the force that drives our society and our economy (78). In Cell, Stephen King contrasts the consumer society of the “normies” before the Pulse with that of the society that exists afterward. Clay, who was so possessive of his Small Treasures bag and artist’s portfolio—“These are mine” (13)—eventually leaves both behind when he realizes that the capitalist world has changed. Neither the paperweight nor his drawings have any value after the Pulse, and “Diner’s Club and Visa were no longer accepted” (18). Instead, humanity returns to a survival mode, searching for practical items such as food and weapons. As the novel progresses, brand names are used less and less, as they become irrelevant. Appearance loses its importance as well. The phone crazies, the new electronically created species of humans, don’t care what they look like. Their clothing quickly becomes tattered, blood-stained, and ruined (18). Some are unashamedly naked (28). The survivors, also, have no time to think about appearances as they struggle to escape the violent phone crazies. Tom

Silenced by Science

33

retrieves his shoe, now with broken laces, and puts it on, and Alice is wearing a bloody white dress. Interestingly enough, the Pulse does seem to put an end to racism, at least in the traditional sense. The idea of skin color and race is no longer important after the apocalypse. Instead, the distinction is made between “normie” and “phoner.” According to Steven Pinker and other linguists, language is not only “man’s most important cultural invention” (4), but “is a distinct piece of the biological makeup of our brains.” Pinker terms language an “instinct” and claims that “people know how to talk in more or less the sense that spiders know how to spin webs” (5). Although Sampson and others have challenged Pinker’s theory that language is encoded in our DNA like the distinct song of a bird, he and most linguists do agree that our capacity for learning language is a result of an evolutionary advantage that enabled prehistoric peoples to work together more efficiently in hunting, gathering, and eventually farming. Despite the possible communication skills of dolphins and apes, human language is truly a defining characteristic of our species. Once the Pulse strikes, language skills are the first thing to self-destruct in its victims. Ironically, the smart phone, the one device that can connect the entire world with communication, destroys its users’ speech and communication skills first, metaphorically silencing them. In a particularly ironic reversal, a dog is attacked by one of the phone crazies and “uttered an almost human scream,” while one of the nearby phoners utters the inarticulate sound “Rast!,” which Clay thinks isn’t a word but an aggressive noise. The phoners are not able to speak but make “roaring wordless sounds” and “inarticulate cries” (11). They are described as “yelling gibberish at the sky” (14) and “speaking in tongues” (18). The Pulse not only destroys humans’ power to communicate electronically, but it destroys the phoners’ ability to communicate at all. As time goes by, the phoners, the new species of humans, must once again learn to communicate, first in a “savage nonsense language . . . saying things like “rast and eelah and kazzalah-CAN!” (114), then through music that calls them to flock together, then attempting to relearn language with “actual words” (271), and finally through telepathy and a hive mind. In order to truly become a new species of human, the phone zombies must relearn language, because that is what defines human beings. Clay experiences this firsthand when observing two of the phoners trying to speak: “what Clay thought he was struggling to do was to express himself as he had before the Pulse had robbed him of speech” (272). Once again, King’s novels show that it is the very thing that makes us human that has the potential to destroy us—our need and desire to communicate with each other. This is especially true in times of crisis when we need to make a connection with our loved ones, and that is one of the reasons the Pulse was so effective. In fact, the ideas of consumerism and communication

34

Chapter 4

are related; as newer, faster, and smarter phones come to the marketplace, consumers anxiously buy them, often waiting in long lines for the release of the latest gadget. On a more immediate level, Cell is a metaphor for the breakdown in communication because of the widespread use of smartphones. As a member of the older generation, Stephen King did not own a cell phone when the novel was written, and like many older adults he expresses discomfort at the changes that cell phones have made in society. Unfortunately, it seems like some of his fictional warnings may have proven accurate. New studies have shown that not only are cell phones addictive (Walton), but that they are causing mental health problems, particularly among teenagers. In November 2017, researchers from Seoul, South Korea used magnetic resonance spectroscopy (MRS) to reveal that smartphone addiction causes an imbalance in the brain (Radiological Society). Furthermore, social media developers are now admitting to using techniques designed to be addictive, such as using red buttons to catch users’ attention (Walton). So perhaps the “phonecrazies” in Cell have a scientific basis for existing after all. As King says in Cell, “Who can resist a ringing phone?” (123). The fact that Cell depicts the phoners as mindless zombies is, of course, no accident, as anyone who has seen a viral video of someone walking into a pool or a door while texting can attest, not to mention automobile crashes caused by people texting while driving. Smartphones and texting technology have changed the way that people communicate and interact. People obsessed with their cell phones are often oblivious to what is going on around them and may carry on private conversations in public, and annoy those around them with their texting, talking, and use of social media. Cell phones have become so prevalent (and obtrusive) in classrooms that the National Education Association has published articles instructing teachers on how to use them as learning devices (Graham). Researchers claim that “the mere presence of mobile communication technology might interfere with human relationship formation” (Przybylski 244). Rather than increase our ability to communicate more effectively, the smartphone has, in many ways, silenced us with its science. The fear of the negative effects of smartphones on our culture is a real one that King explores in this novel. Specifically, a breakdown in communications could cause a major war, as it has done so many times in the past—only this time a war could result in nuclear holocaust. Stephen King has fictionally visited the apocalypse several times in his career, and has warned us of a number of ways that it might occur: a superflu (The Stand), the inadvertent opening of a wormhole into another multiverse (The Mist) , and, in collaboration with Owen King, men’s inability to communicate with women (Sleeping Beauties). Cell is a cautionary tale of a different sort, however, because it warns us about a technology that has already become a pervasive and necessary part of our daily lives. Unlike

Silenced by Science

35

novels about nuclear holocaust or germ warfare gone wrong, or robots taking over the world, the Pulse in Cell is caused by an everyday item that virtually every American owns—the simple cell phone. While the idea of supercomputers or artificial intelligence robots taking over the earth has become a staple in science fiction, King warns us that it might be the small, simple, and utilitarian gadgets that we carry in our pocket that might ultimately bring about the end to the Anthropocene Epoch and usher in a new world. The main theme of this novel is to show what it means to be human, and to demonstrate our fear of extinction. The fact that our extinction might not only be caused by our own doing, but could be a result of such a mundane and seemingly harmless thing as a cell phone, makes the pill even more difficult to swallow.

Part II

Coevolution and Human Universals

While Darwin’s concepts of Natural Selection and Reproductive Selection can now be firmly tied to genetics, Darwin was unaware of Gregor Mendel’s work when he wrote The Origin of Species, and the structure of the DNA molecule would not be unraveled until long after his death. In the twenty-first century, evolutionary theory incorporates findings from genetics, biochemistry, neuroscience, developmental biology, game theory and other disciplines into its explanation of life. Since the completion of the human genome project in 2003, the idea of single genes being responsible for all inherited traits has proven false, since research has concluded that there are approximately 21,000 genes in the human genome, not nearly enough to warrant a one-toone relationship to a specific trait. According to the Human Genome Research Institute, most traits are the result of the interaction of multiple genes, coupled with environmental factors. “DNA is not a blueprint for an organism; rather, it is a central component of a very complicated system of development” (Fuentes 68). Most experts theorize that human behaviors are not caused by genes alone, or even combinations of them, but by complex interactions between DNA, genes, environment, and physical development, including prenatal factors. Biological evolution might be responsible for a number of human traits, such as our ability to digest some foods and not others, for example, and so to crave sugar and not tree bark. Complex behavioral traits, such as altruism and belief in religion, are considered to be the products of coevolution, with biology, genetics, environment, and culture working together in subtle ways to create what we now think of as human nature. Some of these traits, such as

38

Coevolution and Human Universals

altruism, for example, defy the “survival of the fittest” concept because human behavior has been shaped both by our genes (including the random concept of genetic drift) and polished and reshaped by human interaction, society, and culture. In the following chapters, I will examine some of these coevolutionary traits that have formed human nature and still influence our behavior, for both the good and the bad, and how King’s fiction taps into this pool of universal human behaviors. Some of these traits, such as altruism, have provided a definite advantage for the species as a whole; others, such as religion, for example, have been a double-edged sword that has resulted in amazing cultural works on the one hand, and bloodshed and even genocide on the other.

Chapter Five

The Stand Survival of the Ethical Fittest

Literary criticism has long been thought of as a qualitative study where self-proclaimed arbiters of taste have chosen the literature that is best for us and should be included in the canon and have even gone so far to tell us what it should mean. Theories such as structuralism, semiotics, deconstructionism, and other linguistic-based theories have attempted a more quantitative, scientific approach to literature, with mixed success. However, with the advent of new advances in the cognitive sciences, critics are applying the latest research from evolutionary biology, sociology, and even neuroscience to literary texts in an effort to contribute to a unified theory or, to use E. O. Wilson’s term, “consilience” that combines knowledge from all disciplines, including the arts and humanities, which are generally considered nonscientific. Stephen King’s epic and beloved novel The Stand provides an excellent “specimen” upon which to apply this evolutionary theory, since it is a story about the survival of the fittest in its truest sense. Only those with the genetic makeup to be resistant to the superflu survive the plague that nearly brings about humanity’s extinction. These survivors then divide themselves into two distinct societies, those who embrace the competitive aspect of natural selection and those who adopt a cooperative model. The novel is a study in the human universal that biologists term “eusocial,” which can be defined as “group members containing multiple generations as prone to perform altruistic acts as part of their division of labor” (Wilson, E. O. Social Conquest 16). Ants, termites, and bees are eusocial and are the dominant form of invertebrates on the planet, according to Wilson, and humans, the only eusocial vertebrates, dominate that chordate phylum. As Darwin wrote: 39

40

Chapter 5 It must not be forgotten that although a high standard of morality gives but a slight or no advantage to each individual man and his children over other men of the same tribe, yet an increase in the number of well-endowed men and an advancement in the standard of morality will certainly give an immense advantage to one tribe over another. A tribe including many members who, from possessing a high degree of patriotism, fidelity, obedience, courage, and sympathy, were always ready to aid one another, and to sacrifice themselves for the common good, would be victorious over most other tribes; and this would be natural selection. (Descent 157)

Since Darwin’s original theory, evolutionary biologists have confirmed this idea. Currently, multilevel selection theory postulates that “selfish individuals beat altruistic individuals while groups of altruists beat groups of selfish individuals” (Wilson, E. O. Social Conquest 243). Thus, in the long run, ethical behavior wins out, and the ideas of morality and conscience seem to be a human universal. Of course, The Stand relies on the idea of survival of the individual fittest and natural selection as its premise, and any evolutionist interpretation of the novel must begin with biology. Darwin observed that “the first meeting of distinct and separate people generates disease” (Descent 212) that can lead to the extinction of races of people. Scientists now know that immunity is a function of heredity, and that independent gene variants regulate the production of immune cells (Whiteman). It is well known that bacteria, viruses, and other microorganisms evolve to be chemical, and drug-resistant, causing new and more virulent forms of disease. This concept is most obvious in The Stand, where a superflu is created through scientific mutation in the laboratory to become lethal enough to exterminate 99.4 percent of the world’s population, creating a near extinction event for the human species. Only those individuals who genetically possess immunity are able to survive, and at the end of the novel it is apparent that this immunity can be passed on to the next generation. Darwin also proposed that human behavioral traits are hereditary as well as anatomical and physiological ones. For example, an infant’s crying “in the course of many generations, has become firmly fixed and inherited” (Expression 351). This has led to the long-standing debate about how much of human behavior is genetic (nature), and how much of it is learned (nurture). While I make no attempt to solve this debate here, it does lead to some interesting questions that are explored in The Stand, including the question of how and why a “survival of the fittest” model of human evolution has resulted in a species that is cooperative and even altruistic. The novel is, in fact, a study of Social Darwinism versus altruism, and how this conflict pans out over time. According to evolutionary theory, it is inevitable that survivors of the superflu would seek out others and join a group. According to E. O. Wilson,

The Stand

41

“every person is a compulsive group-seeker, hence an intensely tribal animal” (Social Conquest 244–45). People self-segregate themselves into distinct groups based upon their needs and beliefs. As Wilson has noted, “experiments concluded over many years by social psychologists have revealed how swiftly and decisively people divide into groups, then discriminate in favor of the one to which they belong” (59). In his 1887 study Community and Society, Ferdinand Tonnies established that groups initially form a homogenous community (gemeinschaft), then eventually form a heterogeneous society (gesellschaft). In-groups and out-groups form within these societies, resulting in their re-sectioning into communities again. In the case of warfare, a society may unite into a single community. In The Stand, this idea is fictionally played out as the novel begins before the apocalypse in an America composed of one large society that contains smaller communities with in-groups and out groups, as the social model suggests. Once the society of America as we know it is destroyed, the world begins to model primitive hunter-gatherer societies similar to our ancient ancestors in the Late Pleistocene. The flu survivors form new communities, then merge into two societies, one in Boulder and the other in Las Vegas, and undergo supersonic cultural evolution as they regain lost technology. These societies form two communities as the sides go to war. Then, once the Las Vegas community is destroyed at the very end, individuals leave Boulder to form smaller, separate communities once again. Each of the two major societies, one led by the Dark Man and the other by Mother Abigail, have their own beliefs and politics and epitomize a different view of evolution as each adopts a different vision of what it takes to survive. The Las Vegas community becomes a social dominance hierarchy based upon competition and authority and attracts those seeking power. The Boulder community, on the other hand, becomes an egalitarian society, attracting those interested in cooperation and rebuilding culture. According to multilevel selection theory, evolution has selected hierarchical cooperative groups over selfish ones; evolutionary biologists postulate that this behavior began when our distant ancestor began the practice of hunting dangerous big game in groups, and an altruistic society developed to ensure fair division of the resulting meat. In other words, survival of the fittest group trumps survival of the fittest individual. This, over time, led to the evolution of what we now call a “conscience.” According to Boehm: What we may say with a high degree of certainty, is that . . . surely by 45,000 years ago when cultural modernity had phased in fully, humans had become decisively egalitarian. We can also say that this was because alpha types were being put down, or executed, if they failed to control themselves and restrain their own power moves. This takes place today, and it is difficult to imagine any other way that it could have been accomplished yesterday. (101)

42

Chapter 5

Once society is destroyed by the superflu in The Stand, America reverts to a primitive level where individual survival of the fittest is necessary. Then the individuals slowly coalesce into communities where natural selection repeats the process of group selection, this time in years instead of millennia. Of course the development of altruism and a conscience does not guarantee that all societies will be cooperative. As Boehm says: in human politics primitive ancestral tendencies that favor both hierarchical and counter-dominant behavior can be expressed phenotypically either in the form of rampant totalitarianism or in the form of radical hunter-gatherer democracy—and anywhere in between. It all depends on how people feel about hierarchy, on how badly centralized command and control are needed, and on the degree to which subordinates’ control of those above them becomes decisive. (66)

Las Vegas and the community of The Dark Man represent power, the survival of the fittest, and Randall Flagg’s power is so great that subordinates dare not oppose him. He gathers the most competitive survivors of the superflu around him, creating a society where the strong prosper and the weak serve. This Social Darwinism results in a competitive culture based upon who can please the Dark Man the most. It is a top-down community based on unequal abilities and unequal ambition, leading to the short-term success within the group. The superior (at least in the eyes of the Dark Man) lead, and the inferior follow. This society exists to conquer and subdue and eliminate other societies that refuse to surrender to it. Las Vegas is on the low ground, both geographically, metaphorically, and morally—it is a city without a conscience, both in The Stand and in modern folklore. It is built on a desert, caters to consumerism and a decadent lifestyle (what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas), and has earned the nickname “Sin City.” It is only natural that it would attract miscreants, misfits, and powerseekers after the superflu has extinguished most of the world’s population. This community is organized around the concept of Social Darwinism, survival of the fittest in its purest form. It forms a society based solely upon power; those who possess it lead, and those who don’t follow. Randall Flagg, the man with the most power (if, indeed he is a man), becomes the absolute ruler of this society, a despot who attracts other ambitious people to him. Glen correctly says that technicians will be attracted to Vegas: “tech people like to work in an atmosphere of tight discipline and linear goals” (King, Stand 646). When Dayna becomes part of the Vegas community as a spy she observes that “They were people who worked much harder than she remembered the people in the Zone working” (950) and she compares this internally competitive society with Germany in 1938 under the Nazis (954). This is not to say that Las Vegas is a totally noncooperative society. In fact, both multicultural evolution and game theory propose that cooperation

The Stand

43

can be achieved either by the hope of reward of the fear of punishment. Randall Flagg wields the ultimate control over punishment, so his followers must do his bidding, or else. As Jenifer Paquette has observed, “to keep the society in line, he has established a totalitarian government that may chafe the sense of freedom that most Americans have, but ultimately this system works” (123). In the novel, this society attracts the misfits, the outliers, the psychopaths, and the bullies, the “cheaters” or defectors defined in game theory. These defectors will cooperate, but only because they fear punishment if they don’t. Flagg’s supernatural powers allow him to appear anywhere and at any time, so his followers must always believe that he is watching them. According to Boehm, belief in religion and supernatural powers can and does direct aid in the internalizing and following of rules (142). Flagg, a “hatefully happy man” (181), holds power because of his demonlike supernatural abilities. Even when things begin to go wrong toward the end of the novel, Flagg sees himself as “the strongest man on the face of the earth” (1013). He could levitate, see tomes of the spectrum that normal humans could not, and had the ability to appear in any place at any time without warning. He ruled as a despot, controlling through fear and, like Adolf Hitler, the penalty for disobedience was torture and death. He was able to prey upon psychopaths like Lloyd Henreid and the Trashcan Man, igniting their greed and need to be accepted and rewarded. He is an agent of chaos, a wild card, a random outlying event capable of causing a mass extinction of what remains of the human race after Captain Tripps. “He had been born when times changed, and the times were going to change again” (184). In King’s fiction, Randall Flagg plays a chaotic role in more than one universe, including The Eyes of the Dragon and the infamous man in black from the Dark Tower series. In each of these incarnations he is an element of evil, yet he is controlled by an even higher force of evil, presumably the Crimson King of the multiverse, or as Cassuto suggests, Satan (72). Of course, when put into the context of the entire King canon, including the Dark Tower series, Flagg is really under the control of the ultimate supreme being, the author of the novel, Stephen King himself, a theme that we will examine later, especially as it relates to free will. Unfortunately for Flagg, forced cooperation and fear work best among those who are social outliers, those who are highly competitive themselves. Once Flagg’s power wanes, there is mass defection from his society, and only the most psychopathic (Lloyd and Trashcan Man) remain loyal to him. There is even open rebellion, which results in Flagg striking down a man with a lightning bolt when he protests the public execution of a protester. This act detonates the atomic bomb and brings about the destruction of Las Vegas and its genome, effectively causing the misfits of society to go extinct. Flagg’s mistake, like that of most despots, is in using fear and punishment to force cooperation, and not trusting his followers—not sharing the Red List

44

Chapter 5

with Lloyd, for example. One of the major themes of the novel is free will, a subject that will be addressed later. But in the society of Las Vegas, once someone decides to follow Randall Flagg, he or she essentially relinquishes free will, one small step at a time. According to Bosky, “The Stand depicts moral decay as a series of small decisions; although each bad choice makes the next more likely, a different direction could be taken at any time—a fact that Flagg’s followers try to deny, although they know it to be true” (135). In the end, of course, these bad decisions pile up until the society self-destructs. As Nadine says to Flagg: “Everything you’ve made here is falling apart, and why not? The effective half-life of evil is always relatively short” (1016). Donald Merwin Elbert, a.k.a. “The Trashcan Man,” is a perfect example of this gradual corrosion of free will as he escalates his bad behavior from burning up an old lady’s pension check, to torching the church, and then blowing up nine dozen oil tanks (577). When he accepts Flagg’s offer to join him, he does it willingly. “He had sought the dark man of his own free will (if there is such a thing for the Trashcan Men of the World), had accepted the dark man’s favors” (622–23). His going nuclear is just one more bad decision at the end of a row of falling dominos. “Trash’s free will . . . would always revert back to the need for fiery explosives,” says Paquette (106). Trashcan Man is just one of the psychopaths that survive the superflu and are drawn to Randall Flagg. Boehm’s hypothesis is that “prehistorically humans began to make better use of social control so intensively that individuals inhibiting their own antisocial tendencies, either through fear of punishment or through absorbing and identifying with their group’s rules, gained superior fitness” (17). However, Boehm claims that “free-rider genes” have not been eliminated entirely from the human genome, which helps explain the existence of psychopaths and other undesirables in society. Some of these miscreants are able to keep their base instincts under control and fit in with society, but once the fear of punishment is removed, as in the scenario that occurs in The Stand, their immorality will take control. This is the case with the “hardcases,” former soldiers who had formed a gang to murder and rape, and who had forced women to be sex slaves until the group was stopped by Stu and his followers. Magistrale notes that evil is prevalent in King’s fiction but “those who are attracted to and ultimately subsumed within malevolent forces are doomed precisely because of their own failure to recognize and regulate corresponding urges within themselves” (Landscape 65). Once they lose their moral compass, or fail to at least control it, they are destroyed, just as evolutionary biologists predict, and just as anthropologists have observed in hunter-gatherer societies where “aggressive intimidators were considered to be morally deviant” and “they sometimes will be obliged to use capital punishment when a menacing aggressive personality appears in their midst (Boehm 60).

The Stand

45

Lloyd Henreid, who becomes Flagg’s second-in-command, is a follower in search of a leader. Lloyd cannot control his aggressive nature and is convicted of attempted rape, where he meets up with Poke, a true psychopath who takes delight in killing. He follows Poke blindly, committing murders, and goes to jail once again, this time facing the death penalty. When all of the guards succumb to the flu, he is abandoned and left to starve to death, an irony indeed after the idea of his facing capital punishment has been debated in an earlier chapter as cruel and unusual punishment. After being forced to eat a rat and then cannibalize his dead cellmate, Flagg appears on the scene to “rescue” him. Lloyd recognizes Flagg as “the devil,” but agrees to follow him in return for his life. Paquette says that Lloyd “willingly chooses to serve evil in the form of his master” (41), but that statement is only partially true since Henreid has little choice in the matter if he wishes to escape a miserable death. Given the options, the reader can understand his decision. Yet, Lloyd does accept what he recognizes as evil with more than just agreement, but consents with “a kind of religious ecstasy. A pleasure. The pleasure of being chosen” (366). He also shows a hunger for revenge as a motive, and he remains loyal to Flagg until the very end, despite suffering doubts about his decision later on. As Bosky has noted, Lloyd, unlike the Trashcan Man, is sane enough to question; however, he rationalizes his allegiance to Flagg as gratitude for the dark man’s saving his life, just as he has previously rationalized his murders as being Poke’s fault. In the normal, modern world, Lloyd and those like him would have been removed from society with either a long prison sentence or capital punishment. Once the rules of law have disappeared, criminals and other social misfits are free to band together and form a society of their own under Randall Flagg. According to Pharr, Harold Lauder “is somehow the most complicated character in this book” (13). In the beginning of the novel, he is the stereotyped overweight, sloppy nerd who can’t make friends or get a date. He is an outcast, but he manages to keep any negative impulses under control. For him, the apocalypse provides opportunity for a new beginning. His intelligence is an advantage in this world, and the challenges of survival help him to develop physically as well. He even believes he may have a chance with Fran, whom he has always had a crush on, and this drives him on. Unfortunately for Harold, evolutionary psychology predicts that he is doomed to fail. It is unlikely that Fran will be attracted to him, since he is younger and she sees him as a boy, and still immature. Once he realizes that Stu is a more attractive mate, and willing to be a father to Fran’s unborn child, Harold begins to lose impulse control. The turning point seems to be when he spies on Fran and Stu and observes them having sex, then, after a brief “moment of sanity,” he secretly reads her diary. “Every dog has his day, Frannie” (572), he thinks, and then the next day he acts more cheerful

46

Chapter 5

than ever while silently he “nourishes his dark side for self-centered (rather than community-based) reasons” (Cassuto 73). As Pharr observes, however, he “is trapped not so much by Flagg as by his own past and his refusal to let that past go” (13). Harold, at least on the surface, appears to become a cooperator in the Boulder society, but it is all an act that was triggered by his not getting the girl of his dreams, just one more example of his rejection by society. “Lauder’s spiral descent . . . emerges from the sexual jealousy” (Magistrale, “Freewill” 117). In fact, studies by evolutionary psychologists who study murder rates have demonstrated that over one quarter of all homicides are motivated by infidelity and jealousy (Geher 111). To Harold, Fran has cheated on him, and so both she and Stu must be punished. Finally, tempted by Randall Flagg and the promise of sex with Nadine, he can no longer resist. He makes the decision to detonate a bomb to kill them all and “become someone” in Las Vegas. Only when he is dying does he realize that he “could have been something in Boulder” (Stand 978). Despite the self-serving society at Las Vegas, most members of humanity, at least according to evolutionary biologists and psychologists, are, in fact, cooperative, as can be seen in the modern world by the success of nonprofit charitable organizations and philanthropy, and the heroic sacrifices that are made by first responders to an emergency, and by soldiers during warfare. There are a number of theories to explain this phenomenon, and they all ultimately ask the question of how much of a role is played by genetics and culture. In his landmark book The Selfish Gene, first published in 1976, Richard Dawkins proposed the idea of treating culture as a form of evolution that could be passed on through what he called “memes,” the socio-biological version of a gene, and the transmission of behaviors that would benefit the survival of one’s biological kin would be favored in society and, thus, lead to cooperation, altruism, and even sacrificing one’s own life for others who share their common genes. This idea of inclusive-fitness theory, also known as kin-selection theory, was the first serious study of altruism; although it is no longer thought of as the driving force behind human cooperation, it may have merit in explaining self-sacrificial behavior of parents for their children. Game theory proposes a theory of selfishness vs. cooperativeness in models such as the prisoner’s dilemma and other social game exercises, which would develop an optimum equilibrium where altruism and cooperation would exist as behaviors to help the individual. Multilevel selection altruism is based on “the relative fitness within and among groups” (Wilson, D. S. Altruism 45), which combines the ideas of individual fitness and group fitness. This theory, “the idea that several evolutionary forces, at multiple levels, work simultaneously at a given time” (Geher 42), combines some elements of earlier theories and seems currently to be most widely

The Stand

47

accepted explanation for altruism existing in a species governed by the survival of the fittest. “The most parsimonious and compelling proximate explanation of behavior . . . in social dilemma experiments is that people think that cooperating is the right thing to do and enjoy doing it, and they dislike unfair treatment and enjoy punishing those who violate norms of fairness.” This is consistent with brain study results that show that cooperation stimulates activity in part of the brain that processes rewards (Bowles and Gintis 38). From a purely biological point of view, a thirty-four-year-long, multigenerational study of Amboseli baboons has shown evidence that “strong, stable relationships with other baboons” result in “a potential source of protection from early adversity” in the animals’ lives (Denworth 38). This supports evidence that strong human social relationships are linked to health (43), and that healthy social interactions have direct effects on the human immune system (45). Social and cooperative behavior, then, is not only enjoyable but does, in a Darwinian sense, make us more evolutionary fit and more likely to reproduce and survive. Mother Abigail’s society represents cooperation and in-group altruism, which has proven to be an evolutionary advantage over the long term, according to multilevel selection theory. According to this idea, we are more than the sum of our parts, and although resources may be scarce, this challenge is overcome by working together for the group and for the common good. This community becomes specialized through a division of labor and overcomes obstacles, shares knowledge (often through narrative and storytelling, a major theme in King’s fiction), and enjoys and creates culture and art. As David Sloan Wilson says, “Selfishness beats altruist within groups. Altruistic groups beat selfish groups. Everything else is commentary” (Altruism 23). Many researchers believe that cooperation may have been “the key to the runaway growth of human intelligence” (Boyd 53). Boehm suggests that cooperation and sharing were important survival traits of early man in the Pleistocene era when early human groups hunted big game. Larger groups meant a greater likelihood of success in bringing down large prey, and sharing ensured the evolution of these large groups over individuals or smaller selfish groups. According to D. S. Wilson, religion has played a major role in altruistic behavior and, after examining the latest research in biology, sociology, and anthropology, he has concluded that “most enduring religions promote altruism expressed among members of the religious community, defined in terms of action. In other words, religions cause people to behave for the good of the group and to avoid self-serving behaviors at the expense of other members of the group” (Altruistic 79–80). Indeed, religious history bears this out with lists of martyrs, missionaries, monks, and ministers, many of whom do not marry and reproduce in order to devote themselves to their religion. From an evolutionary point of view, “religion evolved because it helped our ancestors

48

Chapter 5

form cooperative groups that cut beyond kin lines and provided important long-term benefits to individual members” (Geher 141). “Large numbers of strangers can cooperate successfully by believing in common myths” (Harari 27). In fact, it has been suggested that the ability to form cooperative groups with nonkin may be the reason that Homo sapiens survived and Neanderthals went extinct (Geher 138). Another benefit of religion was its creation of social order, complete with rules, codes of laws, and guidelines for moral behavior that “get people to inhibit selfish needs and contribute to the needs of the greater good” (Geher 101). These rules are common to all major religions and can be considered human universals: prohibitions against murder, theft, and sexual crimes, for example (Boehm 28). Indeed the idea of the “Golden Rule” appears in virtually every religion, though the exact language may vary, and it teaches us to treat others the way we wish to be treated. In order to be followed, this concept requires humans to have empathy and consider the needs and feelings of others, a prerequisite to a harmonious group. Of course, religion creates what sociologists call in-groups and out-groups, which can be and often are a double-edged sword that creates conflicts between groups, even on a global scale, as history has shown. While King is often a critic of religion (as in Revival, for example), he does show it as a force for good in The Stand. Since he grew up in a Christian environment, King uses this tradition to represent the contrast between the altruistic society of Boulder, and the selfish society of Las Vegas. While not Satan, per se, Randall Flagg can be thought of as one of his minions, and Mother Abigail certainly represents the Christian tradition as a prophet and a Christ-like figure. The survivors are drawn to one group or another through a series of shared dreams, which either attract or repel, depending upon the beliefs of the dreamer. According to Boehm, “certain aspects of world religions, including the Golden Rule, provide a greater moral community of interest” (Moral 220). Those who embrace a philosophy of goodness, cooperation, and morality are naturally drawn to her and repelled by dreams of the dark man. Those who lack empathy, are self-seeking, and concerned with power are magnetically drawn to Flagg. “He’s the purest evil left in the world,” Mother Abigail says and knows that Flagg will attract not just evil, but “the weak ones . . . the lonely ones . . . and the ones that have left God out of their lives” (514). Thus, each of the survivors become attached to an ingroup, and conflict with the out-group is inevitable. The dreams form the basis of a shared belief for each group. Mother Abigail’s society revolves around a belief in God and a shared moral vision. Even those who are atheists and not “true believers” are willing to share her vision because of their morals, ethics, and desire to do the right thing, and their wish for peace and harmony—a better world, if you will. When Nick tells her that he doesn’t believe in God, Mother Abigail says

The Stand

49

“that don’t matter. He believes in you” (516). And although he wants to get away from the dark man and go east, Nick, the acknowledged leader of the group, decides that they will join Mother Abigail and, indeed go west to confront Flagg. Although he doesn’t want to believe that the dark man is real, “in his heart he believed everything that she said, and it scared him” (520). Mother Abigail’s religion unites all of the forces of good, whether or not they believe in her religion. She knows that good is a way of thinking and believing and that even an avowed atheist can be a good person. As Magastrale and other critics have noted, Mother Abigail is a Christlike figure, a living saint in King’s novel. She refers to having to drink from the cup, and, like Christ, she asks God to “take this cup from my lips if You can” (491). She goes off into seclusion to pray and to atone for her sin of pride, and her death is the spark that sets the group into action, in a sort of rebirth of the community. Mustazza sees her more as a “Mosaic figure” (94) and her god as an Old Testament God rather that the forgiving Christian deity. Abigail refers to God as a “hard God” and despite her faith, she has “harbored hate: for Him” (521–22). Like Randall Flagg and Moses, Mother Abigail also has supernatural powers that cannot be explained by science. She foresees the apocalypse two years before it happens, instinctively knows to avoid technology and prepare for a future without it, and understands that not all of the heroes will survive their quest. “Prophesy is the gift of God,” she says, “and everyone has a smidgeon of it” (502). Yet, like Flagg, her powers are not omniscient. She does not know the details of who will survive, and is uncertain if the quest will even be successful. Even as Flagg is the agent of another larger evil force, so is Abigail a part of a larger plan. As a spiritual leader, she is able to unite the forces of good and to send them on their quest; however, she is unable to take any direct action herself and must rely on others to choose to follow her of their own free will. “Only individual action guided by religious faith can save the world,” says Kessey (34). Abigail reminds her people “God didn’t bring you folks together to make a committee or a community . . . He brought you here to send you further, on a quest” (917). On the other hand, the value of faith is in its ability to join diverse people together for a common cause and, according to evolutionary theory, this is one of the major roles that religion has played during the development of the human species. While other creatures may cooperate in the form of a mind hive (bees, ants, and termites, for example), Homo sapiens is the only species that we know of that can cooperate in massive numbers to actually change their environment, and religion is one of the driving forces behind this, as can be evidenced by seemingly miraculous undertakings such as Stonehenge, the pyramids of both Egypt and South America, and the Masjid al-Haram in Mecca. As Norenzayan explains: “Prosocial religions, with their Big Gods who watch, intervene, and demand hard-to-fake loyalty displays, facilitated

50

Chapter 5

the rise of cooperation in large groups of anonymous strangers, in turn, these expanding groups took their prosocial religious beliefs and practices with them, further ratcheting up large-scale cooperation in a runaway process of cultural evolution” (8). Of course, while a motivating force for good, religion has also led to misery and destruction between groups—the Crusades, witch trials, and, most recently, the terrorist attack of 9/11 immediately come to mind, as well as racism and religious intolerance, to name just a few examples. And to be fair, in-group and out-group behavior practiced by nonreligious groups, nations, and ideologies has resulted in its fair share of misery as well. While religion does motivate people to form groups—often massive groups—it has produced other effects that have benefitted our species as well, including adherence to the rules of conduct, prohibitions against murder, stealing, morality, a sense of fairness, and versions of the Christian “Golden Rule” that appear in virtually every major religion. This morality evidences itself in the successful Boulder Free Zone, but is not practiced in Las Vegas. Having been raised Christian, King uses the tradition he knows to represent religion and a strong tenet of this philosophy is expressed in Matthew 5.5: the meek shall inherit the earth. The Boulder Free Zone attracts and unites the meek: their leader is a frail, hundred-year-old woman, and their heroes include a mentally-challenged man, a deaf-mute, a pregnant woman, and an autistic boy. While the idea of the meek inheriting the earth is an appealing, even poetic concept, it seems counterintuitive from an evolutionary perspective. In a world ruled by natural selection and the survival of the fittest, how could these “weak” characters possibly triumph? In strictly Darwinian terms, none of them should have survived, let alone prospered. Yet the science of evolution has, itself, evolved from Darwin’s time and explains that so-called unfit genes not only survive in a population, but increase its diversity, thus making the species ultimately more fit. This idea was proposed by Roland Fisher in 1930 and posited a direct relationship between and organization’s fitness and its “genetic variance in fitness” (37). Thus, organisms differ by degrees rather than absolutes, and even “harmful” genes can survive in a recessive state in a population, and emerge if conditions changed the environment to favor them. This idea is best evidenced by the presence of the sickle cell trait, a “harmful” gene that enables increased fitness among humans in areas where malaria thrives. Modern techniques in molecular biology have proven the significant influence of genetic variation, or polymorphism, by detecting it at the level of the gene itself (Singh 1507). Polymorphic traits, such as human blood types, seem to be common within the population and are one of the mechanisms that drive natural selection. Modern society not only recognizes the value of diversity in the population, but goes to great lengths to care for those who suffer from the effects of

The Stand

51

“harmful” genes. Children born with genetic defects are now accepted into the community, and sometimes make major contributions to society, as evidenced by the late Stephen Hawking, a prominent physicist who suffered from ALS, a disease believed to be caused by both genetic and environmental factors (Wingo). In The Stand, each of the characters with perceived weaknesses have, in fact, strengths, traits, and characteristics that prove important to the survival of the group. Nick Andros, who was born deaf and unable to speak, becomes one of the leaders of the Free Zone and is martyred when Harold sets off his bomb. Nick attributes his deafness to a “birth defect,” but according to the CDC, 56 to 60 percent of deafness is caused by heredity and is technically a “harmful gene.” Yet although this may be considered a genetic defect by some, Nick more than makes up for his inability to hear and speak, not only in his ability to read, write, and read lips, but in his personal and moral traits. He shows courage in fighting his attackers in chapter 18, despite four-to-one odds. He believes in justice and identifies the criminals, even at personal risk. He is intelligent and self-taught, and would have had more formal education if his childhood had been more fortunate. He shows a sense of responsibility and loyalty by looking after his prisoners, even though they were the men who harmed him: “Those men are locked up. I can’t just leave them,” he says (153). He also shows compassion by letting Mike go free when the situation looks hopeless, and is “sure that he had done the right thing” (206). He befriends Tom Cullen, the mentally challenged character, and defends him from insult against Julie Lawry, whom he recognizes as an immoral person. When Nick arrives in Boulder, he is looked on as a natural leader, despite his young age, and both Mother Abigail and the members of the council trust his judgement. “God has put his finger on your heart,” Mother Abigail tells him, and immediately recognizes his importance in the battle to come as he decides to lead the group to Boulder. When he is killed by Harold, his loss is truly devastating to the community and motivates the final quest. And, of course, his appearance to Tom after his death saves lives. Nick might be one of the meek in the Christian sense, but he is a powerful force in the novel despite his disability. Tom Cullen suffers from a mental illness that in an earlier time in human history would have had him either killed or locked away in an institution, and which would bring him ridicule even in the present world from people like Julie Lawry. Even Nick originally considered leaving him behind because he would slow him down. “A deaf mute and a man who was mentally retarded. Of what possible use could they be to one another?” he thinks (407). But his compassion will not allow him to abandon Tom and his empathy pays off when Tom saves him from a tornado soon after. When Tom joins Mother Abigail’s group “he was with people who accepted and wanted him” (519). He is loyal, caring, and has a charming sense of childhood innocence that benefits the Free Zone. His

52

Chapter 5

instincts and ability to follow directions make him an asset in Boulder, and allow him to infiltrate Las Vegas and escape from Flagg. In the end, Tom’s “disability” turns out to be his special power because Randall Flagg is unable to read his mind and he is able to complete his mission. Larry Underwood, one of the hero-martyrs who dies in the final atomic explosion, represents an essentially good person who acts selfishly as the novel begins. As Mustazza has observed, he “changes continually” and though he believes that he “wasn’t no nice guy” (753), he does suffer from guilt for all of his mistakes. His turning down Nadine’s advances is a moral and ethical victory for him and from that moment on there is no question of his selflessness and altruism. In his last words he thanks God for the fire that consumes “the righteous and unrighteous alike” (1085). After the calamity that destroys Las Vegas, the Free Zone returns from a community prepared for war to a society once again, and it seems as if we are returning to the conditions of the world before the plague. Stu and some of the others decide to break away and form smaller communities of their own, which might, in time, return the world to a state of in-groups and out-groups again. Once society gets too big it malfunctions—the competitiveness between national groups led to the development of germ warfare and the Captain Tripps epidemic in the first place. And, with the exception of Stu, who was genuinely trying to help Charlie, the victim of the accident that initially spread the flu, those who spread the infection were selfish and worried only about their own survival. One of the reasons that The Stand has remained so popular with readers is that it celebrates one of the central adaptations of our species, cooperation and altruism. The Boulder Free Society personifies the value of teamwork rather than individual accomplishment. As D. S. Wilson says, “teamwork is the signature adaptation of our species” (73)—in other words, it is a human universal. According to Boehm, prosocial behavior, cooperation and altruism through social reputation led to what we now call the human conscience (136), and that the conscience is an evolutionary advantage that “provided the needed self-restraint” (193) necessary for a functioning group. The Stand metaphorically shows the importance of cooperation, morality, and altruism in determining the fitness of competitive groups. The Free Zone, with its cooperative efforts to rebuild society, establishes a code of laws, standards of behavior, adopts a willingness of individual members to sacrifice themselves for the common good, and defeats the selfish despot society of Randall Flagg. Human beings have an innate desire to form groups, cooperate, and take care of one another. Kindness and doing good for others involves the prefrontal cortex and limbic systems of the brain, and releases oxytocin and endorphins, which make us feel good (Hanson and Mendius 157–58). Reading about groups like the Free Zone and their defeat of Randall Flagg and the forces of evil, likewise, appeals to these same factors in the audience, which provides a sense of optimism and satisfaction for us in a world that often seems to lack basic human kindness.

Chapter Six

Religion King as the “Dark Theologian”

While there has been much debate over the origin of belief systems and religion in the human species, there is no doubt that it has been an important part of life for thousands of years, and probably before that into prehistory. Some archeologists believe that the 20,000-year-old Lacaux Cave paintings may indicate the release of a soul in death (Harari 56), and most scientists agree that animalistic beliefs existed in ancient peoples (54). Gobekli Tepe located in Southeastern Turkey, is the world’s oldest religious structure, dating to 10,000 BCE. This site in the northern Fertile Crescent was a religious gathering site for Neolithic hunter-gatherers, who transported sixteenton stones into a temple-like structure similar to Stonehenge, which it predates by at least 5,000 years (Jones). Religion in some form has been a part of every great culture from every land and continent where humans have formed civilizations. Religion could be thought of as a human universal and it has been part of literature from Gilgamesh to Paradise Lost to The Exorcist. In his fiction, Stephen King has examined the question from multiple perspectives, which correspond to modern theories of biological and cultural evolution. Douglas E. Cowan has called King “America’s Dark Theologian,” since the multifaceted themes of religion run throughout so much of his fiction: “Stephen King’s Storyworlds investigate precisely the same questions religious believers of all kinds ask—and claim to have answered” (27). David Sloan Wilson has posited that religion is a multi-level adaptation that has enhanced the survival and fitness of the human species. “Religions exist primarily for people to achieve together what they cannot achieve alone” (Darwin’s Cathedral 159). This can be evidenced in both physical accomplishments, such as the building of cathedrals, mosques, and temples, 53

54

Chapter 6

and in social constructs such as the Ten Commandments and other codes of moral conduct that are an integral part of culture. Groups who follow the same shared belief tend to be more altruistic and cooperative, and as we have seen in the previous chapter, cooperative groups outperform selfish groups. As I’ve shown, Mother Abigail’s Boulder Free Zone ultimately defeats Randall Flagg and, by proxy, the Crimson King, because they are able to work together for a common goal; some individuals even sacrifice their own lives for the success of the group. Religion is the glue that holds the Boulder community together. While Mother Abigail’s god may be “a hard God, a jealous god” (The Stand 521), she reminds Nick and the group that “all things serve the Lord” (515), and that their mission is to destroy Randall Flagg, “the purest evil left in the world” (514). This mission binds the group together, unites them on a mission, a crusade, if you will, that they know will include “bitter days ahead” and that not all of them will survive the quest (515). Yet, joined by a belief in shared values, they fight the battle—even Nick, who claims to be an atheist but is obviously on the side of “good.” Religion does more than just bind people together to win battles, even though history has proven it to be an effective ingredient in warfare. It also attempts to create a stable and safe society where members of the in-group can resolve differences and avoid violence. “Religious injunctions such as the Ten Commandments and the Golden Rule are clearly adaptive at the group level. It is almost embarrassingly obvious that groups who obey these rules will function well as adaptive units compared to those who do not” (Wilson, D. Darwin’s Cathedral 133). The concepts of “love thy neighbor” and forgiveness are effective means of keeping peace within the religious ingroup, which, in turn, makes the religion grow in numbers and strength compared to other religions. This idea is also illustrated in The Stand. As it grows larger, the Boulder Free Society appoints a sheriff to keep the peace, while the inhabitants of Las Vegas live in terror of being tortured and murdered at the whim of Randall Flagg. As soon as Flagg’s power begins to deflate, there is a mass exodus from the Las Vegas community, while more people join the Boulder Free Zone. Ara Norenzayan proposes the idea that “some form of religious thinking seems to be the path of least resistance for our cognitive systems” (176). Yet religion is a double-edged sword that has had adaptive value for its in-group, but often destructive effects for out-groups and humankind in general. According to his ideas, “belief in certain kinds of supernatural watchers—Big Gods—is an essential ingredient that, along with rituals and other interlocking sets of commitment devices, glued together total strangers into everlarger moral communities as cultural evolution gained pace in the last twelve millennia” (10). From this basic premise he lists specific principles, including “watched people are nice people” (19), and “Hell is stronger than heaven” (44). In other words, a believer who thinks that an omniscient deity is

Religion

55

watching over his or her shoulder will do the right thing and act in a moral manner. Norenzayan cites numerous sociological and psychological data and experiments to verify this idea. King demonstrates the idea of God’s punishment in Joyland: “you know what those fundamentalists preach is straight out of the Old Testament, all about being rewarded and sinners being punished even unto the seventh generation” (167). The televangelist in this novel blames his grandson’s cerebral palsy on his daughter’s sins (168). Carrie White’s problems are also caused by the abuse of a fanatically religious mother: “your pimples are the Lord’s way of chastising you” (Carrie 69). Even Mother Abigail believes that God was the force behind the superflu. According to a 2018 PEW Research Poll, “48% of U.S. adults believe God determines what happens to them all or most of the time” (Fahmy), and 40 percent of respondents believe they have been personally punished by God. While King’s fiction might be considered “horror” or “supernatural,” it does reflect the beliefs of a large part of the population and puts these beliefs under scrutiny by taking them to extremes in novels like Carrie and The Stand. In his best-selling book, The God Delusion, noted atheist Richard Dawkins argues that religion itself does not convey any adaptive advantages to humans at all, but is an evolutionary by-product of other traits that are advantageous. He cites the fact that “natural selection builds child’s brains with a tendency to believe whatever their parents and tribal elders tell them” and that “the truster has no way of distinguishing good advice from bad” (205). This trait would not only keep Paleolithic children from swimming in waters infested with predators, but they might also be conditioned to make sacrifices to ancient gods to ensure a successful hunt. Modern religion is also handed down through family traditions and this is how extremely religious parents—like Carrie White’s mother—can control and sometimes brainwash their children. Another example of an advantageous trait that may produce religious belief as a by-product comes from the dualistic theory of the mind, which causes us to think of our minds—our selves—as separate from our bodies. According to psychologist Paul Bloom (Dawkins God Delusion 209–10), this idea is genetically programmed into the human mind and results in being able to assign cause-and-effect and intentionality to other beings and things. The resulting design stance allows us to guess how an object will behave (will a tree limb break if we stand on it), and the intentional stance allows us to quickly predict the behavior of another agent (will that tiger kill me) and react immediately without thinking. Bloom posits that religion is a by-product of this instinctive brain behavior since we try to give living qualities and “selfness” to everything in our world, a trait that continues to show itself when modern humans beg (or threaten) inanimate objects like computers to work, and curse them when they don’t. According to this idea, supernatural

56

Chapter 6

beings were created as personifications of such things as thunder (Thor), the sea (Poseidon), and evil (Satan). Eventually, they merged into the “sky god” of most modern religions, who is all-knowing and all-powerful. Finally, Bloom also contends that we are hard-wired to believe in creationism (Dawkins God 210). According to researchers, children assign a purpose to everything, a concept called teleology. Even adults who accept evolution tend to think of it as working with a purpose, as if intentionally designing a better organism rather than by working on unintentional principles of nature (Keleman 299–300). It would follow from this concept that humans, also, have a purpose in life, and this belief is easily coupled with religion. King recognizes this idea and expresses it in the omniscient voice in The Stand: “Religious mania is one of the few infallible ways of responding to the world’s vagaries, because it totally eliminates pure accident. To the religious maniac, it’s all on purpose” (617). Dawkins concludes that religion and faith are not just illogical but are harmful and sometimes lethal. “Fundamentalists know they are right because they have read the truth in a holy book and they know, in advance, that nothing will budge them from their belief” (God 319). King expresses this concept in The Stand: “the beauty of religious mania is that it has the power to explain everything. Once God (or Satan) is accepted as the first cause of everything that happens in the mortal world, nothing is left to chance . . . logic can be happily tossed out the window” (617). Mother Abigail echoes this unquestioning belief in God’s purpose: “But what happened when you questioned God? The answer you got was I Am Who I AM, and that was the end” (482). According to Ray, “guilt has become one of the greatest tools of western religions” (85) and prohibitions against sex are designed to instill guilt, which will keep the believer trapped in the religion as the only means to eliminate sin and attain salvation. The major monotheistic religions have (and sometimes still do) punished infractions of sexual rules by death, banishment, or torture. King’s fiction shows the horrible and realistic consequences of religious guilt in its extreme, using the fantastic as an element to expose real-world situations. Carrie White is a victim of her mother’s fanatical beliefs, and is beaten, locked in a small closet and forced to pray. Carrie is called “Devil’s child, Satan’s spawn . . . witch” (71), and tortured, all in the name of God after she experiences her first menstruation, a terrifying event that she had never been warned or educated about. Her mother reminds her that she is a worthless sinner, and that her period is a result of her sin. “O Lord . . . help this woman beside me here see the sin of her days and ways. Show her that if she had remained sinless the Curse of the Blood never would have come on her” (41). At the novel’s conclusion, Carrie’s guilt turns into anger, indignation, and revenge as she destroys the school and herself in a rage of fire that

Religion

57

is not a product of religious power, but was caused, according to the scientific evidence present in the book, by a genetic mutation that causes Carrie to “evolve,” to use a Darwinist term. Had she been raised in a stable, sane environment, Carrie’s telekinetic powers might have been harnessed for good. Though in the Stephen King universe, she would more likely have been kidnapped by “The Shop” or some other powerful organization and turned into a weapon, as were the psychic children in The Institute. Dawkins believes that morality is separate from religion and is also a byproduct of our evolution. Altruism can arise through kin-selection (taking care of one’s relatives), and through reciprocal altruism (I’ll help you if you help me), a theory that has proven to accurate using the mathematics of game theory (God 248). Reciprocal altruism forms the ethics of fair trade and cooperation in humans, concepts that have helped the survival of the species. As we have seen in an earlier chapter explaining group selection theory, cooperative groups outperform selfish groups. While there is controversy about the role of religion in morality, Dawkins and others make a strong claim that a belief in God is not a prerequisite to moral behavior. “It seems to me to require quite low self-regard to think that, should a belief in God suddenly vanish from the world, we would all become callous and selfish hedonists, with no kindness, no charity, no generosity, nothing that would deserve the name of goodness” (259). Ray adds that “study after study over the last 20 years has shown no correlation between morality and religiosity” (120). The fourth principle of “Big Gods” is “trust people who trust in God” (Norenzayan 59). This means that atheists are not to be trusted. This view is validated by a 2014 PEW Research Center poll of Americans, which shows that atheists are the second lowest members of a scale measuring positive feelings toward religious groups, with Muslims only slightly lower (“How”). Norenzayan claims that in the American political climate, candidates for national office must advertise their religious beliefs in order to be elected. There are still no open atheists in Congress (Wing), and a 2016 PEW Research Poll shows that 51 percent of Americans would not vote for a candidate for president who was an atheist (“Faith”). In contrast, Nick Andros, one of King’s most likeable characters from The Stand, identifies himself as an atheist. Nick is a man of high morals. He is quick to accept Tom, despite his mental challenges, is willing to partner with him even though he thinks he is a liability, and even defends him from Julie Lawry, who has seduced him and then mocks Tom. Nick is a hardworker, intelligent, and kind to others, taking care of the prisoners once the plague kills the sheriff. He takes his responsibilities seriously: “He had a responsibility. He made a promise to a man who was now dead” (197). He makes the difficult but correct moral decision to set Mike Childress free, despite his lack of a set of religious rules. “His heart felt lighter, and he was suddenly sure that he had done the right thing” (206). Mother Abigail

58

Chapter 6

accepts him and even recognizes him as the leader, without questioning his lack of belief. While the old woman provides the spiritual leadership, Nick represents the morality and the conscience of the Boulder Free Zone. “Morality is a product of culture, not religion” (Ray 131), and Nick epitomizes this statement. Statistics show that the number of Americans who have no religious affiliation has risen from 12 percent in 2003 to 21 percent in 2017, with 3 percent of this number identifying as atheists, 3 percent agnostic, and 15 percent having no religion (Jong). These numbers suggest that, while more people are nonreligious, few are willing to admit their atheism. Nick shows courage expressing his convictions and earns the respect and even love of the community in spite of his unpopular belief. Dawkins posits that religion can spread through memes, the cultural equivalent of a biological gene. “Examples of memes are tunes, ideas, catchphrases, clothes fashions, ways of making pots or of building arches. . . . Memes propagate themselves in the meme pool by leaping from brain to brain via a process which, in the broad sense, can be called imitation” (Selfish Gene 212). Ray illustrates Dawkins’s view of memes spreading by using a virus as a metaphor to describe how religion has infected human culture (21). According to Ray’s metaphor, religious leaders are the “vector” that transmits the virus, which is only interested in perpetuating itself and infecting others. While he acknowledges that there are sincere religious leaders and believers whose mission is to do good work, Ray is particularly harsh on evangelical mega-churches and their leaders, citing the greed and hypocrisy of ministers like Jimmy Bakker and others who live lavish lifestyles and fly in personal jets. King also attacks those mega-preachers in Joyland, depicting the book’s fictional televangelist Buddy Ross as the religious equivalent of the amusement park with its carnival games, “carney-from-carney.” Devin’s friend says of the Buddy Ross Hour of Power, that “my gramma listens to that old faker all the time! He pretends to pull goat stomachs out of people and claims they’re tumors” (171). Buddy Ross has used religion to accumulate millions of dollars, broadcasting “from this gigantic church” where “his shows are half miracle healings and half pleas for more love offerings” (166). In Revival, Jamie Morton remarks on the irony that Charles Jacob went “from preaching to huckstering” at the Joyland carnival. “‘No difference,’ he said. ‘They’re both just a matter of convincing the rubes.’” (168). The difference between the carnival and religion is not in its methods but in its objectives. The amusement park is a harmless ruse because, as its owner says, “we sell fun” (Joyland 60). Religion, on the other hand is “supposed to comfort” (168), but in King’s fiction it is more often used to hurt or instill guilt. “Guilt has become one of the greatest tools of western religions” (Ray 85).

Religion

59

Ray’s claim is that “Preachers employ the natural power of large-group psychology to create an experience that appears to be transcendent to the participants using vocal rhythms, body motion, group movement and cadence” (143). Music in particular produces a hypnotic effect and is used by most religions: “sitting in the pew, the church goers feel the rush of endorphins and easily mistake the feelings and emotions for some spiritual experience of communication from a god” (144). King captures this feeling in the character of Jamie Morton: “I remember how their voices soured during the Doxology . . . It gave me goosebumps” (Revival 27). Neurologists have, in fact, recorded the effects of music on the brain and how it causes chills. Using PET scan studies to record brain activity during musically-induced goosebumps, David Huron developed the Contrastive Affect Theory (33). According to this idea, music can evoke a surprise using ancient fear response neurons that fast-track directly to the emotional centers of the brain, inducing chills; microseconds later the slow-track response reaches the cerebral cortex, which recognizes that there is, in fact, no threat, nothing to fear. This triggers the pleasure response, with a release of dopamine. According to brain scientists, music has turned an ancient fear response into music pleasure. This might also account for the fact that people’s screams in a particularly scary moment in a horror film are often immediately followed by laughter. “In the case of horror movies, specifically, some theorists argue that we laugh because horror and humor have in their roots the same phenomena: incongruity and transgression” (Green). Religion uses the music to affect the brains of its followers, such as Jamie Morton, and King and other horror authors and filmmakers may be using these very same principles to entertain readers. It is worth noting that Mother Abigail uses music to attract her followers. Stu is the first to hear her song in his dreams: “someone was playing an acoustic guitar . . . and it was a fine sound. . . . Some hymn he remembered from his childhood, something associated with immersion and picnic lunches” (111). Although he can’t specifically identify the tune, it is a religious song designed to appeal to the emotions, to childhood and innocence, and it works its magic. Stu immediately knows this is the place he needs to go to. Nick, who is totally deaf, is the next character to hear it in his dreams, and it is the first time he has heard music in his life. In his dream he tells her “he just wanted to hear her sing, the singing was beautiful” (373). For Nick, music is a siren song that he can’t resist as Mother Abigail calls him to her. Larry, the musician who thinks of himself as “not a good man,” is haunted by terrible nightmares of the Dark Man, the Devil, stalking him, frightening him with thoughts of Hell. Then Larry is attacked by Joe, the savage boy, wards off the attack and changes. “I’ve changed somehow, Larry thought dimly. I’ve come out the other side” (449). That evening, he finds a guitar, plays some songs, and tames the savage boy, who turns out to be a

60

Chapter 6

prodigy and learns how to play it himself. Only then does he have the dreams of Mother Abigail’s field of corn and the music: “An old woman was playing the guitar, a jazzy sort of spiritual that had Joe smiling” (470). Larry knows then that “the man with no face could never get them here.” Soon, he realizes that Joe, too, was having the same dream. If Mother Abigail’s message is sweet music, Randall Flagg uses scare tactics, chasing and terrorizing them, or promising worldly things, as when he promises Nick that he will be able to hear again. Those with good moral character are repelled by these dreams and attracted to Mother Abigail and her music. Those who are morally corrupt don’t hear the old woman and are attracted to the rewards that Flagg promises—status and power. In King’s universe, there are some who do have miraculous powers (Dead Zone, Firestrater, The Green Mile, Desperation) but they are not religious figures. Even Mother Abigail, as saint-like as she appears, is just a humble, poor woman who makes no money from religion and, in fact, suffers for it and begs God to free her from her responsibility: “Her place was not to judge God, although she wished He hadn’t seen fit to set the cup before her lips that He had” (The Stand 481). John Coffey has the gift of healing, yet he pays the ultimate price for his ability and is put to death for a crime he didn’t commit. Mike, the sick boy from Joyland, has the ability to “see and hear things” and has what he calls “the special thing,” (60), but he dies from his disease, unable to heal himself. His powers seem to come from God, but his father, a “professional evangelist,” can’t tap into these powers to save his son. In Desperation, eleven-year-old David Carter is able to speak to God directly. In a reversal of the deal with the devil motif, David strikes a bargain where God will miraculously bring his friend Brian back from a coma in return for doing something for the deity in return. God agrees to the deal and awakens his friend, then instructs David to learn more about Him. David follows God’s directions and becomes friends with a preacher who is convinced that David is “touched by God” (182). One of the lessons David learns from the minister is that “God is cruel” (183), a lesson that is followed by personal experience when the boy’s family is destroyed in a war between God and an evil entity named Tak. David’s repayment to God requires Tak to be trapped within the China Pit mine. David and his allies succeed, but at great cost. David’s mother, father, and little sister are killed in the novel, a terrible price exacted for God’s saving Brian. In Stephen King’s multiverse, the author is not only alive and well, but is God, the creator of the persons, places and things in his fiction. To Roland and the members of his Ka-tet, Stephen King is not only a character in their story but is their creator as well. Taking this to the next level, King is the creator of every character in every one of his novels. Roland, Danny Torrence, Stu Redman, Rose Madder, Fran Goldsmith, John Coffey, Carrie White . . . they and all the rest owe their existence to their author-creator-god.

Religion

61

Unfortunately for them, Stephen King has proven to be a cruel god as well, an Old Testament god who has sacrificed children (Pet Sematary, Cujo), teenage girls (Carrie), healers (The Green Mile), dogs and cats (Pet Sematary and Cujo), saints (Mother Abigail), sinners (The Trashcan Man), entire towns (‘Salem’s Lot) and even the world itself (The Stand, Cell). As King admits in The Dark Tower, “he doesn’t have to kill any of them if he doesn’t want to” (543). King had the opportunity to prevent John Kennedy’s assassination in 11/22/63 and failed, but perhaps redeemed himself in The Dead Zone by preventing the election of a president who would have brought about the end of times. In The Dark Tower books, the character Stephen King accepts blame for Jake’s death: “I was the one who made you do it” he tells Roland (Song 377) but since “I am Gan, or possessed by Gan” (390), he as the author has no say in the story, which is driven by an imaginative force of its own. He later admits that he was not the one who let Jake die. It was Roland, as created by Gan: “I lied, brother” (379) he says. Roland, a character in the story, took over, guided by Gan. This reflects King’s belief that the story comes first, and that he is merely the vehicle through which it is told, and that the characters take on lives of their own with their own free will. As King claims, stories make themselves and writers merely cultivate (On Writing 163). As the “god” of his fictional creatures, he is guided by Gan, or the imagination, the “story pool” he describes in Lisey’s Story. So if the author is merely a conduit through which his characters, places, and plots are created, his power comes from an almost magical imagination rather than any godlike forces. “I think telling stories is like pushing something. Pushing against uncreation itself, maybe,” the character of Stephen King says (Song 380). As an author/god, King creates not just the good, but more importantly, the evil, which in the horror story is the real narrative interest. Much of his success lies in the fact that he has created monsters that are not only memorable but have become memes of their own in popular culture. Pennywise the Clown, the Overlook Hotel, and Carrie White’s bloodbath at the prom have all become well-known icons of contemporary culture, even to those who may have never read Stephen King’s novels. This ability to tap into the universal nature of fear, the first and most primitive emotion, is his strongest trait as a creator. He has created devils and demons and hellish places that can rival anything in a religious text. Why audiences enjoy being terrorized and how King accomplishes this will be discussed in a later chapter, but with his track record of book sales, there can be no doubt that he has succeeded in satisfying readers’ needs. Personally, Stephen King seems to have mixed views on religion. While he says “I choose to believe in God because it makes things better” (Greene 75), he also recognizes that “organized religion is a very dangerous tool that has been misused by a lot of people” (74). This view is reflected in evolutionary science, which claims that religion has helped to create civilizations out

62

Chapter 6

of our hunter-gatherer ancestors, yet, according to Dawkins and other scientists, it has outlived its usefulness. One of the themes that King admits to exploring in his fiction is “the question of why, if there is a God, such terrible things happen” (On Writing 207). In America, where the majority believes in some sort of god, this is a legitimate question, one without a simple answer. While the clerics of virtually every religion seem to have the answer—even if the answer is something along the line of man not being able to understand the ways of god—King’s fiction does not offer a simple solution but provokes further questioning. Is the deity God, Gan, or Stephen King himself? Is God an author, or an artist, or both? Are we a single universe, or a multiverse as he presents in his fiction. “King’s work constantly invites his readers to consider their place in the grand scheme of things (Cowan xiii). Many of these questions lead to a discussion of the age-old philosophical question of predestination vs free will. This is a theme that runs through most of King’s work, and one that we will examine next.

Chapter Seven

Free Will Robots or Wildcards?

The question of free will has been debated for centuries by philosophers, religious leaders, and, most recently, scientists. Since the Book of Genesis described the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden, the idea of free choice has been part of literature. God gave his creations the choice of whether or not to follow the rules (free choice), yet they were destined to eat the fruit (determinism)—after all, isn’t the craving of forbidden fruit part of our humanity? What did God think would happen if he told his people not to do something? Hobbes and Locke claimed that we have free will to do something as long as we are able to make a choice, and nothing external prevents this choice. Kant made a link between freedom and goodness. Nietzsche saw it as a convenient invention of religion that allows for judgement. Today, free will is the cornerstone of our moral, cultural, and legal system. It is the foundation of the rugged individualism that underlies the concept of the “American Dream.” Yet despite the widespread belief that we do indeed have free will, that we determine our actions and make our own decisions, the biological sciences tell us that this simply isn’t the case. “There is agreement in the scientific community that the firing of neurons determines not just some or most, but all of our thoughts, hopes, memories, and dreams” (Cave). One interesting study by Benjamin Libet in the 1980s, which has since been substantiated, demonstrated that the neurons in the brain actually fire several milliseconds before someone decides to take an action, which seems to show that we are acting subconsciously before we are even aware of what we are doing (Restak 39–40). Stephen King’s fiction explores the concept of free will from multiple perspectives and in various novels. In some novels (The Stand), the charac63

64

Chapter 7

ters seem to have complete free will. In others (The Shining), they have free will but it is highly influenced by their character flaws. Then there is the fiction where the characters seem to be directed by a larger agency (Insomnia, The Dark Tower). Finally, we have characters who try to change fate, sometimes successfully (“The Word Processor of the Gods” and Ur), and sometimes with mixed results (11/22/63). “The stories of horror that are psychological—those which explore the terrain of the human heart—almost always revolve around the free-will concept,” says King (Danse 71). As Magistrale notes, “In The Stand, more than any other King novel, free will and moral choice are solidly within the individual’s purview; all of the major characters in the book participate directly in determining their fates” (“Free Will” 109). Some of them choose to act morally, and some immorally, but according to the Christian views expressed in the novel, there is a choice either way. As Fran writes in her diary about the competing dreams of Flagg and Mother Abigail, “we’re being given the means to help shape our own futures, perhaps. A kind of fourth-dimensional free will: the chance to choose in advance of events” (549). When Mother Abigail tasks the group to go to Las Vegas and destroy the dark man, Larry asks if they have a choice. “There’s always a choice. That’s God’s way, always will be. Your will is still free” (920). Although God asks them to embark on this quest, they have the choice to bow out, even though it’s what God wants them to do. The four of them, Larry, Stu, Ralph, and Glenn, choose to join the fight even though Mother Abigail tells them directly that one of them won’t make it to Randall Flagg’s city. However, there are still scientists who support the concept of at least some form of free will based on Darwin’s theory of Natural Selection. According to Waller, free will is built into the brains of all decision making species, not just humans. “The importance of having choices, and control over those choices—and the opportunity to make what are sometimes apparently less than optimum choices and choices that do not ‘follow the rules’— is a profoundly valuable and deeply entrenched capacity, and a central element of free will for a wide variety of species” (25). Research on the response of fruit flies to bright light demonstrates freedom of choice even in insects, which flew toward or away from the light depending on the condition and strength of their wings: “We conclude that flies monitor their ability to fly, and that flying ability exerts a fundamental effect on action selection in Drosophila. This work suggests that even behaviors which appear simple and hard-wired comprise a value-driven decision-making stage, negotiating the external situation with the animal’s internal state, before an action is selected” (Gorostiza). In King’s novels, some animals show evidence of free will. Oy, the billybumbler from the Dark Tower books, freely sacrifices himself to save Roland. “Oy might have gotten free, had he chosen to do so” (Dark Tower 769).

Free Will

65

The dog Kojak in The Stand exhibits signs of free will when he returns to help the injured Stu, bringing him food and keeping him warm (1058–59). This free will is shown in Kojak’s point of view when the dog smells death on Stu and thinks: “If he could have attacked it and driven it out of this Man he would have” (1092). Only in Cujo does the dog lose his free will as his mind is taken over by rabies, a situation that is out of his control since we are reminded that “he had always tried to be a good dog. . . . He had been struck by something, possibly destiny or fate, or only a degenerative nerve disease called rabies. Free will was not a factor” (309). Until he was infected by rabies, Cujo did have the free will to try and please his people, would even have died for them, King tells us. Waller’s idea of free will is more in line with Mother Abigail’s view, only from a biological standpoint rather than a religious one. This freedom of choice is a survival mechanism that has nothing to do with moral responsibility. Animals that have free choice are more unpredictable, which helps them avoid predators or catch prey. “For foraging animals in a changing and challenging environment, the first and vitally important element of free will is the generation of open behavioral alternatives” (Waller 122). This natural free will seems to have developed early in evolution, and “involve[s] neither moral decisions nor deep reflection” (193). In humans, with our complex society and complicated decisions, this free will affects not only our everyday mundane actions, such as choosing a meal from a menu, but more difficult ethical choices as well. However, Waller cautions that equating free will only with moral responsibility interferes with us examining the concept in other animals which do not subscribe to our ethics, and keeps us from realizing “how fundamentally important these mundane acts of free will are to our psychological and even physical well-being until we are deprived of such choices” (193). Harold Lauder is the character who is most tormented by free will and the moral responsibility that goes along with it, since he does see and evaluate the various options before him. He is, according to Cassuto, “the focal point of the debate” (76) between determinism and free will. Harold is the one character who really does seem to have a decision, as he hangs in the balance on which side to take. Once Fran rejects him, he drifts closer to the dark side, making the conscious decision to seek revenge, a trait that might be a human universal since it “clearly . . . answers to a psychological need in many of us” (Harris 67). Harold has made what seems like a conscious decision: “he and Flagg would kick this miserable settlement apart like an anthill. But first he would settle with Redman, who had lied to him and stolen his woman” (681). But even Harold cannot understand why he harbors so much hate. He had contemplated accepting his fate, and that in the Boulder Free Zone he could “turn himself into a new person” but “had rejected the new opportunity” (682). As time goes on, Harold manages to blend into the Boulder group so

66

Chapter 7

well that he earns their respect. He thinks “I could be an ‘asset to this community’” (797), and he again fights with himself, “his mind worrying and gnawing at the problem he thought he had solved long ago” (798). Then Nadine enters the picture, and when she seduces him, “Harold Lauder succumbed to his destiny” (806). When he sets off the bomb that kills Nick, he announces on the walkie-talkie that “I do this of my own free will” (891). The residents of the Boulder Free Zone understand and accept the concept of free will, even when they recognize its danger. Randall Flagg, who Mother Abagail says “is not a man at all but a supernatural being” (919), seems to act more robotically, as if he were programmed to do his evil instead of choosing it. “He was no longer strictly a man, if he had ever been one. He was like an onion, slowly peeling away one layer at a time, only it was the trappings of humanity that seemed to be peeling away: organized reflection, memory, possibly even free will . . . if there had ever been such a thing” (982). Unlike humans, King’s supernatural creatures have not been given free will, but act on higher orders, much like the mechanized trains in the Dark Tower books that can only follow orders that no longer make sense. The latest theories of evolutionary biology dispute the concept of free will because we are a product of our genetics and our environment, both of which are out of our control. According to Sam Harris, there is no free choice. “The endurance of this notion [free will] is attributable to the fact that most of us feel that we freely author our own thoughts and actions” (25). In other words, humans feel like they make their own decisions, are in control of their own lives. We believe that our likes and dislikes are of our own making, not the result of the combination of amino acids in our DNA. But biology shows that we are, in many ways, a product of our genetic background, which determines our gender, our race, our physical makeup, diseases we may be susceptible to, and, according to the latest theories, our behavior. Our environment also determines our choices and limits our free will. The nation that one is born in determines that person’s language, culture, and beliefs. A female born in Saudi Arabia, for example, has less “free will” than a white male born into a wealthy American family. “Consider the biography of the ‘selfmade’ man, and you will find that his success was entirely dependent on background conditions that he did not make and which he was merely the beneficiary” (Harris 71). In The Stand, some of the characters who believe they have free will are, in fact, victims of their genetics, environment, or both. Donald Merwin Elbert, a.k.a. “The Trashcan Man,” for example, had been dealt a bad hand. His father had murdered his siblings and was killed by the sheriff. As a result of either his genes or his environment, he was a pyromaniac and sent to a mental institution where he received shock treatment, ruining whatever sense he had left in him. According to his backstory, the Trashcan Man had no control over his life, no free will at all. Yet when he allies with the dark man,

Free Will

67

he believes it is his choice, and not the hypnotic dreams of Randall Flagg that motivated him. “He had sought the dark man of his own free will (if there is such a thing for the Trashcan Men of the world)” (622). Interestingly, while he sees his decision as being a conscious choice, the narrative voice (perhaps Trashcan Man’s subconscious) admits the possibility of free will not existing for people like him. Almost against logic, the reader feels some sympathy for Donald Elbert, a child who endured the trauma of a family massacre, the torture of a mental institution, and constant bullying and mental abuse from his peers. It is no wonder that he turned out the way he did. It seems impossible that he could not join Randall Flagg. In fact, he never heard Mother Abigail’s song or dreamed of her cornfields, so the option of joining the Boulder community was never open to him. The Trashcan Man is an example of why Harris believes that we are better off not believing in free will at all. Abandoning this idea would allow us and the criminal justice system to treat criminals differently. While Harris believes we must protect society from psychopaths and other criminals, he believes that we must administer justice in a way that recognizes that the criminals have no free choice in their actions. Justice should act as a deterrent and as a mechanism to protect society, not to inflict punishment on evil. He sees a time when neurologists might be able to repair the defective neural connections of criminals before they commit crimes. In contrast, Tom Cullen, also mentally challenged, is one of the kindest, most beloved characters in the novel. He, too, seems to have no free will, except in the case of which dream he will follow. It is simply the luck of the draw. “It seems immoral not to recognize just how much luck is involved in morality itself” Harris says (64). One of the standard tropes of literature involves the “tragic flaw” of the protagonist—Macbeth’s ambition, Othello’s pride, Hamlet’s inability to make a decision. This concept fits nicely into the theories that say we have no free will, that our “tragic flaws” compel us to make mistakes and commit immoral acts. King says that “the tale of horror can be divided into two groups: those in which the horror results from an act of free-will—a conscious decision to do evil—and those in which the horror is predestinate, coming from the outside like a stroke of lightning” (Danse 71). If we are driven by our genes and environment instead of having free will, as the evolutionary biologists suggest, then King’s idea of “predestinate horror” expands to include characters who do not act of their own free will, but are “programmed” by their genes and environment and influence by outside forces to commit horrifying acts. As we have seen, Harold Lauder can be thought of this way: his tragic flaw of wanting acceptance and sex paved the way for both Flagg and Nadine to seduce him to betray the Boulder Free Zone. But Jack Torrance in The

68

Chapter 7

Shining is probably the best example of this type of character (Magistrale, Moral Voyages 15). According to the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism, both genetics and environment are responsible for alcohol use disorder, or AUD, with genes accounting for about half the risk. Multiple genes play a role, with some increasing the risk, and others decreasing it (“Genetics of”). Jack’s alcoholism is beyond his control, fueled by genetics and his history of failure, which only refuels his drinking habit in a downward spiral. Just when he believes that he is escaping a toxic environment by taking the caretaker’s job at the Overlook Hotel, the “evil place” asserts its influence, sparking Jack’s character flaw and igniting another spiral that leads to his destruction. Of course, as Magistrale correctly notes, “it is a much too simplistic reading of this highly complex psychological horror story to assume that Jack’s victimization is only the result of a deterministic fate over which he has no control” (Moral 17). Throughout the novel, he makes a number of critical mistakes and places his own personal career aspirations above concern for the safety of his family. Still, at the beginning of the novel, Jack is depicted as a flawed but sympathetic character, one that the reader hopes can overcome his problem and succeed. His destruction is tragic because, unlike Randall Flagg for example, Jack is not an evil person and is sincerely trying to do his best for his family until the Overlook begins exerting its influence on him. As a book in the Dark Tower series, Insomnia presents a more cosmic picture of free will in the form of the Purpose and the Random. Clotho and Lachesis, agents of the Purpose, represent destiny, and Atropos, an agent of the Random, represents the chance happenings that may alter destiny. Some, like Ed Deepneau, belongs to neither the Purpose nor the Random. The central problem in Insomnia is the attempt by Ralph Roberts to stop Atropos from changing destiny. According to the philosophy of this novel, life is “both random and on purpose, although not in equal measure,” an idea that fits into the idea of ka in the Dark Tower books. According to Vincent, ka is “one of the most difficult concepts in the Dark Tower Series” with “several meanings, mostly to do with destiny, purpose or fate” (Dark Tower Companion 469). When the agents of Purpose try to explain themselves to Ralph, he tells them “there goes free choice, I guess”; Lachesis explains that “what you call freedom of choice is the part of what we call ka, the great wheel of being” (Insomnia 461). Of course the “long timers” never say exactly what the proportions of purpose and random are, leaving the question of free will unanswered. And they don’t explain how free choice is part of ka. Are humans controlled by the purpose—can random events influence free will? Deepneau, the wild card in the deck, belongs to neither, yet is manipulated by the Random. And Ralph is manipulated by the Purpose. Deepneau seems to have no free will. And once Ralph’s insomnia leads him to the discovery of different planes of existence, his free will is directed to a larger purpose: his

Free Will

69

ka becomes the task of saving Patrick, a major player in Roland’s quest for the Dark Tower. When Ralph asks if he has a choice, he is told “for ShortTimers there is always a choice. We find that frightening . . . but we also find it beautiful” (736). By the end of the Dark Tower epic, it is obvious that the ka in Stephen King’s multiverse is either controlled by or channeled through the author himself, the creator of the will of Gan. This leads to the paradox of whether or not the author has free will. Does the author consciously create his characters, settings, and plots? Or are they destined to be written, and, thus, beyond the conscious power of the author? Harris believes that ideas do not come from our consciously thinking of them. “Thoughts simply arise unauthorized and yet author our actions” (42). If someone has an idea for something, a website, a book, an idea, he asks where it came from: “It just appeared in your mind. Did you as the conscious agent you feel yourself to be, create it?” (46). In a thought experiment, at the end of his book he resolves to “write anything I want for the rest of the book” (74). But as soon as he does this and writes in a stream of consciousness form, he realizes that “the notion of freedom doesn’t run very deep” (75). He begins to think about a particular word he has used and wonders where it came from. According to King, he doesn’t “create” fiction; stories just come to him. “Good story ideas seem to come quite literally from nowhere” (On Writing 37). His stories, then, are a creation of the subconscious and are not directly the result of free will. “My basic belief about the making of stories is that they pretty much make themselves. The job of a writer is to give them a place grow” (163). So, if King creates a character, this character does not have free will because the author designed his or her actions. But if King had no free will in creating the story, the character cannot be controlled by the author. In one place King tells Roland that he (King) made Roland kill Jake (Song 377). Then he goes on to say that he lied and it was Roland’s doing after all (379). Ironically, the fictional character Stephen King tells Roland that although he loves writing stories “I don’t want to write your story” (391). The paradox continues when Roland, one of King’s creations, hypnotizes the author and commands him to “sing until the song is done” (458), and he will tell that story every time he hears the song of the turtle (394). To simplify, a character that King creates commands him to write a story about this character that commands him to write the story. . . . Does the free will belong to Roland, the fictional Stephen King, the “real” Stephen King, both, or neither? The circular paradox is, in essence, the philosophical debate about free will in fictional form. In Mother Abigail’s world, there is no debate. God gave humans the free will to create, and so they are compelled to do so. “God the Creator had made man in His own image, and that meant that every man and woman who dwelt under God’s light was a creator of some kind, a person with an urge to stretch

70

Chapter 7

out his hand and shape the world into some rational pattern” (The Stand 653). What they create—how they use their free will—is completely up to them. If the multiverse is controlled by fate, or destiny, or ka, is it possible to change what is supposed to happen? Ralph prevents change from happening in Insomnia, and Roland continues his quest in a never-ending cycle in an attempt to change his fate. Wesley Smith, the protagonist of Ur, manages to change the future, and Richard Hagstrom changes the past in “The Word Processor of the Gods.” However, Clotho, an agent of Purpose, tells Ralph about how the scales must balance. “Can you imagine . . . how different the world would be today if Hitler had drowned in the bathtub as a child? You may believe the world would be better for that, but I can tell you that the world would not exist at all if it had happened” (Insomnia 683). This idea of changing the past fascinated King and resulted in his novel about the Kennedy assassination, 11/22/63, which is the subject of the next chapter.

Chapter Eight

Navigating the Past in 11/22/63

Before he had written 11/22/63, Stephen King had shown signs of interest with the assassination of John F. Kennedy. He refers to the event in Ur, when Wesley and his friends search the Ur universes for the date of the Kennedy assassination, “the seminal event of the twentieth century” (Kindle edition loc975), where they checked over seventy versions of the newspaper story for that date. King spends more than two pages on some of the different realities, some where Kennedy lived, and some where he died, but in each of the universes where Kennedy was killed, Lee Harvey Oswald was the lone assassin. In the afterword to 11/22/63, King says he had tried to write the novel in 1972, but was daunted by the research that it would entail, and couldn’t begin because “even nine years after the deed, the wound was still too fresh” (846). Before we can examine 11/22/63 as a single novel, however, it is necessary to delve into King’s concept of the multiverse as expressed both by theoretical physics and in the Dark Tower series. The possibility of free will does invite the theoretical consideration of different possible universes based on decisions made by free-willed characters, and different events that result from the “butterfly effect” of these decisions. King’s Dark Tower serves as the linchpin that holds all of these universes together, joining them in the great wheel of time of the multiverse. As Auxier says, “King’s Tower comes closest to being a mix between what Brian Greene calls a ‘quantum multiverse’ in which a new universe is created with a diversion of events that leads to a split, and a ‘quilted multiverse’ where infinite space permits an actual occurrence of all genuinely possible events infinitely many times” (255). This theoretical multiverse is possible according to the rules of quantum physics, though quite impossible for the average English professor to understand. But King’s multiverse does stand in as a suitable metaphor for this 71

72

Chapter 8

highly complex topic. In the short novel Ur, originally published as a Kindleonly edition, then revised for inclusion in Bazaar of Bad Dreams) there are 10,438,721 parallel worlds (Kindle edition loc 456), but since each action in time seems to cause the universe to branch into two new threads, the actual number is probably infinite. Since King makes himself the creator of all of his fictional universes in the Dark Tower series, this metaphor also represents the number of Urs, or multiverses, that the author could theoretically create. And if multiple universes are possible, then it could theoretically be possible to travel between them through the portals found in the Dark Tower series. Stephen King’s Constant Reader does, in fact, engage in this inter-universe travel when reading through the canon of King’s works, with each different piece of fiction being a doorway to a new reality. 11/22/63 represents just one of the endlessly branching threads of one particular Ur, beginning at 11:58 a.m. on September 9, 1958, each time Jake Epping descends the stairs under his friend’s diner and tries to change history. King’s multiverse has different types of portals that do different things, and as the home of the author/god Stephen King, the state of Maine (especially any place near Derry) seems to be particularly crammed with them. In the The Drawing of the Three the first type of portal is introduced, a one-way door that allows Roland to travel from Mid-World to Eddie Dean and Odetta’s New York by entering the minds of the characters, and he is able to bring back their physical bodies to Mid-World. These doorways open to specific places and times where he will meet the members of his ka-tet. Other doorways exist in Midworld and Keystone earth, and allow two-way travel; however, time travels at different rates of speed in these different worlds. In 11/22/63 a single portal exists that leads to the same geographical spot in Maine, but opens at two minutes to noon on September 9, 1958. Someone entering the portal is transported back in time, and when returning through the portal once two minutes of “real time” have elapsed, though the time traveler has aged while in the past. One of the reasons King’s fiction is so popular is because of its ability to connect with human universals, and 11/22/63 does this on several levels. First, and most obvious, he presents us with a realistic depiction of what it might be like to try to change the past. A number of science fiction authors have proposed the idea of changing the past in order to create the present. Ray Bradbury’s short story “A Sound of Thunder” perfectly illustrates the “butterfly effect”: a character who kills an insect while hunting a dinosaur disrupts time enough that when he returns to his present, his society has turned into a dystopia. Ward Moore’s 1953 novel Bring the Jubilee begins with a world where the Confederate States have won the battle of Gettysburg and, hence, the Civil War, and a time traveler inadvertently changes the past to bring about the present reality that we know, where Pickett’s Charge failed

Navigating the Past in 11/22/63

73

and the Union army was victorious. The question has long been asked by philosophers about what would happen if we could change the mistakes of the past. The idea of killing Hitler as a baby is broached by the Long Timers in Insomnia, who reveal that if this had happened, the world would not exist—presumably a nuclear war would have resulted, an event more terrible than the Nazi regime. In The Dead Zone, King used a contemporary setting where a psychic could foretell an apocalyptic future and prevent it by stopping a potential despot before he could destroy the world. Still, who has not wondered at least once what would happen if they could travel back in time and change something, either at a macroscopic level, such as killing Hitler, or on a more personal level: “if only I had done. . . .” In 11/22/63, King gives his readers the opportunity to live out this fantasy in long, luxurious detail. King has been criticized (sometimes justly), for the length of his books, and he himself jokes about his wordiness. With its 842 pages, 11/22/63 is heavy enough to work as a functioning doorstop. However, in this case the length of the book is its strength because the intricate flashbacks and depth of detail bring a realism to this novel that makes the reader forget that the entire premise of the book is impossible. Unlike the traditional time travel story, where the past is changed, King sets his novel in a multiverse containing many different “Urs,” or threads of time. This means that each time Jake travels into the past, he isn’t actually changing the old universe, but is creating a brand new one based upon the infinite possibilities of free will. “Every trip down the rabbit hole is a reset” Al tells him (94). Jake speculates that each trip may create an alternate reality (96). These alternate realities are presented in Ur, where there are universes containing books that had never been written in the present reality, which reinforces the idea of the author as creator of universes. As Auxier has noted, “in Ur he [King] is working out the temporal metaphysics of the Tower” (“Ur 88,416” 257). If we, indeed, create futures based upon our decisions, this gives each of us the potential power to create our own world. One of the problems that King presents, however, is the conflict with free will—the future can be changed, but not easily. In the true spirit of E. O. Wilson’s consilience, King’s multiverse should be examined from a scientific point of view, as well as a literary one. Surprisingly enough, much of what 11/22/63 proposes corelates nicely with some of the latest and mind-numbing theories of physics and cosmology. According to Sean Carroll, a theoretical physicist from the California Institute of Technology, “the most mysterious thing about time is that it has a direction: the past is different from the future. That’s the arrow of time” (2). This, of course, is something we know by intuition, but the physicists explain the phenomenon of time in terms of entropy, the Second Law of Thermodynamics, which, to put it simply, says that our universe (at least as we currently know it) moves more toward a state

74

Chapter 8

of increasing disorder. Boltzmann’s equation demonstrates entropy as the tendency of atoms to mix in a random fashion. There is only one way for cream and coffee atoms to remain separate items if they are mixed; however, Boltzmann’s function predicts that there is a nearly infinite number of ways that they can combine into a mixture of coffee and cream atoms (for those looking for the specifics, see Sean Carroll, chapter 8). Carroll uses the example of the egg—breaking it is easy, but as we know from the nursery rhyme, “all of the king’s horses and all of the king’s men” can’t put it back together again. Technically, of course, it could be reassembled given enough time, resources, and technology, but it would take a virtually impossible amount of energy to do so. This theory of entropy confirms what King’s novel speculates, that even if we could go back in time, the arrow of time seems to have a will of its own and pushes back against any attempt to alter it. “The past doesn’t want to be changed” (11/22/63 173). In this model, change might be an attempt to reverse entropy, which, though not impossible in an isolated example (spilled sugar can be recollected into a bowl with an input of energy), requires the exertion of force. Jake tells Al that he thinks “that resistance to change is proportional to how much the future might be altered by any given act” (232). The larger the change, the more entropy would have to be reversed and the more energy it would take. Toward the end of the novel, Jake learns that the past isn’t really changed when he goes through the rabbit hole; instead, each trip creates another new and variant universe. Although Al, the first-time traveler, told him that he could always “reset” the past by going through the hole again and immediately returning (like resetting a video game), he later learns from the Yellow Card Man that it isn’t a reset at all: “Each trip creates its own string, and when you have enough strings, they always get snarled” (796) and “the strings create multiple images of the future” (797). According to physics, string theory, which is compatible with both Einstein’s theory and quantum mechanics, predicts a googol of universes—1 followed by 100 zeros (Kaku 239). Hugh Everett put forth the “many worlds” hypothesis in 1957, which says it is theoretically possible for the universe to infinitely split in half, creating a new sister universe each time. In this model, “any universe that can exist, does. . . . This means there is a parallel world in which the Nazis won World War II, or where the Spanish Armada was never defeated and everyone is speaking Spanish” (244). However, applying quantum physics and the uncertainty principle to the entire universe rather than just subatomic particles predicts the existence of a multiverse. In fact, Brian Greene says “I find it both curious and compelling that numerous developments in physics, if followed sufficiently far, bump into some variation on the parallel universe theme” (10). Scientifically, then, King’s multiverse is possible, though the chances of us being able to travel between universes is highly improbable according

Navigating the Past in 11/22/63

75

to current technology. Yet, Kaku claims “it would undoubtedly be a difficult feat, but one that might be possible. . . . Such a civilization would have to harness the power of huge atom smashers and laser beams as large as the solar system or star cluster to concentrate enormous power at a single point in order to attain the fabled Plank energy” (249). This might be a scientific description of the Dark Tower, its beams, and the wheel of time in the Dark Tower universe. The Yellow Card man, in fact, warns Jake that the creation of so many new universes by traveling through the time portal creates “residue. . . . It gums up the machine. Eventually a point will come where the machine simply . . . stops” (797). He tells Jake that if it isn’t put right it could destroy reality itself (798). Roland is also part of this overall quest of keeping the machinery of reality working smoothly. There is one simple and practical way to travel in time, of course, and that is through the imagination, as Auxier has pointed out (“Ur 88,461” 271). According to linguistic theory, language and words have the ability to create reality simply by speaking, such as when we use what Austin calls “expositives” (162). These verbs, such as “describe,” “tell,” and “report” (and, by extrapolation, “to write”), allow us to create virtually anything, whether or not it exists in reality. Searle in his principle of expressibility says “Whatever can be meant can be said” (88). Speculative fiction does this so well that it sometimes creates a new reality. Harry Potter’s world exists in the pages of books, in film, in the imaginations of millions, and in the physical world of the theme park. The Land of Oz is “real” to most Americans, as is the Marvel Comics universe and, to many, the Overlook Hotel. Stephen King uses the power of words and language to create his own multiverse, and despite the impossibility of many of his plot devices such as time travel, he includes enough plausibility and detail for the imagination to fill in the missing parts and bring his characters and settings to life. One of King’s greatest strengths as a writer is to make us believe and accept the impossible without question. Even though the practical applications of time travel lie in the worlds of the make-believe, the story doesn’t overthink the science, but makes the leap of faith simple and plausible. In 11/22/63, King does not create a fancy technological time travel device but uses a simple doorway or portal mechanism similar to those found in the Dark Tower books. While this idea might sound fanciful and far-fetched, King describes Jake’s descent into the rabbit hole so realistically that readers suspend their disbelief and follow along. When he closed his eyes it felt like “putting on the special glasses in a 3-D movie, that might be closer” (29). Jake’s initial entrance into the past is filled with images of the mundane, his shadow on the concrete, rust on a metal chain, and a “green-painted cube of a building” (30). The depiction of the world of “ago” contains the smells of the factory, vivid details of the Yellow Card Man with “dried crackles of snot on both sleeves” (32), the

76

Chapter 8

“powerful effluent pouring from the triple stacks” of the factory, and even the no admittance sign. All of these are very real objects in a surreal world, objects that make the time jump believable. Another one of the strengths of 11/22/63 is the sense of nostalgia that it evokes, particularly among older readers who have lived through the times that Jake returns to in the novel. Anyone who was alive during the Kennedy assassination remembers where he or she was when it happened—I was in my first grade class when the principal came to each room to make the terrible announcement—and that memory brings back a world of other memories that have been stashed away and resurrected by King’s novel. Some are quite pleasant: Kool Aid, Tonka Trucks, and my very first baseball glove. Others, like “duck and cover drills,” not so much. King brings back this sense of nostalgia in the novel with intensive research, personal memory, and rich details. The novel is a reminder that phone numbers used to be a series of letters and numbers, that little girls used to jump rope to rhymes, and transistor radios were high technology for the time. The mere mention of some of these details brings back living history in baby boomer readers, and a displacement of time in younger ones. While 11/22/63 doesn’t portray the period between 1958–1963 as a utopian world (King is quick to point out the blatant racism of the time), life in a small town is depicted as more simple and, for the most part, quite pleasant. It is a time when gasoline cost pennies a gallon, and although manufacturing plants pollute the air, there is no concern about global warming. The terrible assassinations of the Kennedy brothers and Martin Luther King hadn’t occurred yet, the war in Vietnam was still in the future, and terrorism and 9/11 hadn’t even been dreamed of. Food tasted better, life traveled at a slower pace, and people seemed kinder (except in Derry and Dallas, of course). Even the antique black-and-white television sets with rabbit-ear antennas seemed better as they aired classic shows like Route 66, and Walter Cronkite, a trusted icon of journalistic integrity, reported the news. King does differentiate between city life and small-town life and, in the 1960s as in the current age, small town life wins out. Jake finds a home in Jodie, Texas, a town of 1,280 people, where he bides his time until he has to stop Oswald from killing the president. “It was when I stopped living in the past and just started living,” Jake says (318). Everyone knows one another in this quiet town, where the highlight of the week is Friday night high school football. Jake takes a job as an English teacher in the high school, and finds that he truly can make a difference in the students’ lives. It is true that the world just prior to Kennedy’s assassination has its ugly side, and 11/22/63 shows this vividly in selected places. Spousal abuse is widespread and accepted. Racism runs rampant. Large cities are violent— and sometimes, small towns are too. In Jodie, students are involved in a drunk driving accident and one loses his life, and Sadie is mutilated and

Navigating the Past in 11/22/63

77

nearly killed by her ex-husband. Women are treated as property and outside of the fields of nursing and teaching, have little opportunity for a career. The world is full of poverty, accident, sickness, and unfairness. King calls attention to the racism of the 1960s, but does not dwell on it as much as some postmodern critics might wish. He shows a few very specific examples to make his point. A “colored” bathroom is nothing more than a board set across a stream in the woods at the end of a path. “If I ever gave you the idea that 1958’s all Andy-n-Opie, remember that path, okay? The one lined with poison ivy. And the board across the stream” (280) King says. One might ask why Stephen King the author, and Jake Epping the time traveler didn’t dwell more on the aspects of bigotry and racism they saw in the 1960s. I believe there are two answers to this question. First, both the author and the protagonist are white men who come to the world with the kind of privilege that makes them exempt from this intolerance. Jake is not relegated to the “colored” bathroom, and only realizes its unjustness because of the world of 2011 to which he compares it. Observing racism is not as powerful a narrative vehicle as being the victim of it, and neither King nor Jake would be able to tell that story. Had the protagonist been an African American (an interesting concept for time travel fiction), he certainly could have shown this world but would have faced a more difficult time in stopping Oswald simply because of the racist obstacles that would be placed in his way. This would have been a different story altogether, with an entirely different theme. Secondly, Jake recognizes the prejudice in the past, but that is a footnote to his quest, and not the subject of it. To live in this world he must “fit in” and not protest about the way things were. Besides, he believes that saving Kennedy will lead to a less racist, more diverse world; and if he fails and Kennedy lives, he knows that civil rights reforms will happen anyway. Civil rights are not his battle in this novel, so he gives us glimpses of this subject, and then turns back to the world where Jake lives his life. On the other hand, the ill-treatment of women is a more noticeable theme in this work, a theme that King has addressed in a number of novels. By living in the white male world of the 1960s, Jake is confronted more directly with spousal abuse, especially when Sadie becomes a victim of it. It becomes a reoccurring subject in Oswald’s treatment of his wife, since his clandestine operation forces Jake to live close to the Oswald family. One scene in particular is particularly moving, when Jake observes Oswald beating his wife on the street, and an old woman calls him a coward for refusing to get involved; he “wouldn’t do anything that might disturb the future” (530). Nonetheless, he feels guilt for being a helpless bystander—and to add to the irony, the old woman later saves Jake’s life by calling for help when he is nearly beaten to death. In his trip back in time, Jake finds himself in the predicament that men many of that time might have found themselves in. They don’t like what they

78

Chapter 8

see, wish they could change it, but since it is the accepted way that things are done, they feel that they cannot step in and oppose it. And so racism and abuse of women continued by default. Jake does save Doris Dunning in Derry, but does so secretly, killing her assailant before the event happens. It is worth noting that the assaults in this novel are physical and verbal, rather than sexual. Sexual assaults in the 1960s seldom were reported (especially from spouses and family) and not talked about, though there is no doubt they were numerous. To conclude, 11/22/63, which The New York Times named one of the ten best books of 2011, succeeds on several different levels. King uses the best science of his time as articulated by notable physicists such as Sean Carroll, Brian Greene, and Michio Kaku to make an impossible event like time travel and portals to the multiverse a plausible reality in the context of the novel. By 2011, string theory and M-theory, which postulated multiple dimensions beyond the three of space and one of time, was making its way from physics into the realm of popular science with the publication of a number of popular books on the subject (even including String Theory for Dummies, a truly ironic notion if ever there was one). These scientific ideas were taking multiple universes out of the realm of science fiction and into the field of cosmology, which made it easier to accept King’s fictional thought experiment of a portal to the past and multiple Urs. The novel also works from a philosophical point of view and addresses the idea of free will in a different way. Jake’s belief that “I started to think I’d found that old rabbit-hole for a reason” (86) reflects Determinism in an ironic way—fate dictated that Jake would change fate, which creates a time paradox of its own. In the worlds of the Dark Tower, however (which our reality of the Kennedy assassination is a part), there is a larger plan to the universe, with the Dark Tower forming the hub of time, and the beams keeping reality—or, more accurately, multiple realities—intact. Jake believes that coincidences are rare and that the world is more like a mechanism. “Somewhere in the universe (or behind it), a great machine is ticking and turning its fabulous gears” (287). The novel also reflects King’s own view of a universe where “Life turns on a dime” (30), a lesson he learned first-hand when he was nearly killed by a reckless driver, and which he repeats in The Institute: “great events turn on small hinges” (9). Yet this determinism is also tempered with a belief in free will, at least to a certain extent. “I believe that people can master their own destiny and confront and overcome tremendous odds,” King says (Underwood, Miller 53). Little did he know that when he made that statement in 1983, he would, indeed have to overcome tremendous odds to recover from his injuries and continue to produce best-selling novels. In 11/22/63, Jake does have the ability to exhibit free will and change the past, even if a predetermined past fights against him, which leads to a change in the future. Wesley Smith, the protagonist of Ur, is also able to change the

Navigating the Past in 11/22/63

79

future, though, once again, it is not easy and the arrow of time does not want to be shifted. In both cases, the protagonists make the right decisions and opt for a better world. Ur winds up being a win-win for the hero and the universe, but in order for Jake to do the right thing, he must give up whatever true happiness he might have found in his personal life. As in The Stand, altruism and ethical behavior wins out in this scenario as well.

Chapter Nine

Nostalgia and Things Past

Nostalgia was originally thought of as longing for a place and equated to homesickness, was considered a “medical disease” associated with distress and sadness (Routledge, Nostalgia: a Psychological Resource 11). As time passed, nostalgia entered into the realm of psychology and is now viewed as a positive state, and even as a means of therapy to cope with trauma (14). “Since nostalgia involves mentally time travelling to personally treasured past experiences, it may allow individuals to reexperience the pleasant emotions felt during those times” (44). “Modern nostalgia,” according to Sayers, is now considered a learning for a lost time rather than a lost place. “Most often, in the American context, the object of nostalgia is the decade between the 1950s and the 1990s” (16). Marketing researchers learned that as people age, they develop a fondness for products they owned or used during their teenage years to their early twenties (Routledge 14). “When people engage in nostalgia, they experience a boost in positive states such as mood, feelings of social connectedness, self-esteem, self-continuity, and perceptions of meaning in life (2). As Sayers notes, not just memories, but television shows, films, and literature “feed off and fuel feelings of nostalgia” (16). As I will show in this chapter, Stephen King’s work taps into this desire to remember and relive or, for younger audiences, to experience the pleasure of the past. As was discussed in the last chapter, 11/22/63 invokes a sense of nostalgia among baby boomers who read the book, as it is a remembrance of the 1960s, and it reads much like a historical novel for younger readers who have not lived through this time. However, if we recall that King has been writing and publishing fiction since 1974 when Carrie first reached the bookshelves, he has been chronicling intricate details of popular culture for over forty years. Some of his earlier fiction still serves as a remembrance of things past to his Constant Reader, and as a record of American culture of the past four 81

82

Chapter 9

decades, a record that will remain with us into the future. In this chapter I will examine several of his works in terms of their value as both literature and a chronicle of American culture. Furthermore, I will show that King’s ability to evoke a sense of nostalgia in his readers may help them to recall positive memories of the past, which in turn, triggers reward centers of the brain that bring pleasure and may even reduce stress. This may be another factor as to why King has continued to enjoy success as an internationally best-selling author for nearly five decades. Critics dismiss popular culture as literature, but each age chronicles it, from the ancient to the modern. Chaucer illuminates the popular culture of his time in the description of his pilgrims in The Canterbury Tales, the merchant with his “Flemish beaver hat” (10), the miller who plays the bagpipe (18), and the knight wearing a “fustian tunic stained with smudges where his armor had left mark” (5). Shakespeare shows us the culture of The Boar’s Head Tavern, and John Updike, a favorite of the critics, recaptures the nostalgia and popular culture of the 1960s in “A&P.” Stephen King has been criticized for his use of brand names, colloquial language and slang, and fads and fashions that reflect popular culture. Perhaps when he wrote stories like The Dead Zone and Christine in the 1970s, no one expected that these books would still be read in the new millennium, let alone in the 2020s and beyond. Yet with every one of his novels still in print, and new film adaptations of his work being made each year, there is every indication that the King phenomenon is not going away any time soon, despite the predictions and wishful thinking of many of his critics. His intricate detail and documentation of the worlds he writes about makes his work a sort of living history of the world he has experienced and chronicled. King is an outstanding fictional historian because of his use of the ordinary details of life, including brand names, politics, music, language, and events. Furthermore, in each of his novels he has his finger on the pulse of themes that are important to Americans at the time, from the bullying and religious fundamentalism of the 1970s in Carrie and The Dead Zone, to LGBTQ issues in Elevation, published in 2019. Needful Things, intended by King to be a satire on American commercialism in the 1980s (qtd. in Lehmann-Haupt and Rich), is almost a glossary of brand names from the decade of greed. Some of these brands are just memories: Polaroid cameras (44), Princess telephones (17), and Jolt cola (94). Others, like Zebco fishing gear (139), Little Debbie Cream Pies, and Diet Coke (16) have persisted into the new millennium. Television shows such as Sale of the Century (232) were replaced decades later by Who Wants to be a Millionaire? The Stand was originally published in 1978, and when the complete and uncut edition was released in 1990, it already had to be updated to remain current. After over twenty-five years, the novel is, once again, a historical

Nostalgia and Things Past

83

piece of science fiction/fantasy that realistically depicts the world of 1990 before the superflu, and its aftermath. As time goes by, the book has become an alternate world history of the past rather than a cautionary tale of the future. Yet this alternate history contains vivid details of the culture of 1990, which King appears to have added for a specific purpose. Fran’s diary records the history of the world after the plague as it happens, but her “Things to Remember” entries, “so the baby would know” (763), are a cultural record of the time before the flu. These tidbits of culture help to bring a sense of happiness to her life in a world that has gone terribly wrong, and they also serve as reminders of the recent past to the reader, a sort of time capsule of the past, if you will, now that the novel is several decades old. In these sections she mentions Nolan Ryan, TV commercials with laugh-tracks, Sara Lee strawberry cheesecake, The Who (533), and slang words like “rad” and “gnarly” along with “T-shirts which said SHIT HAPPENS” (538), to name just some of the cultural trivia of the time. Fran’s references to television commercials and brand names include information that exists only as memories, even now, but will be kept alive into the future on the pages of The Stand. And throughout the book the characters, especially Larry, refer to specific music and songs; in fact, music is the art that brings “Joe” out of his trance-like state and back to normal. And, as we have seen in 11/22/63, music and dance play a major role in recreating the nostalgia of the 1960s. The Dead Zone also has deliberate references to nostalgia as Johnny Smith suffers from a coma that keeps him in a sort of suspended animation for almost five years. From a scientific point of view, reminiscence is a complex emotion that is important to the human species because of our ability to retain memories of the past. According to Clay Routledge: “Nostalgia can be seen as part of the bigger story of how emotions get stored in our memories, neither all positive or negative but as complex, bittersweet feelings” (qtd. in “Neuroscience of Nostalgia”). These memories can provoke both a sadness that the times have passed, and rekindle the happiness of the moment at the same time. Johnny’s father, Herb, comforts himself with bittersweet memories while his son is in a coma: “so many memories of him—teaching him to drive, standing on the bow of Bolero with him when they went to Nova Scotia, on vacation one year . . . helping him with his homework, helping him with his treehouse, helping him get the hang of his Silva compass when he had been in the Scouts” (88). On her date with Johnny, Sarah reminisces about the fairs she had been to in her youth: “you could smell the hot dogs, frying peppers and onions, bacon, cotton candy. . . . You heard the steady cry of the barkers—two shots for two bits, win one of these stuffed doggies for your baby. . . . It turned you into a kid again, willing and eager to be suckered” (26). Her detailed and fond memories transport her back in time, along with Johnny. The nostalgia brings back sweet memories that usher in romantic feelings as they enjoy

84

Chapter 9

their first kiss on the thrill ride. Interestingly enough, the fear generated by thrill rides is another human universal, one that mirrors the emotions triggered by horror stories and films. This phenomenon will be discussed in more detail in a later chapter, but it will suffice to say that fear is a primeval emotion that has helped our species survive. In our modern world, artificial fears like thrill rides, extreme sports, and horror stories replace the very real fears of our ancient ancestors with harmless simulation. According to Routledge, the remembrances of people is the most common form of nostalgia, followed by important events (“Nostalgia as a resource”). In The Dead Zone, Sarah is the most important object of Johnny’s nostalgia as he remembers their time together and wistfully wonders what might have happened if he had not been involved in the accident. He is angry that five years of his life had been taken from him, but he is most upset by the opportunity he might have had with Sarah had things gone differently. When he knows his time is coming to an end, he writes her a last letter and says: “I’ve been thinking at lot about our date at the Esty Fair just recently . . . I wanted to let you know that I think of you, Sarah. For me there really hasn’t been anyone else, and that night was the best night for us” (424). While in 11/22/63 Jake travels into the past, Johnny, by being in a coma, travels forward in time into a future where, as in the Dark Tower series, “the world has moved on.” While five years may not seem like much of a trip to the future, the lost years have completely turned Johnny’s life around. “The world had changed more resoundingly than he would have believed possible in so short of time. He felt out of step and out of tune” (128). He has lost the love of his life, the job he loves doing, his mother, and the normal, uneventful life he had anticipated for himself. It would have been heartbreaking even without his unwelcome psychic ability. This new “talent” leads to his destruction. The novel is also a reminder of the history and politics of the time as Johnny’s coma lasts through the resignation of Nixon, the end of the war in Vietnam, and enters into what now may be considered an alternate universe where Greg Stillson almost becomes president, an alternate “Ur” where the world would be destroyed. The reader is also brought on a nine-year political journey that relives the presidencies of Nixon, Ford, and Carter. One of the major narrative themes, of course, exposes government corruption on both the local and national scale, and serves as a poignant warning about the possibility of fascism in America. Given Stephen King’s political leanings, the novel could be looked at as a foreshadowing of the political divide that would permeate the country some twenty-five years after the book’s publication. Joyland is another novel that brings back the nostalgia of the carnival. It is written as a memoir by the protagonist, Devon Jones, who is both telling a story of an incredible event while reminiscing about the best time of his life when he worked in an amusement park as a college student. “That fall was the most beautiful of my life. Even forty years later I can say that. And I was

Nostalgia and Things Past

85

never so unhappy. I can say that, too” (11). In fact, neuroscientists and psychologist believe that nostalgia is a complicated array of emotions, not simply joy or sadness. Devon remembers Mike and Annie’s day at the park with special joy, which adds to the book’s title: “some days are treasure. Not many, but I think in almost every life there are a few. That was one of mine, and when I’m blue . . . I go back to it, if only to remind myself that life isn’t always a butcher’s game. Sometimes the prizes are real. Sometimes they’re precious” (220). The nostalgia is compounded by the fact that Mike has a terminal illness and both the reader and the characters know that his time in the world is limited. Devon also knows that his days at Joyland are temporary, that he will have to return to college, grow up, and take on a real job. He also knows that time with Annie will be brief, a short and sweet fantasy that must also end as they both move on with their real lives. Joyland, like the amusement park the novel is titled after, rekindles memories of first love, innocence, and summer vacations. The book acts as a reminder of the brevity of good times and the shortness of life as a whole. Mr. Bradley Easterbrook, the owner of the amusement park, understands how fleeting happiness really is: “in a sad and dark world, we are a little island of happiness” he tells his summer employees (59). Devon understands this brevity even as he was experiencing it. His affair with Annie could last just one night, as she makes clear to him. “This is as good as it’s ever going to get. If you like me as much as I like that, you’ll accept that” (248). Devon wishes there could be more, but as Annie tells him, “that’s not the world we live in.” In Joyland, King uses nostalgia as a reminder that good times are precious and must be treasured, that nothing lasts for long, and joy is brief and can end abruptly. Mike’s terminal illness makes the idea of death seem ever present. As King says in Danse Macabre, horror stories “love life. . . . By showing us the miseries of the damned, they help us to rediscover the smaller (but never petty) joys of our own lives” (194). King’s novels show the value of savoring the happy moments when they happen. For Devon, even though he has lived what he calls a “good life” he remembers his year working at Joyland as “magical” (279), and says “that fall was the most beautiful of my life” (11). The book, written as Devon’s memoir, illustrates the dual, bittersweet nature of remembering the past. For King’s male audience in particular, old cars act as a trigger for nostalgia. This is most evident in Christine, where Arnie falls in love with a 1958 Plymouth Fury and names it as if it were his girlfriend. Males, in particular, form attachments to automobiles from their youth, according to Routledge (14), which may account for both King’s and his Constant Readers’ fascination with old cars, and Arnie’s attraction for Christine. “Now he was talking about naming the damned thing,” his friend Dennis says. “It was getting to be too much” (17). It is part of human nature to personify inanimate things; we

86

Chapter 9

even do this as a metaphorical device, such as when the wind whistles or the ocean waves roar. According to LaFrance, humans have a long history of anthropomorphizing things, including hurricanes, firearms (“old Betsy”), and machinery: “machines don’t need names, but we feel the need to name them—out of a mix of affection, perhaps, but mostly out of a desire to reorganize forces more powerful than we are so that they appear to be under human control. Whether or not they actually are.” A Nationwide Insurance poll showed that 25 percent of people name their cars, and that younger people are more likely to do so (Geiger). “When people give their cars human names, it can smooth out the interactions they have with a complicated mode of transportation,” says Jameson Wetmore, assistant professor in the School of Human Evolution and Social Change at Arizona State University (quoted in Dan). The irony in Christine is that the car really does have a malevolent mind, so to speak, and cannot be controlled. Christine is not just any car, though; she is a classic car, and classic cars evoke special emotions. “Nostalgia . . . plays a large part in the appeal of classics. They all have a history, be it interesting or not. Some have achieved great things in their lives, such as competing in and winning races, expeditions or endurance events, whilst others have overcome challenges that are far more mundane but no less important to the owner. These machines were great enablers of a better life and provided mobility and freedom back in a time when such qualities were rare. They accompanied their owners on major life events, and consequently became indelibly associated with those events” (Davies). People usually have fond memories of their first automobile, memories that tend to grow fonder as the car owners age. In novels like Christine, From a Buick 8, and 11/22/63 with its vintage ‘54 Ford Sunliner convertible, King taps into the memories of a time when cars looked distinctive and individual. The Green Mile, a novel that delves into the complex themes of capital punishment, immortality, and racism, depicts the past in a harsh light and brings back haunting memories that reflect an unpleasant historical reality. Death row is populated mostly by black men “who come to stay for a while in E Block before dying in old Sparky’s lap” (10). The racism and homophobia of the south in the 1930s are personified in several of the characters. Journalist Burt Hammersmith, who claims to be “enlightened,” states “that your negro will bite if he gets the chance, just like a mongrel dog will bite if he gets the chance” (206). The high sheriff, “a whiskey-nosed old boy” (31) proves to be a hypocrite and has a heart attack while having sex with an underage black girl. Percy, of course, is not only racist and homophobic but sadistic as well, taking great pleasure in trying to kill Mr. Jangles, the mouse, and purposely botching Delacroix’s execution to make him suffer. Paul Edgecombe, the protagonist, and his employees are the exceptions to the rule—progressive men without prejudice in 1932. Perhaps it is their

Nostalgia and Things Past

87

experience witnessing death that makes them color blind, as they see the mortality within each person on death row, regardless of race, religion, or background. Edgecombe, of course, undergoes a transformation when he is touched by Coffey, cured of his gallstone and given near immortality, so he brings a long and interesting perspective to the story. “It is as if by writing about those old times, I have unlocked some unspeakable door that connects the past to the present” he says in his memoir (254). With his long view of things, Edgecombe is the perfect narrator to compare the past to the present. Unfortunately, some aspects of the past never seem to change, and although decades have passed and Edgecombe is 104 years old, there are still Percy Whetmores in the world. Brad Dolan, the sadistic orderly in his Georgia nursing home, is a modern rendition of Percy, and while the electric chair has become a part of history, the nursing home is the symbolic modern equivalent of death row. “It’s not a cruel place, not for the most part; there’s cable TV, the food’s good . . . but in its way it’s as much of a killing place as E Block at Cold Mountain” (79). Edgecombe describes it as a place where people come to lose their memories, become senile, and eventually die. “This is a dangerous place,” he says (249). “Time here is like a weak acid that erases first memory and then the desire to go on living” (250). Edgecombe says that he has to fight it, and he does so by writing his memoir about E Block. This time is a sort of nostalgia for him, both a wonderful time and a terrible time merged together. It is a happy, nostalgic time where he recalls his friends, his wife, and the miracle of John Coffey. However, it is a horrible time as well, troubled with memories of executions gone wrong, and having to put an innocent man to death. Writing the memoir is a sort of therapy for him though. “In the writing of these memories, I have created my own time machine,” he says (335). Writing, recalling, and sharing memories has been proven to be a beneficial way for elderly patients to retain their mental fitness. As Routledge says “nostalgia . . . is an important resource for maintaining and promoting psychological health (“Nostalgia as a Resource”). Capital punishment is realistically depicted in the novel and King goes the extra mile in showing its brutality during the time when the electric chair was the standard means of execution. When Delacroix is executed, Percy intentionally does not wet the sponge in brine, which results in the victim being cooked to death slowly, instead of electrocuted. Edgecombe recalls the incident with horror: “it was at least two minutes before it was over, the longest two minutes of my whole life, and through most of it I think Delacroix was conscious” (297). It is during this time that he begins to question the rightness of what he is doing. Although he does everything in his power to make the deaths of his inmates as humane as possible, he realizes the problems in the situation. Finally, having to execute John Coffey, an innocent

88

Chapter 9

man, proves to be the tipping point in his life that forces him to leave his position on death row. In his nonfiction books, King’s use of nostalgia is most apparent. The first part of On Writing is, as the subtitle explains, a memoir and not a “how to” book. “What follows are some of those memories, plus assorted snapshots from the somewhat more coherent days of my adolescence and young manhood” (17). King’s memories show “how one writer was formed” (18), but they also reflect nostalgia experienced by the author, and may trigger nostalgia in the reader as well, particularly a reader who is interested enough in writing to purchase the book. In one example, King recalls copying a story and reading it to his mother, who encourages him to “write one of your own” (20). When he does, she reads it and praises it lavishly; he confides that nothing had made him happier (26). I suspect that most writers have experienced similar form of praise from a loved one, a teacher, or someone they admire, and this praise has undoubtedly fueled their motivation to pursue the craft. And for nonwriters, similar praise for something they have accomplished also inspires them to follow their dreams. Another example of nostalgia in On Writing is not specifically about the craft, but does bring about nostalgic memories of childhood for King and, presumably, others who have had a similar experience. King recalls a specific place where he spent much of his boyhood: “a huge, tangled wilderness area with a junkyard running through the middle” (30), a place that often finds itself in King’s work. Readers will no doubt recognize the place in It, “The Body,” and other stories. Those of us fortunate to grow up in a home near such a place will have fond memories of it from our own childhood. Finally, On Writing conjures up memories of books, magazines, television shows, and old movies King experienced in his younger years. In particular, he recalls Famous Monsters of Filmland, a magazine that every horror aficionado was in love with when it was being published. “Ask anyone who has been associated with the fantasy-horror-science fiction genres in the last thirty years about this magazine,” King says (in 2000), “you’ll get a laugh, a flash of the eyes, and a stream of bright memories—I practically guarantee it” (35). From personal experience, I concur with King’s assessment and would add that, for many of us, some of its attraction came from hiding the magazine from teachers and parents who thought it might warp our young minds. In an earlier book, Danse Macabre (originally published 1981), King also reminisces on the field of horror but from a more historical point of view that appeals to fans as well as writers. One example is his recollection of “the first movie I remember seeing as a kid . . . Creature from the Black Lagoon” in the drive-in when he was seven years old, and how “it left a lasting impression” (103). King says that “I knew, watching, that the Creature had become my Creature; I had bought it” (104). And even decades later, King admits

Nostalgia and Things Past

89

that, seeing the film again as an adult with his own son, he was still able to suspend his disbelief in that moment of nostalgia (109). King’s most obvious piece of nostalgia is not targeted at his typical Constant Reader, who enjoys horror, but is written for Boston Red Sox baseball fans. In 2004, King teamed up with Stewart O’Nan, another author and “diehard” baseball fan, to chronicle the baseball season from Spring Training to the last game of the World Series (The Faithful). It turned out to be an historic year for Red Sox fans as the team broke the “curse of the bambino” and won the world championship for the first time in eighty-six years, after trading Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees. While this book is intended for baseball fans, and Red Sox fans in particular, it replayed the entire season for baseball enthusiasts to relive from a first-person point of view. Baseball, “America’s Pastime,” is a game of nostalgia and history, more so than any other sport. It has no time limit and its leisurely pace invites ritual and reflection. As King says about the ballpark, “it can’t hurt to say that being here . . . feels pretty goddamn wonderful. It’s like putting your hand out and touching a live thing—another season when great things may happen, Miracles, even. And if that isn’t touching grace, it’s pretty close” (O’Nan 14). As King recalls the Red Sox World Series win and the shedding of the curse the day after the victory, he speaks of the power of memory to bring joy: “this morning’s sense of splendid unreality will surely rub away, but the feeling of lightness that comes with finally shedding a burden that has been carried far too long will linger for months or maybe even years” (400). One of the reasons King’s books have remained so popular is their ability to spark memories and nostalgia in the reader. According to a 2014 study by Mauricio Delgado and his teams of neuroscientists at Rutgers University, thinking about good times in the past causes subjects to exhibit similar types of brain activity as if they were receiving money, and volunteers were more likely to choose recalling these memories than receiving small amounts of money (“Nostalgia”). In a 2017 study, they also found that “recalling happy memories elicits positive feelings and enhances one’s wellbeing, suggesting a potential adaptive function in using this strategy for coping with stress” (Speer). According to Stevenson, “Some of its [narrative’s] appeal may lie simply in offering imaginative recovery or reinhabitation of a perhaps preferable past, along with some coherent connection of that past with the immediate life of the present” (137). Stevenson goes on to say that “Nostalgia may . . . deserve to be considered a key and particular component of twentieth-century literature” (138) and cites Evelyn Waugh and Virginia Woolf as examples. And before them, Dickens depicted “a loosely comparable sense of looking back at a world in which the debris of modernity and industrial revolution is piled less steeply than at Dickens’s time of writing” (137). At any rate, it is clear that audiences enjoy stories that relive the past, as the genre of historical fiction shows. King’s use of specific details in his

90

Chapter 9

historical novels, The Green Mile and 11/22/63 for example, recaptures the past and turns these time periods into narratives that are easily accessible to audiences. “Whether or not narrative depends on an inherent or implicit element of nostalgia, there is much evidence throughout the history of literature of novelists using their fiction explicitly to recreate or recover the character of a lost earlier age” (Stevenson 137). Since King has been writing for more than thirty years, many of his older, “contemporary” novels are now read through the lens of the past, and like Charles Dickens, he has managed to capture and preserve the popular culture of his time when his novels were written. “Dickens has stood the test of time. Today no-one disputes his worth. The best of Stephen King’s work has become so embedded in the culture I suspect he faces a similar fate” (Ciabattari). King has, in fact, become an icon of popular culture himself and his fiction serves as a model of what America was like at the time of its writing, down to the smallest details, which bring back pleasurable memories to current readers and preserve history for future ones.

Part III

Affective Emotions

Affective emotions, or human feelings, are triggered by artistic experiences. Jaak Panksepp identifies at least seven affective emotions that are present in the ancient subcortical regions of mammalian brains, including humans, and are probably a product of natural and/or reproductive selection, which he lists (always in all capital letters): “SEEKING (expectancy), FEAR (anxiety), RAGE (anger), LUST (sexual excitement), CARE (nurturance), PANIC/GRIEF (sadness), and PLAY (social joy)” (Archaeology 2). Oatley and Johnson-Laird identify similar affective emotions: “happiness, sadness, fear, anger, and disgust” (qtd. in Hogan 144). According to evolutionary theory, each of these feelings has an adaptive value. The SEEKING feeling drives our curiosity and motivates us to find food and new habitats. RAGE allows us to fight back against an attacker. LUST inspires mating, and CARE keeps parents together to raise healthy children. PANIC/GRIEF helps us keep our loved ones safe, and PLAY is the creator of the social world, culture, art, and sport. Happiness is the feeling that we seek, and sadness is the one we try to avoid. Disgust keeps us from eating bad food, drinking infected water, and inspires us to dispose of waste to prevent sickness. According to Oatley and Johnson-Laird, “from the earliest surviving written stories to the present, literature has focused on emotions. These emotions are not just those of literary characters; more importantly, they are our own” (136). Fictional narratives are transmitted to the readers’ brains and according to neuroimaging studies “create vivid mental simulations of the sights, sounds, tastes and movements described in a textual narrative while simulta-

92

Affective Emotions

neously activating brain regions used to process similar experiences in real life” (Everding). This, in turn, triggers the emotional centers in our own brains, causing us to feel the emotions of the characters. Mirroring what happens in real life, “the expression of emotion in one person actually inspires emotion in other people. A cry of fear not only tells us that Jones is afraid, it also causes our hearts to beat a little faster, leads us to focus attention on fear-relevant features of the environment, and so on” (Hogan 170). This evolutionary adaptation helped our ancient ancestors to avoid dangerous predators. As Hogan notes, our prehistoric relatives did not have to “discriminate between real lions and mere illusions. Judgements of existence had no particular value for their survival” (186). Human imagination has now created art that is realistic enough to trigger real emotions, having “vividness and salience and can easily become more real for us than reality” (153); “stories can evoke real emotions from unreal events” (Oatley and Johnson-Laird 137). While this transfer of emotions from story to reality is obviously not a product of evolution itself (since narrative as we know it is a very recent phenomenon in the overall scale of evolution), it does provide some benefits to society, merely as an evolutionary by-product. According to a recent study, the emotions we feel when reading a piece of fiction are empathetic: “the more fiction people read, the better were their empathy and understanding of others” (136). The take-away from neurology and cognitive science is that people read fiction (and watch films) in order to have their emotions engaged and so that they can share the experiences of another person; the fact that this person is merely a fictional character is irrelevant as long as the story is vivid, the details are concrete, and the character is believable. Stephen King’s fiction creates the kind of stories that vividly ignite readers’ imaginations and cause them to feel the basic affective universal emotions catalogued by science. I will look into some of these affective emotions in the following chapters and explore how King’s novels can activate them in the mind of his Constant Reader.

Chapter Ten

The Battle of the Sexes

Love, gender, and relationships are an important part of human nature and may, from an evolutionary point of view, be considered human universals. According to evolution, biological sex is determined by the gametes of the organism. Lifeforms with a small number of large sex cells are biologically female. Those with a large number of small gametes are considered male. In the natural world, the larger sex cells transmit mitochondrial DNA to the organisms through the cell division of the female gamete. Reproduction itself can be more complicated, however. Organisms such as earthworms, for example, contain both types of sex cells, and some, like slime molds, live most of their lives as single-celled eukaryotes, but can produce offspring by congregating into multicellular organisms that produce fruiting bodies. In humans, of course, sex is determined by gametes; however, gender is a different thing altogether, one that has been socially constructed and changed over millions of years of biological and cultural evolution. The process of biological evolution occurs slowly, over the course of millennia, while gender roles, a product of culture, may change rapidly over the course of decades. According to evolutionary psychology, this rapid change in culture occurs too quickly for biology to adapt and may result in an evolutionary time lag between how gender is viewed in a biological sense versus a social one: “we carry around a Stone Age brain in a modern environment” (Buss 19). The efforts to explain the role of gender, sex, and relationships in modern human beings through biology and evolutionary psychology has been controversial, particularly among feminists—and feminist literary critics—who see gender roles as a social construct of a patriarchal society. Despite the socalled “battle of the sexes,” Joseph Carroll makes the point that men and women are not enemies: “both the larger logic of evolution and the actual history of modern social change suggest instead that they are partners” (Evo93

94

Chapter 10

lution 363). The important point to note, however, is that, while evolutionary psychology does not defend a male-dominated culture, it does serve a significant role in explaining it and as a consequence, in promoting social change. “Knowledge of our evolved social psychological adaptations along with the social inputs that activate them gives us power to alter social behavior, if that is the desired goal” (Buss 18). In its outlook on gender, King’s fiction is rather conservative and quite conventional, and although it has changed over the course of his career, it still reflects traditional biological gender roles predicted by evolutionary psychology. His men tend to be masculine hero types, and “many key aspects of King’s representations of women appear firmly entrenched in a patriarchal economy of domesticity” (Lant and Thompson 6). As such, one of the criticisms of his work, that he has trouble creating believable female characters, is true to an extent, especially in his earlier novels. “It is disheartening when a writer with so much talent and strength and vision is not able to develop a believable woman character between the ages of seventeen and sixty” (Yarboro 49). According to Huston, the idea that there is no difference between male and female brains is a myth and that “the brains and minds of men and women differ in important ways. . . . Evolutionary theorists postulate that sex differences arose because male and female hominids faced different reproductive and survival pressures” (59). In all mammals, and specifically in all 200 primate species, females are internally fertilized and carry the young (Buss 108), making their parental investment in offspring much higher than in males. Since females spent much of their time carrying and caring for children in Paleolithic times, the body structures and psychology of the sexes evolved to perform these roles, leading to men being the hunters, and women being the gatherers. In the modern world, where women have access to safe prenatal care, specialized maternity facilities, and day care after children are born, these Paleolithic traits are no longer necessary, and women can also be the “hunters.” However, evolutionary lag time has kept biology and psychology from keeping up with the times, which has, unfortunately resulted in a gender gap in the workforce. In much of King’s fiction, this gender gap is played out in the “Madonna” role of female characters. In many of King’s stories, the female characters are defined by their role as a “mother,” and the male roles are determined by the position of husband/ provider. One example of this is Fran Goldsmith in The Stand, who relies on a male character to provide for her and her unborn child and keep her safe. The child’s father, Jess Rider, is not a good candidate for a long-term mate. According to Buss, women prefer men who are good financial prospects, are slightly older, have high social status, possess athletic ability, have physical attractiveness, and show signs of good health. Jess is younger than Fran, quite immature, has very little financial potential or status as a “practicing poet” (12), and does not show a real commitment to her. The final nail in his

The Battle of the Sexes

95

coffin, as she tells her father, is that “he’s weak” (57). The pregnancy was unplanned and although Fran thought she loved him, she realized that now that a child is involved, she does not. He was dating material, but definitely not a marriage prospect. And in the time before the plague, Fran decides that she can keep the baby, finish college, and make it through life on her own, with the support of her father and her friends. The superflu, however, changes everything. Modern society changed almost overnight from the computer age back to the hunter-gatherer world of the Pleistocene. Fran loses her parents and her friends, and she is left alone with Harold Lauder, the brother of her best friend who fell victim to the plague. Harold Lauder also does not meet the criteria of what evolutionary biologists have found to be the standards of what women desire in a man. Harold doesn’t seem to be a good catch for a number of reasons: he is overweight, younger than Fran, is socially inept, and unattractive. When he approaches her after both of their families have died “she felt an instant surge of distaste” (248). She is not attracted to him, but in a world that has lost 99.4 percent of available males, he is all she has at the onset of the plague. Furthermore, she feels that she has an obligation to look out for him. She decides to platonically partner with him because she pities him and realizes that survival in the post-plague world depends upon alliances. Because she has known Harold since they were children—and still sees him as a child— there may also be an evolutionary incest prohibition working in Fran as well since he is more like a younger brother to her than a potential mate. Harold, of course, has no way of knowing that she is pregnant, and she does not tell him. When Fran and Harold run into Stu Redman on the road, the dynamics change. Harold immediately recognizes Stu as a rival and does not want him joining the group. Only when Stu talks to Harold privately is he reluctantly accepted by Harold. Fran is happy for him to accompany them, however, and it is soon apparent that the couple are attracted to each other. “Oh dear, I’m falling in love with him, I think I’ve got the world’s most crushable crush, if only it wasn’t for Harold I’d take my damn chances,” Fran writes in her diary (536). Stu, a former high school football player, is athletic, older and more mature than Harold, and is a hard worker. He has cared for his mother and late wife, both of whom died of cancer. In the world before the plague, Stu grew up poor and remained poor, working less than thirty hours a week at a calculator factory. According to the theory of what women look for in a potential mate, this makes him a poor prospect. After the plague, however, his prospects improve. By the time he meets Fran, he has proven himself a survivor, not only of the plague, but of the government as well, having escaped from his captors. In this new post-plague world, status is no longer measured by titles or wealth, but by qualities such as strength and determination. Fran needs a protector, not just for herself, but for her unborn child. Stu

96

Chapter 10

proves to be up for the task, fighting for and defending the group from attackers, and risking his own life for the good of the group. He also accepts Fran’s child as his own and shows himself to be a faithful and reliable partner. Love is a human universal experienced by all cultures in all places (Buss 124), as can be proven by its activation of reward centers in brain cells that produce dopamine (125). As a part of human nature, stories of love and relationships are one of the most popular narratives in all literature, including world classics, from Romeo and Juliet to War and Peace. According to the Romance Writers of America, readers spend approximately 1.08 billion dollars each year for romance novels (Peterson), making it the one of the largest genres of fiction in the market. And it is nearly impossible to find a film, television show, or novel in any genre that does not contain an element of romance or erotica. King, like almost all professional authors, has tapped into this basic tenet of human nature and incorporates the emotion of love into his stories, as we have seen in The Stand, with the love triangle of Stu, Fran, and Harold. However, in his fiction, love and relationships are usually portrayed either as perfectly sweet or horribly dysfunctional. In 11/22/63, both of these types of relationships are portrayed. When Jake (a.k.a. George) and Sadie fall in love, it is almost like the type of relationship from a Harlequin Romance novel, except there is sex outside of marriage. Even King’s sex scenes, however, are always understated and never veer into a rating higher than PG, underscoring King’s contention that the horror story is conservative. “Within the framework of most horror tales we find a moral code so strong it would make a Puritan smile” (Danse Macabre 368). Setting the story in a conservative small town in the early 1960s, of course, contributes to this conservatism. Jake dares not leave his car in Sadie’s driveway too late for fear that the neighbors will gossip, and they are always careful about their public appearances together so they don’t cause awkwardness. While the couple does have some minor disagreements, Sadie is depicted as the more submissive partner in the relationship, as Jake lives a secret life that she is unaware of and does not really question for much of the novel, even though she realizes that something clandestine is going on. As a potential “good wife,” she is willing to allow Jake to be in charge of the relationship, as would be the custom of that time in history. Sadie is also portrayed as a victim, however, as the ex-wife of a mentally ill, possessive, jealous, violent man, John Clayton. While Clayton never physically abused her during their marriage, he was mentally abusive in other ways. He was loveless and believed that sex was filthy and disgusting. He separated their two sides of the bed with a broom in the middle. “His side and her side” (393) to prevent any intimacy. The true depth of his mental illness is exposed when she divorces him. He stalks her, finds her, and learns that she and Jake are lovers. Then he holds her hostage to lure Jake into a trap,

The Battle of the Sexes

97

and nearly kills his ex-wife before Jake and his friends can rescue her. Sadie is left with a disfiguring scar as a permanent reminder of her violent exhusband. This is the second time in the novel that Jake has saved a woman from a violent attack by a spouse. His first mission, to prove that the past can be changed, has him going back in time to prevent the catastrophe that happened to Harry Dunning, the high school janitor, whose father attacked the family with a hammer. “It had been a slaughter” (85) that left the janitor’s mother and three children dead and Harry mentally challenged and scarred for life. Finally, Marina Oswald is portrayed as an abused wife in the novel. Although there is some evidence of both mental and physical abuse in the Oswald family (Gregory), King has taken some liberties to fictionalize and personalize the story. According to Gregory, Oswald was a controlling husband who refused to let his wife learn English for fear that she would become the breadwinner in the family, and Marina had “hinted at physical abuse.” In 11/22/63 King reads between the lines and allows the Oswalds’ domestic life to play out in the story. Marina is depicted as a sympathetic character, charming and likeable, while Oswald is “the kind of kid who throws stones at other kids and then runs away” (65). While 11/22/63 explores the terrors of domestic violence in the past, in Rose Madder, King graphically brings this issue into the present and takes it to its extreme. The novel opens with the protagonist, Rosie Daniels, suffering a miscarriage after receiving a vicious beating from her husband Norman. The opening is graphic and realistic as King forces his reader to experience her physical and emotional pain. “As she brings her hand out from under her dress the tips of her fingers are red with blood. As she looks at them, a monstrous cramp rips through her like a hacksaw blade. She has to slam her teeth together to stifle a scream. She knows better than to scream in this house” (4). As Rosie bleeds and loses her baby, her husband casually eats a sandwich as he instructs her how to behave when the ambulance arrives. She will tell them she fell down the stairs and if she doesn’t cooperate, he will kill her. As for the baby, he tells her that she’ll “have another one” (8). Since Norman is a cop, she can expect no help from the law. Unfortunately, this type of horror occurs much too often in the real world. According to Safe Horizon, a domestic abuse advocacy agency, one in four women will experience severe physical violence by a partner in their lifetime (“Domestic Violence”). And according to De Becker, many women never leave their abusers (213). He further states that “though leaving is the best response to violence, it is in trying to leave that most women get killed,” accounting for 75 percent of spousal murders (222). True to the statistics in real life, it takes Rosie forteen years to finally escape from her husband’s torture and true to reality, he stalks her and tracks her down. Rose, like many women, fails to leave her husband because of fear

98

Chapter 10

and self-esteem issues. She obviously fears him and takes his threats to kill her seriously. She has watched him track down and capture criminals and knows that he has the expertise and means to find her if she leaves him. King uses the metaphor of sleep to describe the passage of time for Rose. “But time passes and gradually the idea of leaving him—never fully articulated to begin with—slips away in sleep” (9). In this way, fourteen years pass without her even realizing it. “For most of those years she existed in a daze so deep it was like death” (13). Norman, like most abusers, balances the horror of his “close talk” with unexpected acts of kindness: “and then one night, for no reason at all, he might bring her a half dozen roses and take her out to dinner . . . just because” (102). Experts contend that this technique is another method of control: “the battered woman gets a powerful feeling of overwhelming relief when an incident ends. She becomes addicted to that feeling. The abuser is the only person who can deliver moments of peace, by being his better self for a while” (De Becker 214). While King says that horror fiction is conservative and “that its main purpose is to reaffirm the virtues of the norm” (Danse Macabre 368), his portraits of domestic violence are “radical in that they condemn both men and political institutions who use the power of patriarchy against women and children, and they celebrate women who manage to carve out positions for themselves” (Senf 95). In Rose Madder, King tells the story of one domestic abuse victim and, although he uses elements of fantasy in the form of a painting that is a doorway to another world, or “Ur” if you will, the details of the women’s shelter and the stalking husband are real. The women of the shelter are portrayed as strong, heroic, and believable. The scene when Gert not only gives Norman a beating, but urinates on him for good measure, appeals to the human universal desire for revenge, which, according to Buss, activates the reward centers of the brain (292). Although Norman uses every insult and slur that he can think of against these women, this representation is presented through a diseased mind that elicits only emotions of disgust in the reader. And while the majority of police officers are ethical, King condemns the rogue cops and contrasts Norman with the typical police officer Hale, who sincerely tells Rose his motivation for stopping Norman: “I’m going to bust him because he’s a cop.” Norman, the “bad apple,” the sociopathic police officer personifies the worst in men: sexism, racism, violence and the ability to kill without remorse. His world is not a conservative, “normal” one, but a twisted perception, and his destruction does “reaffirm the virtues of the norm,” a norm where women are respected and are equal partners in a relationship. Unfortunately, violation of this norm of equality continues to occur in our society, and King’s interest in the problems of domestic violence, portrayed in so many of his novels, is a realistic reflection of this. As King says, “the horror genre has often been able to find national phobic pressure points, and

The Battle of the Sexes

99

those books and films which have been the most successful almost always seem to play upon and express fears which exist across a wide spectrum of people” (Danse Macabre 18). Evolutionary biology has offered persuasive reasons for male violence against and control of women, and evolutionary psychology has sometimes been criticized for condoning this behavior. However, the biology explains the problems of violence in our society as emanating from our prehistoric origins in the Pleistocene, where the males, with stronger upper body strength, were the hunters, and the females, whose bodies were designed to feed and nurture offspring, were the gatherers. Modern society has, of course, outgrown these traits; roles that adapted humans for life on the African savannah are not always compatible with the twenty-first century, and it is up to cultural and societal evolution to make changes that would take natural selection thousands or even millions of years to accomplish. Domestic violence is one of those contemporary issues that evolutionary psychologists claim is a relic of evolution, a trait that has outlived its benefits in modern society. Prehistoric males would be more possessive of their partners to ensure that they were providing for their own children, and not those of a rival. Thus, control and the threats and violence would help to keep their partners faithful and ensure that their genes were passed on. “Violence by men is used as a strategy for controlling their mates, with the goal of preventing sexual access to other men, or defection from the relationship” (Buss 313). An evolutionary perspective theorizes that violence against women may be sexually motivated since in prehistoric times males who used force to obtain sex would father more offspring and pass on these violent genes. Research by Barbaro and Shackelford support this theory; according to results of their study, “men who perpetuate violence against their partners secure more frequent sexual access to their partner” (323). In other words, abusive men use violence as a form of sexual coercion and, apparently, this strategy, a repulsive evolutionary relic, seems to work. Until relatively recently, domestic violence was tolerated and, in some cases, even encouraged; it still occurs far too often. “As repugnant as this might be, some men do beat their wives or girlfriends to deter them from consorting with other men” (Buss 300). Until the women’s movement of the 1960s, this violence was seldom spoken about, was something that happened behind closed doors, and was no one’s business. Artists and writers have now given voice to this issue and examined it in their works, and King has been particularly prolific in increasing awareness of the problem. He defines horror fiction in Danse Macabre: “the very basis of the horror story: secrets best left untold and things best left unsaid” (61). In King’s work, these secrets are told in graphic, emotional, and uncomfortable detail that help expose the truth about this issue, allowing both men and women to feel empathy for the abused characters in the fiction.

100

Chapter 10

In the short story “1922,” King takes a historical look at the conflict between the sexes in the years immediately following the success of the woman’s suffrage movement. In this story, Wilfred Leland James, owns and farms 80 acres when his wife inherits an additional 100 acres from her father. Wilfred believes the land should be added to his farm and passed down to his son, an idea that the evolutionary biologists attribute to kinship theory. His wife Arlette, however, who now has the legal right to own her own property, wants to sell the land—the whole farm, in fact—and move to the city to open her own business. According to Wilfred, “land is a man’s business” (Full Dark 43) and so he convinces his son to help him murder Arlette and drop her body into an abandoned well. In 1922, forensic techniques had not been developed, of course, so from a legal standpoint Wilfred gets away with murder. But forensics aside, the law doesn’t really pursue the case of his missing wife: “In those days [before women’s rights], a man’s wife was considered a man’s business, and if she disappeared, there was an end to it” (43). Although Wilfred laments that “those days were gone,” little effort is made to solve the case of his missing wife. The sheriff insinuates that Arlette left because her husband did not keep her under his control, “a good whacking has a way of sweetening some gals up” (73). Justice eventually comes at the hands of the supernatural, not from the law, as Wilfred’s dead wife summons legions of rats to achieve her revenge. King’s abused female characters are not merely objects of sympathy. Throughout the course of his novels, these characters experience growth and empowerment. As Carol Snef correctly points out, “King examines the social forces that intrude on women’s lives and help to shape them until each woman discovers her own power” (94). In Rose Madder, the painting serves as a metaphor and a talisman for empowerment, and it, like the shelter for women, provides her with a place of refuge. However, Rose’s transformation begins well before she finds the painting as she finally gains the motivation to leave her abusive husband. While she receives some help along the way, it is her ability to find her inner strength that leads her to move far away, to ask for the help of strangers, and to accept shelter from the Daughters and Sisters battered women’s shelter. Later, when Norman is choking Bill and she rushes to his aid, she has the strength to stand up to her husband and fight him. She believes it is because of the amulet she is wearing, but later learns that the talisman from the painting isn’t on her arm but was left in her room. “I did it myself, she thought. Her amazement was so great she felt stupid with it . . . the power was always in her” (351). By the end of the novel, Rose has realized her own self-worth and with Bill and her child, lives her life on her own terms. Gerald’s Game also succeeds in articulating female submissiveness and expressing the female ability to find strength from within and the power to

The Battle of the Sexes

101

overcome dominance. As Thompson points out, Gerald’s Game shows domestic violence as a white, middle-class issue where “imbalances of social power encourage violent transgressions of sexual boundaries” (“Rituals” 50). Gerald Burlingame, a powerful and successful attorney, talks his wife Jessie into engaging in increasingly aggressive bondage games, which end up with her being chained to a bed in the bedroom of a remote summer home. Her husband, believing in the false male fantasy that women enjoy being dominated, attempts to rape her, and when she fights back, he suffers a fatal heart attack, leaving her unable to escape from her handcuffs. As she suffers through the ordeal, she hears a number of voices express themselves in her head, the “good wife,” her roommate, her therapist, and a young version of herself. The voices advise, guide, command and even insult her, but they are the key to her survival and to her ultimately finding her own voice. The novel is an extended metaphor for the male dominance that resulted from human origins in the Pleistocene, which evolved into patriarchal societies, and for how this evolutionary condition persists despite the fact that society has outgrown whatever evolutionary benefits it might once have provided. Male sexual dominance—and the misguided belief that females enjoy it—regrettably still continues as a relic of the past. Gerald’s Game succeeds in presenting a realistic female point of view and, as the novel begins, depicts Jessie’s powerlessness. Even when her husband realizes that she is serious about asking him to stop playing the game, he refuses to stop. Both partners realize that “he would fall back to the oldest defense of them all . . . and then slip into it, like a lizard into the crack of a rock: You liked it. You know you did. Why don’t you admit it?” (31). The most appalling part, to Jessie, is that her present culture would agree with her husband. She is chained both physically and socially, and the handcuffs are a concrete symbol of this bondage (Thompson, “Rituals” 51). Jessie’s own violent reaction is activated by repressed memories from her past when her father sexually abused her as a child. “Her response was not so much directed at Gerald as at that hateful feeling that came flooding up from the bottom of her mind” (34). According to evolutionary psychology, incest avoidance is a human universal and evokes emotions of revulsion and disgust; furthermore, incest avoidance mechanisms are stronger in women than in men (Buss 128). Gerald’s behavior triggers these emotions in Jessie’s subconscious and now that she is older and stronger, she has the ability to fight back. Once she escapes from the physical abuse of her husband, however, she must break free of both the physical restraints of the handcuffs, and the psychological damage she has endured in her childhood. Her initial empowerment comes from her being able to face the reality of the incident that happened during the eclipse of 1963, when she was sexually molested by her father, whom she loved and trusted. While the physical abuse itself was disgusting, she was never really able to understand the emotional suffering

102

Chapter 10

until she experienced flashbacks while being handcuffed to the bed. She, like many victims of abuse, secretly blamed herself for what had happened. But once the voices of others begin speaking to her during her bondage, then she finally understands the most devastating truth, that her father had planned the situation all along. “He planned it, Jessie. Don’t you understand? It wasn’t just some spur-of-the-moment thing, a sex-starved father copping a quick feel; he planned it” (254). She then understands that the act was premeditated, and so was his strategy to keep it a secret by making her accept the blame and the guilt. Reliving and understanding this incident from her past is the key to her physical escape as well. The voice of her child self tells her the way to escape: “That’s how I really got out; I remembered the eclipse and what happened on the deck while the eclipse was going on. And you’ll have to remember it, too. I think it’s the only chance you have to get free” (303). Forcing herself to relive it once again reveals the answer as she remembers the cut panes of glass that she used to view the eclipse. Cutting her wrist with her husband’s water glass will lubricate her hands enough to allow her to slip out of the cuffs. Gerald’s Game fictionally demonstrates the empowering of one woman who finds the strength to set herself free, and by example, illustrates both how women have outgrown the roles given to them in prehistory, and how cultural attitudes must continue to progress if the relics of the evolutionary past are to be left behind. To accomplish this task of exposing “the fallacies . . . of the middle-class mystique and the myth of feminine masochism, King tears away the boundaries between his readers and the intimate lives of his characters” (Thompson 52). By making the reader feel Jessie’s pain and terror, he is able to emotionally recreate her world and her experiences at a visceral level. And, as neuroscience has shown, stimulating the emotions through fiction is a more effective way to change hearts and minds than is an unemotional work of persuasive nonfiction. By the end of the novel, Jessie, the submissive wife, has become a strong and courageous woman. “This was her life. Hers,” she decides after escaping from the handcuffs. She silences the voices in her head and becomes her own voice for the very first time. “. . . Jessie’s decision to listen to her own inner voice rather than to the voices she hears around her and her decision to take charge of her life . . . indicate Jessie’s growing realization of her own strength. . . . She decides that she will not continue to be a victim” (Senf 98). Jessie, like the contemporary women of the “Me Too” movement, takes control of her life. As Senf effectively points out, even the novel’s point of view changes to first person in chapter 36 to reflect Jessie’s individuality as she writes a letter to Ruth, her old college roommate. By then, “her days of doing things simply because it’s a man doing the telling are over” (Gerald’s 438).

The Battle of the Sexes

103

According to Snef, Cujo “focuses on the kinds of complex emotional issues that King’s ordinary characters face every day and negate a criticism so often leveled against popular writers like King—that they create nothing but caricatures”; furthermore, the female characters in this novel also negate Yarboro’s criticism of King’s inability to create believable women. Donna Trenton, the protagonist of Cujo, is “a modern American Heroine” (“Donna”), as is Charity Camber, to a lesser degree. Both are trapped in marriages that diminish their roles. Donna, an educated woman, is the wife of a successful businessman and has sacrificed her own career aspirations to play the role of wife and mother. Charity, the wife of an independent mechanic, has done the same. The overall theme of entrapment in this novel works on several levels beyond Donna’s being imprisoned in a car by a rabid dog; she and Chastity are also caught in lives that don’t allow them to have individual lives outside of their family. Cujo is not a novel of supernatural horror, despite King’s brief excursions into prophetic dreams of monsters in the closet. It is, rather, a novel of realistic horrors, both physical and societal, and of one of the universal triggers of rage, the “stopped” trigger that causes animals to “struggle violently to escape restraint, even to the point of gnawing their paw off if caught in a trap” (Fields 42). Donna, of course, also experiences the “life-limb” trigger of survival. But on the societal level, both women take actions to alleviate the stress of being “stopped.” Donna Trenton, a former librarian, realizes that “I’ve become the fabled Great American Housewife . . . Sitting home feeding Tad his franks and beans . . . getting my slice of life from Lisa on As the World Turns . . .” (43). Yet she has no desire to become a Stepford wife, baking cookies and visiting with the other wives in the neighborhood. Donna’s first step in freeing herself from her marital prison is her decision to have an affair with Kemp, a decision that turns out badly on many levels. The affair began more from boredom and her yearning to be recognized as an individual than anything else. She had been attracted by Kemp’s flirtations, and had, over time, given in to them. When she recognized him for what he was, and that his attention wasn’t what she really wanted, she takes the initiative and violently breaks off the affair, “so furious that her stomach had tied itself in a gripping, groaning knot” (38). When Kemp threatens to rape her, she warns him “then you’ll have a fight on your hands” (41). Standing up to Kemp despite her fear is the first step in her heroic development. Donna doesn’t consider herself to be a hero, or even competent in an emergency. She has allowed her husband Vic to make all of the decisions, including starting his own business and moving to Maine, even when she was not comfortable with his ideas. She had allowed Vic to handle small emergencies, such as when Tad had slammed his foot in the car door: “she had let him take over and be competent, which she hardly ever was in emergencies; she usually just turned to mush” (133). It is only natural, then, that when she

104

Chapter 10

finds herself trapped in the car by the rabid dog, her first thought is to wait for help; someone else (probably a man) would come to save her. When help fails to arrive, she tries to attract someone by honking an SOS signal on the horn. “In a book, someone would have come. It was the heroine’s reward for having thought up such a clever idea. But no one had come” (161). Then she waits for the mail carrier to save her, and then the police. In the end, though, the fairy tale hero fails to show, and she must save herself with her own courage and determination. While she was “paralyzed with fear” (150) when she first saw the rabid dog, she later realizes that the time to act decisively had come: “there was going to be no knight on a silver steed riding up Town Road No. 3” (289). She leaves the car and runs for an old baseball bat on the ground, the only weapon available. She becomes her own warrior as she faces down her enemy and in brutal one-to-one combat and in a violent struggle she kills Cujo without anyone’s help. Vic shows up after the deed is done, and though at the time she thinks that he has saved her, his only job is to clean up the loose ends by calling the authorities. Charity Camber is a mirror character to Donna in that she also is trapped in a mother/wife role, only her husband is a borderline alcoholic who controls her in a physical manner, by blows if necessary. Joe, a mechanic, prides himself on his maleness, his ability to work with his hands to build and fix things. He has no respect for men like his lawyer brother-in-law who work with their minds. Conservative and macho, he controls his wife’s every move, telling her where she can and cannot go, and how she lives her life. He has slowly indoctrinated his son into this lifestyle as well, making the boy help him in the garage and discouraging him from considering any life that does not involve working with his hands. Charity, however, sees a different life for her son, and encourages him to consider his uncle’s way of life. The boy isn’t impressed by his relatives’ flaunting their credit cards and their possessions, and even Charity herself finds this distasteful. But at the end of the novel, Charity has taken a good job herself, becoming an independent woman, and Brett is doing well in school, an indication that he will not follow in his father’s career. As Snef has observed, Charity escapes from her husband due to luck—the lottery ticket and his death—rather than by any skill or knowledge on her part. Still, her courage in confronting him and convincing him to let her visit her sister ultimately sets the wheels in motion that bring about his death, and so, while luck certainly played a role, Charity’s actions also proved to be a factor. She begins her journey of becoming an individual by persuading her husband to allow her to visit her sister, who had married a successful man and lived a very different lifestyle in a wealthy Connecticut suburb. Her sister, Holly, has managed to escape the poverty of her youth by marrying a man who has become successful, and Charity wants her son to see this side of manhood as well. The pivotal moment comes when Joe refuses to let Brett go

The Battle of the Sexes

105

with her—he wants the boy to embrace his lifestyle. “Allowing herself the luxury of total anger for the first time in her marriage” (84), she stands up to him despite his threats to beat her with his belt “and who would there have been to stop him? What a man did with—or to—his wife, that was their own affair. She could have done nothing, said nothing” (86). She is terrified of him, but refuses to back down because of her love for her son. Her courageous act ultimately leads to everything that follows. Finally, in The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, nine-year-old Tricia McFarland is also trapped in a prison, this one the vast forests of Northern New England when she wanders away from her family on a hike along the Appalachian Trail. She must harness her inner strength to escape from this deadly situation and save her life. When she first realizes that she is lost, Tricia is just a little girl: “Her voice trembled, became first the wavery voice of a little kid and then almost the shriek of a baby who lies forgotten in her pram” (36). Later, she overcomes her initial panic: “From town girl to cave girl in one easy step” (62). It is worth noting that whatever survival skills she has, she has learned from her mother, not her father as in most stereotypes of parenting. Her father may have taught her everything she knows about baseball, but her mother’s more practical advice about what kind of berries are edible in the woods proves to be more useful. While Trisha might only be nine years old, “and big for her age,” her experiences in the woods force her to mature faster than she otherwise would have. This is a coming-of-age story, another “universal” fictional plot, where she learns some hard lessons about the world. “The world had teeth in it and it could bite you with them anytime it wanted. She knew that now. She was only nine, but she knew it, and she thought she could accept it” (141). While the physical survival skills come from her mother, she absorbs the mental toughness necessary to survive from her image of Tom Gordon, her baseball hero. Baseball is, after all, a metaphor for getting home, and Gordon, a relief picture who saves the big game, demonstrates grace under pressure, the ability to unnerve the batter and make him fail. At the novel’s end, Tricia uses the lessons of pitching a save to defeat a bear that would otherwise have killed her. Although Stephen King has been criticized for not creating strong, believable characters, I consider this criticism incorrect. Yes, he does create some stereotypical female characters—and to be fair, some wooden male characters as well. Some of his male heroes are, perhaps, too strong, and some of his females are too weak. Many of the characters in Needful Things, for example, are stereotypes of a certain type of person who could be motivated by desire—the crooked politician, the needy woman who collects useless things, and even the evil shopkeeper, who collects souls (however, we must remember that King originally wrote this novel as a satire, a genre where such stereotypes are expected). However, in novels with female protagonists,

106

Chapter 10

such as Gerald’s Game, Cujo, The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, and others (some of which we will examine in future chapters), his characters are believable, empowering, courageous, and clever. According to Senf, “King seems to realize . . . that his readers—especially his women readers—are ready for a new kind of heroine, a woman who is prepared to leave behind triviality—the constant dusting of pottery knickknacks that Donna [Trenton] equates with women’s lives—and confront the unspeakable with courage and conviction.” These women are forces to be reckoned with and they not only survive but thrive.

Chapter Eleven

What’s Love Got to Do with It?

The emotion of love is, without a doubt, a human universal and is felt and expressed in many ways: love of children and parents; friendship; and, of course, romantic love, which is a particularly powerful phenomenon. Romantic love is a universal component of the visual arts, music, dance, theater, films, and literature. It causes a catastrophic war in Homer’s Iliad, and in the modern Broadway musical Rent teaches “the value of a life may be measured only in increments of love” (Nelson). Shakespeare examined its tragedy and its comedy in plays ranging from Romeo and Juliet to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, where love can be induced with a magical love potion. Romance novels still have their own shelves in bookstores, romantic comedies still attract patrons to the box office, and love is manufactured in television reality shows. Humans cry at weddings and at tragic films and are even willing to murder or commit suicide over it. It should not be surprising, then, that romantic love relationships are so prevalent in modern fiction, and that in order for a novel or film to be financially successful, it is almost a given that a love relationship is present somewhere in the narrative. Stephen King’s books, while certainly not in the genre of romance, do contain elements of love in various proportions, depending on their plot. This idea of love, and why it is so necessary to successful fiction, will be the subject of this chapter. While the previous chapter examined dysfunctional relationships, for the most part, this section will look at the happier components of love as it has evolved in the human species. From an evolutionary standpoint, love is what defines the human mating system, which requires a long parental investment in offspring if they are to survive. The basic motivation for the love of children will be examined in a later chapter, but evolutionary biologists agree that romantic love between parents is the strong binding agent that creates an environment where chil107

108

Chapter 11

dren may be successfully nurtured into adulthood. According to Panksepp and Bevins, two of the most basic human emotions are what they term the CARE system and the LUST system, which account for the feelings of nurturing and sexual arousal, respectively (36). Human romantic love may be a combination of these two emotional states, which are controlled by the release of neurotransmitters, and hormones triggered by the limbic system. So in some ways, Shakespeare may have been right, and love can be thought of as a “potion” manufactured through the interaction of the brain and its environment. The emotion of “love” has developed through natural selection as a mechanism to keep mating couples bonded together long enough for their offspring to mature into adulthood. While we can have no idea if other animals feel “love” as humans do, more monogamous behavior is a trademark of mammals whose young mature slowly. A newborn horse, for example, is capable of running with the herd in a matter of days, while a human infant is helpless without a caregiver for many years. Some animals such as prairie voles mate for life, while others, like the females of most herd animals, will mate with the strongest male. There is even a discrepancy between males and females of a species based on genetics and natural selection. In general, the male of the species has a very low investment in creating offspring, since he may produce an almost unlimited supply of sperm over his lifetime. The female is generally choosier, however, since her supply of eggs is limited, and her fertile periods shorter. In addition, she must invest time and resources in carrying, birthing, and nursing the offspring. This basic biology explains why men are, in general, more prone to sexual promiscuity, though the invention of birth control and rapid evolution of cultural norms has certainly changed sexual and reproductive behavior in Western society. Yet despite changes in society, evolutionary relics developed in the Pleistocene continue to exert their influence in human courting and sexual behavior where males are still, in general, more aggressive. As discussed in the previous chapter, these evolutionary relics may help lead to a better understanding of male violence against women, and this understanding may help with prevention and intervention methods. In its purest form, however, love is an evolutionary adaptation that has resulted in the long-term family structures needed to raise offspring from a helpless state at birth to adulthood. Due to our large brain size, humans are technically born premature and need more than a decade of parental care until they reach reproductive age. During this time, they learn all of the skills needed to function in the world under the care and protection of their parents. Unlike other mammals that undergo estrus, human females are sexually receptive at all times of their fertility cycle, and do not visibly signal their fertile times. This trait encourages males to mate often with a single female, rather than mate a single time during a fertile period and then move on to

What’s Love Got to Do with It?

109

another fertile female. Love is a result of the combination of the biochemistry of the CARE and LUST systems. The CARE system secretes neurotransmitters that activate feelings of warmth, caring, kindness, such as might be experienced by parents toward their children, and friends toward each other. The LUST system organizes brain oxytocin and vasopressin, two of chemicals associated with sexuality. The combination of emotion and physical attraction is what creates what we call love, the long, lasting pair-bond necessary for raising offspring in the human species. Whether other mammals feel love in the way that humans do is a question that cannot be answered, but love experienced in humans is much more than sexual, a sentiment that every poet from the dawn of time has attempted to express. “Human sexuality is probably as closely aligned with social bonding as it is with propagation,” according to Panksepp (Affective 228). Since love is more than just either a good feeling or a biological directive, readers react powerfully to this emotion in narrative, especially since it is so elusive and difficult to describe. Successful storytellers understand the attraction of this universal emotion in narrative and use it to their advantage both to sell books and to attempt to capture this most magical human feeling in words. And while Stephen King’s books will never be located in the romance section of the local library, love and romance do play an important role in a number of his books and help to hold many of his stories together. In some ways, horror is even more terrible when the life of a loved one is on the line, and this theme occurs repeatedly in King’s novels. This chapter will look at his usage of romantic love in his fiction; the next chapter will explore parental love for children, and how it can be incorporated into a horror story. The Stand contains several romantic subplots, ranging from one-night stands to the willingness to sacrifice one’s own life for a partner. When the novel opens, Larry Underwood, the recently successful rock star, is portrayed as a player, willing to have sex with just about anyone: “I play the field” he tells his mother (47). His newfound success has led him to a hedonistic life style of parties, alcohol, and drugs that will surely send him into debt, but one of his friends forces him to face the truth. He returns to New York and stays with his mother to recover. He has a one-night stand with an oral hygienist named Maria, and walks out on her the next morning: “You ain’t no nice guy!” she screams at him as he leaves. Evolutionary psychology also predicts that men have a different view of sex than women and are more prone to looking for the immediate pleasure rather than a long-term commitment. This, again, reflects the fact that the male has little investment of time or resources in the mating process of a onetime relationship. The adaptive benefit of short-term mating for men allows them to potentially leave many offspring behind with many different partners (Buss 175), while multiple partners for women do not result in more offspring. One extreme example of this short-term mating strategy is the Mon-

110

Chapter 11

golian leader Genghis Khan, who is believed to have left behind 16 million living descendants today (Mayall). According to biological evolution, powerful males will have more opportunity to mate with more females, thus leaving more offspring, a fact that history supports. Powerful rulers have had multiple wives and a harem of women to mate with. Ramesses II of Egypt had eight royal wives, plus a harem, and sired somewhere in the neighborhood of 100 children, for example. In contemporary American society, celebrities are the modern form of royalty, and rock stars in particular often have a harem of groupies and other women willing to have sex with them. Larry Underwood, with his newfound fame, in fact picks up Julie, the oral hygienist, because of his “rock star” status. “She had been a little overwhelmed to discover he was that Larry Underwood” (84). Once the flu hits, Larry’s prospects diminish with the extermination of more than 98 percent of the world’s population. Maria, his pre-flu one-night stand is young and pretty, but he experiences what psychologists call “the closing time phenomenon” (Buss 183) after the plague and is willing to settle for a less attractive woman. Rita Blakemoor “was maybe fifty but had taken great pains to look younger” (237). Once the plague has struck, Larry’s celebrity status disappears, and he becomes a survivor rather than a famous musician. Rita is the only other surviving female, so he settles for her company rather than none at all. The initial attraction begins to fade, however, and before long she begins to remind him of his mother. It soon becomes apparent that they will have to leave New York City, and the journey, originally seen as a Tolkien quest, becomes a nightmare. Rita annoys him, and he finally blows up with anger at her when he realizes she hasn’t worn the right kind of shoes for a long journey on foot. It is obvious by now that he regrets his decision to join her, yet after they escape the city in a classic Joseph Campbell “body of the whale” trip through the Lincoln Tunnel, Larry shows signs of maturing. He begins to treat her as a responsibility and “had been trying very hard with Rita,” thinking he was finally on his way to “an adult relationship” (378). But when she overdoses, “he felt a measure of relief that she had died—a great measure, actually” (380), and he cannot even summon the courage to give her a proper burial. As Larry leaves Rita’s body behind, he acknowledges that the worst truth was his fear of being alone (381). What he felt for her was certainly not love—at this point, Larry seems incapable of feeling mature love at all—but there is the human universal trait of wanting to be with others. Almost everyone in The Stand has died, and Larry now realizes that even those who are immune to the flu can die from accidents, drug overdoses, and any number of other things. The idea of being without any companionship in this postapocalyptic setting is unbearable in a species that evolution has shaped to live in social cooperative groups in order to survive. “To form groups, drawing visceral comfort and pride from familiar fellowship, and then defend the

What’s Love Got to Do with It?

111

group enthusiastically against rival groups—these are among the absolute universals of human nature and hence of culture” (Wilson, E. O., Social Conquest 57). Larry has never been firmly attached to anyone, and loneliness overwhelms him. It could only be imagined how much worse this situation would be for someone who has lost all of their loved ones in the superflu and then ended up alone. Part of the appeal of apocalyptic fiction lies in imagining what such a life would be like in such an environment, and in feeling grateful for our life and for our loved ones. This loss is part of what Jaak Panksepp has termed the PANIC/GRIEF response that will be discussed in the following chapter. By the time he meets up with Nadine Cross and the boy “Joe,” Larry has changed: “I’ve come out the other side, too,” he says (449). He has come to realize that companionship “was at a premium” (440), a major theme of the novel. “The longer I go, the more I want other people” (451). Although Larry believes he has dragged part of his childness with him to the other side, his true maturity emerges when he chooses Lucy Swann, whom he loves “as much as I can” (636) over Nadine, whom he really is in love with. His choice is complicated, but “Joe”/Leo Rockway is perhaps the deciding factor. The boy needs Larry and depends on him; more importantly, Larry also depends on “Joe” (640). Larry understands that he is responsible for others, and not just himself. In Darwinian terms, he is no longer concerned with individual survival, but is thinking for the group: Lucy, the boy, and the Boulder Free Zone. He instinctively knows that Nadine has been claimed by the dark man, and he chooses the light. Ironically, had he chosen Nadine she might have been able to sever her psychic bond with Randal Flagg, who insisted on her saving herself for him. But this concept was beyond Larry’s awareness, and by the time Nadine offered herself to him, it was too little too late. Had Nadine accepted Larry’s advances before he’d met Lucy, the story would have been different, but the Dark Man’s hold on her was too strong for her to resist. At the outset of the The Stand, Fran Goldsmith has been dating Jess Rider, “a practicing poet,” and finds herself pregnant with his child. Her maternal instincts take over and she decides to keep the child, but she has no interest in marrying Jess. Although she can’t exactly put it into words, it is obvious that Jess isn’t really father material. Evolutionary psychology predicts that women, in general, have evolved specific mate preferences for long-term relationships, and seek men who will be good providers for their family. Even in today’s sexually-liberated world, women tend to seek partners that are mature, have good financial and social prospects, are dependable and committed, enjoy children, and exhibit emotional stability (Buss 110). Jess is portrayed as spoiled, immature, and superficial, playing the role of being a poet without really putting in the commitment to life. He is introduced as a child-like character who rides a bicycle and throws rocks into

112

Chapter 11

the water (13). His attractive looks make a good short-term mate, but Fran cannot seriously consider him as a marriage prospect. “He’s weak,” she tells her father, and she agrees with her father that she doesn’t “trust him to do the right thing by you” (57). Fran, a strong and complex woman, is not about to marry someone just for the sake of convenience. Fran is also not interested in Harold as either a short-term or a long-term partner. He, like Jess, is younger than her, and since she has had a long-term friendship with his sister, she sees him as a child rather than a man. She sees Harold’s attraction to her as crush, not as something to be taken seriously. Once Fran meets Stu, she realizes that he has potential as a marriage partner. He has maturity, exhibits natural leadership skills, and is mentally and physically strong, a trait that will be needed in the new world created by the superflu. Because of the plague, America is suddenly transported back into the age of hunter-gatherers; in this world, the evolved mate-preferences from the prehistory are once again qualities necessary for the reproductive survival of the species. “If she had to exist in a world like this, with a biological clock set to go off in six months, she wanted someone like Stu Redman to be her man—no, not someone like. She wanted him” (527). She reflects that without technology, women are vulnerable, and pregnant women especially so. “Civilization had provided an umbrella of sanity that both sexes could stand beneath. . . . Before civilization, with its careful and merciful system of protections, women had been slaves” (527). She decides that she needs a man. Although Fran is attracted to Stu from the beginning, and she knows he is attracted to her, she does not have sex with him right away, mostly because she doesn’t want to cause problems with Harold, and she doesn’t tell Stu she’s pregnant until after they have consummated the relationship. Studies have, in fact, shown that after having sex with a man, a woman’s emotions are altered, and she seems to place a higher degree of trust in her partner. An MIT study showed that “women are happier hearing the words ‘I love you’ from their male partners after, rather than before, sexual intercourse” and that they thought the words were “more honest” (Young 129). Studies have confirmed that infusion of oxytocin, which is released during sexual intercourse, does result in greater levels of trust in humans as well as animals (144). Experiments with prairie voles, which exhibit strong pair bonding behavior, concluded that oxytocin, dopamine, and opioids are released in the rodent females during sex, and these chemicals are necessary for the pair bond to form (135). Both dopamine and oxytocin are also involved in maternal behavior. In addition, prairie voles have many more oxytocin receptors in their brains than their nonmonogamous cousins. Voles have one other trait that is different from their non-pair-bonding relatives, a trait that humans have also developed: a keen social memory, the ability to remember and recognize individuals of the species. Oxytocin also plays a role in social memory by

What’s Love Got to Do with It?

113

acting on the vole’s amygdala (138). This chemical and neural concoction explains the pair bonding in these rodents and may help explain the biochemistry of human love—and why Fran trusts Stan enough to disclose her pregnancy after they have made love, and not before. Even then, she is not sure what Stu’s reaction will be. “She had imagined one of two things: he would leave her immediately . . . or he would hug her, tell her not to worry, that he would take care of everything” (569). Stu surprises her, though, and his reaction cements the bond between them. “He held her and made her know it was all right without saying anything” (470). Vasopressin, released into the male brain during sex, is believed to have a pair-bonding effect in men (Young 164), which may have been a factor in Stu’s attraction. Fran’s maternal instincts are also beginning to reveal themselves, and she even questions if there is such a thing. She believes, correctly that there is and that it is “probably hormonal” (570). In fact, the latest scientific evidence confirms Fran’s belief that maternal feelings are, indeed, biochemical and not culturally induced, as some have claimed (though cultural norms may, indeed, enhance the biologically-generated feelings). “During pregnancy, there’s a waxing and waning of hormonal tides, much of it directed by cells of the fetal placenta, which essentially hijacks the mother’s body to suit its own needs” (Young 97). These hormones are strengthened and prepare the woman’s body for birth and nursing, and switches on the CARE system in the mother. This instinctual love and nurturing universal will be discussed in detail in the next chapter. The Stand also explores the concept of jealousy, an emotion that results from a mixture of the LUST and PANIC/GRIEF systems, and which sometimes results in RAGE. Preliminary research in prairie voles may indicate that vasopressin, the same neurotransmitter that is involved in the pair-bonding system of males, may be involved in the human emotion of jealousy (Panksepp, Affective 242) and (Young 169). Vasopressin induces territorial behavior in animal species, and according to Young and Alexander, has been “adapted by humans so women become an extension of territory in the male brain.” They go on the explain that “we’re not arguing that a woman is literally her man’s territory; we’re contending that his bond to her engages neural systems that originally evolved for regulating territorial behavior” and this is not the “only component of a man’s bond to a woman” (179). From the outset of The Stand, Harold has had a crush on Fran and exhibits territorial behavior toward her. Stu Redman sees this immediately when he meets them on the road: “It was the girl, of course. He [Harold] had gotten used to the idea of owning her” (391). Stu confronts Harold and reminds him that “she’s her own” (393) and that he’s not going to try to take her away. Harold admits that he loves Fran but she doesn’t love him. But by the last line of chapter 42, it is obvious that Harold and Stu will be competing for

114

Chapter 11

Fran, as Stu admits “that was the beginning of knowing that he did want her, after all” (394). Harold Lauder’s jealousy continues as he assumes the role of Fran’s protector. He had “in his clumsy way, tried to make love to her, to make his claim of ownership irrevocable” (528), but was rebuked. When he secretly watches Stu and Fran make love, his jealousy intensifies into a dark but controlled rage. He reads her diary and is prepared to kill her if she wakes up while he is replacing it. She doesn’t wake up, though, and Harold plans his revenge. “Every dog has his day, Fran” he tells her (573). 11/22/63 is a time travel story, a historical fantasy, and a love story all combined into one novel. Although King is billed as a horror writer, he consistently demonstrates the ability to combine different genres, including mystery and horror (Joyland and the Hodges trilogy), fantasy and horror (the Dark Tower series), and science fiction and horror (Revival). And while romantic love makes its way into many of King’s stories, it takes center stage in 11/22/63. The novel begins with an admission by the protagonist, Jake Epping: “I’ve never been what you’d call a crying man” (1), and that refrain is repeated throughout the book. He claims he has only cried when he was a child and his dog died, years later, when his mother died, and when he read an emotionally-charged essay from an adult student in his night class. Yet he goes on to narrate an intensely emotional and bittersweet love story that weaves itself around his traveling back in time to try to prevent the Kennedy assassination in 1963. By the end of the novel, it is obvious that Jake is a very sensitive, emotional man. He just keeps his emotions inside. Unlike a traditional romance novel, the story doesn’t set out to be a love story. Jake has recovered from a divorce and is living his life under the radar as a high school English teacher about to go on summer break. Instead, he finds himself pulled into a time travel plot to change history. With no family and no real friends, he is perfect for the job, and he has no intention of becoming romantically involved with anyone from the past because he fears that it might inadvertently disturb the past. When he meets Sadie, it is not love at first sight, though he is physically attracted to her. He sees her as a colleague of a friend, but not as a potential lover (341). For some time, they do remain just friends, good friends. Even though Jake is attracted to her, he does not take the relationship to the next step—he is preoccupied with Lee Harvey Oswald. Jake is more and more attracted to Sadie as time goes on, and when the two of them chaperone the Sadie Hawkins dance at the high school, the spark is finally lit. For Jake, this happens on the dance floor, as the pair do a swing dance to a Glenn Miller song. Interestingly enough, Jake had learned how to dance with his first wife, whom he still held feelings for, and it was one of the activities he most enjoyed doing with her. “Dancing is life,” he says

What’s Love Got to Do with It?

115

(371). Dancing with Sadie metaphorically gives him new life and triggers his interest in love despite his misgivings about pursuing a romantic affair with a woman from the past. He hasn’t quite thought out the ramifications of such a thing; however, once his hormones begin to work, all thoughts of logic and of his mission to stop Oswald disappear and he and Sadie become lovers. Since he has some time before his final plans to stop Kennedy’s assassination, he puts his mission out of his mind and effectively lives two separate and distinct lives. The ending of the novel is bittersweet. Once Jake finds that he cannot return to the real world with Sadie, he must make an unimaginable decision: if he is to save the earth, and history as we know it, he must abandon all hope of being with Sadie, who turns out to be the love of his life. His altruistic survival of the species ultimately defeats his personal wishes and the conclusion, while good for humanity, is a sad one for Jake. Readers can envision themselves within Jake’s dilemma, and when he reunited with Sadie in the historical present—he as a young man and her as an aged woman—the tragedy of having free will becomes clear. There are elements of romantic love in much of King’s fiction; probably enough to fill a single critical work on this subject alone. There is the deep love between husband and wife in Lisey’s Story, a love that continues after one of the partners is killed. Bag of Bones has a similar theme. There is the story of a young man’s first love in Joyland. And there is the love story in ‘Salem’s Lot, where the protagonist tries unsuccessfully to save a woman he falls in love with. All these stories appeal to the human universal emotion of love, an emotion that has an evolutionary purpose for the survival of the species. As readers become involved with the narrative, they aren’t thinking of the science of love, but the hormones and neural circuits in their bodies are being activated, nonetheless, and they experience the same feelings as the characters in the story. Perhaps one of the most basic human objectives is the protection of those whom they love. This part of human nature is taken to the extreme when it comes to the protection of one’s own children, a theme that will be explored next.

Chapter Twelve

Family and Children

One of the most powerful of human universals is the protection of children by their parents, a feeling that is expressed in all cultures and societies and is even evident in other mammals. “What father or mother would not protect and willingly sacrifice their own life for their children? This is one of the most basic of all instincts in animals as well as people” (Fields 41). One example of this in nature is the Killdeer bird, which will grab a predator’s attention by faking a broken wing to lure the danger away from its nest, putting itself at risk to save its young. Several evolutionary theories attempt to explain this behavior. Inclusive fitness theory (also known as kin selection theory), posits that individuals are more likely to sacrifice themselves for others who share a larger proportion of identical genes with them. According to the Selfish Gene theory of Dawkins, this occurs at a genetic level: it is the individual genes that are promoting their survival, not the organism as a whole. The idea of parental investment claims that parents will invest more time and energy in offspring that are more likely to survive, even at the cost to other siblings, and species whose offspring require more nurture and care (such as birds and mammals) will sacrifice more energy on their offspring than those who don’t (insects and amphibians, for example). And according to Fields, a threat to one’s family, particularly children, triggers the rage response (40), which may lead to a violent defensive reaction. At an evolutionary neurological level, mammals are programmed with the CARE system of emotions (Panksepp and Biven 36), probably best recognized as maternal instincts in women, but care of one’s young in humans is a part of the male response system as well. This response is chemically triggered by oxytocin (286) and electrical stimulation of specific regions of the brain. One method of inducing horror in fiction is to

117

118

Chapter 12

put a character’s loved ones in danger. When the loved one is a child, the fear is intensified. As we have seen in a previous chapter, Cujo, published more than a decade before Gerald’s Game, puts housewife Donna Trenton in a similar situation as Jessie Burlingame, trapped in a prison where death is certain unless she can escape—only in this novel, her four-year-old son is with her. This addresses the human universal need of parents to protect and nurture their children and engages Panksepp’s CARE system. When Donna first sees Cujo and recognizes the danger, she freezes in terror. It is Tad’s scream that activates her flight response and she rushes back into the car and slams the door before the rabid dog can get in. She looks at Tad and “a new fear invaded her like a hot needle” (152) and then she realizes that his window is open. She instinctively dives across the car and forces the window up as Cujo tries to leap into the Pinto. As the situation worsens, she considers making a run for the door of the house where she can get to a telephone. “If she had been alone, that would have been one thing” but if she failed, “what would Tad do?” (162). She would take the risk if it were just herself, but Tad’s presence complicates the matter. Just as adult airline passengers must put the oxygen masks on themselves before taking care of children, Donna knows that she must stay alive if her son is to have any hope. It is not until the very end of the novel, when she knows that Tad will die if she does not act, that she finally confronts the rabid dog in the rage response that Fields predicts in such a situation: “Her head was high wine and deep iron. The world danced. She was the harpies, the Weird Sisters, she was all vengeance, not for herself, but for what had been done to her boy” (293). The loss of a child is one of the most terrible human experiences one can imagine. “When adults lose a child, their genetic and emotional future is compromised forever; and their pain is as intense and lasting as that of a child who loses a nurturant caregiver” (Panksepp, Affective 261). After publishing Cujo, King received angry fan letters complaining that he’d let the innocent child die (Rogak 113); in the film version made two years later, the child lived. Winter has called Cujo “King’s most pessimistic novel” (94), and its bleakness comes from the fact that there is no real villain in the book. In fact, those who are the most innocent suffer the worst: Tad; the dog, who was a “good dog”; Donna; and even Brett, who loses his beloved pet and his father. The book begins with the famous lines “Once upon a time . . .” reminiscent of fairy tales. But King tells us in no uncertain terms that fairy tales are not real, there are no “they lived happily after,” and that innocent children and pets do suffer horrible fates in the real world: “I think most of the times the kids get away. But we also know as adults, as thinking rational people, that sometimes they don’t. There are crib deaths, there are kids who get abused and get killed that way. I didn’t know that the kid in Cujo was

Family and Children

119

going to die until he died. He wasn’t supposed to die. He was just gone” (Secret 253). This theme of the suffering of pets and children also dominates Pet Sematary, where it is taken to the extreme as the protagonist, Louis Creed, reanimates first his daughter’s cat, which is killed by a car, and then his son, when he is also killed. King believes the book is his scariest because it confronts the death of a loved one head on. The only reason he published it at all was because he was contracted to Doubleday for one more book, and it was the one he had on hand. “That book came out of a real hole in my psyche. If I had my way about it, I still would not have published Pet Sematary. I don’t like it. It’s a terrible book, not in terms of the writing, but it just spirals down into darkness” (qtd in Rogak, 129–30). Grief is a human universal that has been incorporated into stories for as long as stories have existed. In the oldest recorded epic story, Gilgamesh grieves over the loss of his friend, which inspires him to undertake a quest to defeat death itself. The tragedies of the Greek and Elizabethan playwrights capitalize on grief, and offer a catharsis where readers can experience grief in a fictional world, which may help prepare them for the real thing when it occurs. It might seem counterintuitive that grief has evolved thorough natural selection to benefit the human species, especially when it can result in debilitating depression. However, when the importance of attachment is factored into human survival, particularly to children and family, the emotion of grief makes perfect sense. Bowlby’s attachment theory, widely accepted in evolutionary psychology, says that newborn and young mammals that stay close to their mother have a higher rate of survival than those that don’t, and, therefore, initiate cries when separated. The mothers who respond to these cries are more likely to have more offspring survive into adulthood, so these traits are incorporated into the genome over time (Nesse, 199). According to Panksepp, the PANIC response to separation, a basic instinct of mammals, is produced in response to loss (Affective 265), and this panic, if not resolved, turns into grief. In humans, this is illustrated when a parent and child are separated. The child panics by crying, and the parents panic as well and begin calling for and searching for their offspring. If the reunion does not occur, panic develops into sadness and grief. “Feelings of panic and sadness . . . appear to be the evolutionary price that we mammals pay for the biological advantages bestowed by attachment” (Ellis and Solms 106). In American culture, death is a forbidden subject. We use phrases like “lost someone,” “passed away,” “deceased,” and others rather than confront the subject head-on. The opening theme of the novel is the awareness, understanding, and acceptance of death. Louis, the medical doctor, has experience with death and when his little girl asks him about it, he is truthful: “It happens. It’s a part of life,” he explains (37). His daughter becomes grief-

120

Chapter 12

stricken at the thought that her cat—and someday her parents—will die. Rachel, Louis’s wife, is furious with her husband for speaking to Ellie about it. “There’s nothing natural about death. Nothing. You as a doctor should know that,” she says (42). Louis, the realist, knows that death can occur at any time and at any place, a lesson that King makes quite specific, as the first patient Louis sees in his new job is a student that dies in front of him from a horrible head injury after being hit by a car. It is a sudden, senseless death. The supernatural horror novel offers an opportunity for authors to explore hypothetical situations in realistic detail, which allows the exploration of ideas that cannot be approached in realistic fiction. Pet Sematary examines death up close and personal when young Gage runs into the street and is killed by a truck. Louis knows that resurrection is possible at the Pet Sematary after he brings Ellie’s cat back to life. So, King asks: if your child were killed and you could bring your son or daughter back, would you? To complicate matters, Louis knows that the resurrection is not perfect; when the dead one comes back, it isn’t quite the same. When Church returns from the grave, “he looked like a cat, and he acted like a cat, but he was really only a poor imitation” (227). The reason this novel is so horrifying is because a parent could very well imagine doing exactly what Louis did. The loss of a child brings grief that overwhelms reason: “his grief came for him fully, like some gray matron from Ward Nine in purgatory. It came and dissolved him, unmanned him, took away whatever defenses remained, and he put his face in his hands and cried, rocking back and forth on his bed, thinking he would do anything to have a second chance, anything at all” (250). The ability to reanimate the dead presents an ethical question that Mary Shelley turned into the first science fiction story in Frankenstein, was parodied by Lovecraft in “Herbert West, Reanimator,” and is the basis for modern zombie stories. As medicine becomes more sophisticated and can now keep comatose patients alive on life-support systems, the question of whether or not to resuscitate someone is no longer in the realm of fantasy. Furthermore, the ethical question of prolonging the life of a suffering and terminally ill patient must now be addressed. King examines both these themes in Pet Sematary. In both cases, the answer seems to be the refrain that runs through the novel: “Sometimes dead is better” (16). Louis Creed instinctively knows that death cannot and should not be undone; all of his medical training has taught him this important lesson: “it happens. It’s a part of life” (37). This is made clear to Louis on two occasions in the book. First, he must treat a student who is brought into the university’s clinic after being hit by a car. Louis assures the injured student that he’s going to be all right, but he knew that “this young man . . . was going to die no matter what they did” (57). Later, after Church has been successfully brought to life (more or less), Norma Crandall dies from a “cerebral accident, sudden and probably painless” (170). Jud Crandall mourns for her but ac-

Family and Children

121

cepts her death normally and makes no attempt to bring her to the Pet Sematary for reburial. According to Katherine Allen, “The deepest horror lies in Gage’s death rather than his later resurrection” (58). When it comes to his son’s death, Louis cannot accept the reality of its permanence, not after having witnessed Church’s reanimation; unfortunately, he also cannot accept the premise that “sometimes dead is better.” He was no longer “thinking rationally following the funeral of his son” (203). Despite Jud’s warnings, despite his remembering the Jacobs story “The Monkey’s Paw,” and despite his own logic and medical training, he secretly and laboriously exhumes Gage’s body and reburies him in the Pet Sematary. “How could he refuse to take the chance available to him—this one, unbelievable chance” (259). What is most disturbing about this novel is that fact that most parents, if faced with this choice, would at least consider doing exactly what Louis Creed did. “Human nature as Louis understood it made it more difficult to believe that it had stopped at a few pets and valuable breed animals” (258). As Clark notes, “one of King’s strengths is to take a character’s story and present it in a way that you find yourself admitting that you might do the same thing. It’s about taking the crazy and making it seem kind of sane” (49). This universal trait of doing anything necessary to save one’s child—of giving one’s life for this child, if necessary—is a human universal that can make even the most fantastic tales ring true. The other side of the question concerns the prolonging of human life when death is imminent and the victim is suffering. The backstory of Rachel and her sister Zelda examines the ethics of keeping someone alive when there is no hope and they are being tormented with pain. When Rachel was a child, her sister contracted spinal meningitis and suffered a prolonged and agonizing death. Worst of all, eight-year-old Rachel was there alone when the inevitable happened. The family refused to speak about death because the child’s suffering was so severe that they all secretly wished she would die. Watching her sister’s slow, agonizing death clouds Rachel’s views of death being natural. As she explains to her husband, “It was horrible. . . . Worse than you can ever imagine. Louis, we watched her degenerate day by day, and there was nothing anyone could do” (178). She wished for her sister’s death, and still harbors guilt for it. Louis, in his logical, rational way explains to her that her feelings were normal, that terminally ill patients “often become demanding unpleasant monsters” and that the suicide rates of the family members caring for them skyrocket (179). This scene describes the very realistic problem of terminal illnesses, and how they affect both the victim and the family. Zelda, who died at the age of ten, endured constant, agonizing pain, and was given increasingly higher doses of drugs until they no longer worked. “She was just this foul, hateful, screaming thing in the back bedroom . . . our dirty secret” (180). In the novel,

122

Chapter 12

Zelda dies in 1965. Fortunately, hospice programs have since been developed that offer pain relief and comfort to the victim, and support to the family. But even with modern medicine and interventions, managing severe illness remains a challenge, and assisted suicide, illegal in most states, is controversial. Euthanizing a child such as Zelda would undoubtedly be criminal, even if it were, perhaps, the more humane choice. At any rate, Zelda’s catastrophic illness resulted in a lifetime of pain and guilt for her parents and her sister. In Pet Sematary, King forces the reader to look at the realistic and upsetting details of death in several ways, and at the ultimate loss, the death of a child, both suddenly, and as a result of a long-term illness. In both of these cases, the survivors suffer horrible psychological effects; Louis, with his firsthand knowledge of pet resurrection, loses his reason completely and engages in behavior that could be considered insane. Yet, despite this, in the world of Stephen King, Louis Creed’s actions are not only believable, but, in fact, understandable by parents that might find themselves in his situation. Cell also depicts the theme of losing a child, only in this case Clay Riddell doesn’t know if his son is alive or not. When the Pulse from cell phones begins the destruction of the world and the human race, the protagonist is in Boston, far away from his estranged wife Sharon and his son Johnny. He has no idea if his son was affected by the Pulse or not, and his motivation for living is to return home, reunite with his wife, and protect his child. Although the entire world is being destroyed, his main concern is about his family. Once he finds temporary safety in his hotel, his panic circuits for his son are engaged and vividly described: “Every time he thought of the boy, Clay felt a panic-rat inside his mind” (38). Despite the danger of leaving the safe haven, the protagonist is obsessed with finding his son, even at the cost of risking his own survival. “He meant to get home and see to his boy. . . . Knowing he would let nothing stop him unless something did” (40). This is an example of two other human universals, which Panksepp and Biven identify as the “seeking system” and the “care system.” The “SEEKING system helps motivate practically every energized thing we do” (98), and the “CARE system generates positive affects in nutrient caretakers, both female and male” (292). In other words, humans are genetically programmed by evolution to care for their young, unlike some species of fish and reptiles that lay eggs and let their young fend for themselves. When a child becomes separated from its parents, its instinct of PANIC/GRIEF causes it to cry, and the parents’ CARE instincts activate the PANIC/GRIEF response, and then the SEEK response to search until the child is found. While this seems like common sense, the system is more instinctual than cognitive. The emotions and responses occur on a neurological level through neurotransmitters that send signals through the neurons to the limbic system of the brain, which triggers action. The CARE response is turned on by oxytocin, for example, and stress hormones activate PANIC/GRIEF. This all

Family and Children

123

occurs at the subconscious level and determines our emotions and resulting actions. As time passes, Clay’s panic turns into grief, which is expressed as loneliness in adults. “He was suddenly more than afraid for Sharon and Johnny; he was homesick for them with a depth of feeling that made him think of the first day at school, his mother leaving him at the playground gate” (55). This progression is part of the neurobiology of humans and is what results in our feeling grief at the loss of a loved one. Clay convinces his friends to take the long journey to his house to see if Sharon and Johnny are still alive. He holds little hope of finding them and describes his sorrow as “a feeling so heavy that it seemed to weigh him down like a cloak lined with lead” (235). This metaphor is an accurate description of the depression that comes with sustained grief. These universal emotions of loss are transferred to readers as they read the narrative, and, as neuroscience has shown, they experience the feelings as if the situation were happening to them. In Cell, there is some ambiguity as to whether Johnny recovers his humanity and survives or not, which has upset many readers of the novel. In fact, King received so many angry fan letters complaining about this ending that he had to post on his web site that everything turned out all right for Clay and Johnny (Lehmann-Haupt and Rich). This response from readers once again shows the emotional impact of the loss of a child. In this novel, as in Cujo, King’s audience suffered grief for the child, even though the children in both books are just fictional characters. We feel deep grief over the death of a child. Therefore, it naturally follows that the murder of a child will activate especially powerful emotions. This is one of the major themes in The Outsider, which begins with an intense and disturbing depiction of the brutal torture, rape, and murder of an eleven-year-old boy. To make the crime even more heinous, forensic evidence shows that the killer ripped the child’s throat open with his teeth and may even have eaten parts of the boy’s body (94), violating the cannibalism taboo of civilized societies (it is worth noting that other villains in the King universe have used their teeth on victims, including Rose Madder). “I just don’t know who would do something like that. He must have been a maniac” (8) the man who found the body tells the lead detective, and people in town are “terrified and angry” (9). Human nature holds a special hatred and repulsion for those who would injure or kill children. It is referred to as the “nastiest, vilest, most unspeakable murder any of us will ever see” (72). Once the evidence points to Terry Maitland, Ralph, the detective, doesn’t even trust himself to arrest the suspect, for fear that rage will overcome him: “I was afraid I might put my hands around his throat and choke him blue” (71). The prosecuting attorney refers to him as a “cannibal” (85). When he is taken out of the jail to be transported to the courthouse for arraignment, he is met by a crown and signs

124

Chapter 12

calling for his execution (175). Even other prisoners insult him (176). Then, when he arrives at the courthouse, he is attacked by a mob, and the victim’s brother shoots and kills him (187). Although it is currently considered a mental disorder, “There is a natural aversion of pedophilia in the United States and worldwide” (Brice) and acting of pedophiliac urges is a crime in Western culture. Crimes against children are admonished in the Gospels of the Christian Bible: “It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little ones” (Luke 17:2). Aversion to child molestation is probably a product of the coevolution of the disgust response through biological and cultural adaptation. From a Darwinian standpoint, having sex with a prepubescent child would have no evolutionary advantage, since the child is not fertile. Multicultural studies have shown that men prefer wives that are, on average, two-and-a-half years younger than themselves (Buss 142) and prefer women whose features display fertility (144), including a low waist-to-hip ratio characteristic of adult women (151). Further studies reveal that men may be able to detect when a woman is ovulating and find these women more attractive (155). Thus, natural selection has programmed men to desire sexually mature women and avoid sex with children, a trait that has become encoded into both law and culture. Men who favor children are considered abnormal and punished if they act upon their desires. Marriage rates in the United States reflect these cultural norms and show that the median age of marriage has risen from 26.1 to 29.8 in men, and from 22 to 27.8 in women from 1890 to 2018 (Stritof). Younger marriages have grown less common since ancient times with the lengthening of life expectancy and a reduction in the infant mortality rate. Furthermore, modern science has overwhelmingly documented the physical, emotional, and psychological pain of child abuse and molestation, and sexual abuse and murder of a child is considered the most heinous crime imaginable. Thus, the brutal killing of the eleven-year-old boy in The Outsider would elicit the outrage that King has depicted in the novel. This will be examined again in The Green Mile, where an innocent man is sentenced to the electric chair after being accused of murdering two little girls. In The Outsider, the horror experienced by the boy’s parents is unspeakable. His mother suffers a heart attack, brought about by stress and grief. His brother seeks revenge by killing Terry Maitland before being shot and killed himself, and then his father attempts to hang himself and winds up brain dead when the tree branch breaks and he is strangled rather than killed. Studies have shown that parents who have lost their children suddenly face risks for depression, cardiac illnesses, and suicide (Rogers, et al), events which are depicted by King in this novel. Care for and protection of one’s own children is part of the evolutionary history of the human species and, through the coevolution of genetics and

Family and Children

125

culture, has been hardwired into our basic emotional systems at a deep level that, through the release and action of neurotransmitters such as oxytocin, could be thought of as instinctual. Thus, as demonstrated in Cujo, a parent will do virtually anything to protect a child from harm. The loss of a child is one of the most psychologically devastating events that could happen to a parent, as illustrated in Cell and Pet Sematary, where the protagonists will do whatever it takes to get their sons back, even in an abnormal form. Finally, The Outsider shows the universal human loathing of anyone who would harm, abuse, or murder a child. These novels activate emotional responses in readers, who experience this loss of a child through fiction. Letters from Constant Readers expressing their grief for King’s fictional characters indicate how powerfully these narrative affect readers.

Chapter Thirteen

Rage and Sweet Revenge

Revenge stories have been a staple of both literature and popular culture probably since the first stories were told around the campfire. Gilgamesh contains elements of revenge, as does The Iliad, The Odyssey, and myths from around the world. Even the Judeo-Christian God is not above revenge, as he destroys the earth in a flood and punishes the Egyptian Pharaoh for holding His people as slaves. Shakespeare’s revenge stories include Titus Andronicus, Othello, Hamlet, and The Tempest, to name just a few. Revenge stories are a familiar element of modern Hollywood films, including Rambo (based on the novel First Blood), and almost any story with a villain who suffers a nasty defeat at the narrative’s end. And while Stephen King isn’t known for his revenge stories pe se, vengeance does play a major role in many of his stories. Before I delve into revenge in King’s stories, however, allow me to present a Darwinist perspective on revenge and how it has evolved into a human universal. Sometimes it may be disguised as “justice” in the modern world, but there is still plenty of evidence that revenge is still sweet, even in today’s progressive society. According to many evolutionary theorists, revenge evolved from the ancient adapted human trait to find and punish “cheaters,” those who would use the good will and altruism of society to better themselves without reciprocating. A brief look at game theory illustrates this best. Game theory has been adapted into evolutionary theory to help explain why humans tend to cooperate and help one another despite the fact that genetic evolution works on the principle of “the survival of the fittest,” or as Dawkins says, “survival of the fittest gene.” If the world were truly dependent on the survival of the fittest, in the strongest sense, society as we know it would not have evolved. One way to explain the fact that it did, and that we 127

128

Chapter 13

punish “cheaters,” can be demonstrated in a paleolithic version of the prisoner’s dilemma. Suppose that two hunters were to go and hunt game, and one hunter returned to the camp with a large quantity of meat, too much for him to consume, yet his partner returned with no meat. The successful hunter could keep all the meat for himself, or share half with his comrade. While keeping all of the meat might bring about a temporary benefit, the next hunt might have a different result and he might return empty-handed, while his friend caught the prey. Over the long term, sharing would be the best option, and this is indeed the case in most of the existing hunter-gatherer societies that still exist in the world. The risk in sharing, however, is that the successful hunter’s partner might accept his share of the meat, but not reciprocate when he was successful. This hunter, in game theory terms, would be a “defector,” or a “free rider.” Part of the use of a large brain is to predict social situations, size people up, and decide whether or not they would cooperate or defect. A hunter who became labeled as a defector or a free rider would face consequences in a tribe over the long term, and if the group felt that he was not carrying his weight, either through selfishness or lack of effort, the cheater would face retribution or even revenge. In Paleolithic times, a group that couldn’t recognize cheaters would be at a disadvantage and would enable the propagation of cheaters until altruism and cooperation was extinguished from the gene pool. Over the course of evolutionary time, this ability to identify defectors led to the development of morality, ethics, and codes of laws. Yet to this day there remain some cheaters who are exceptionally good at it; when these criminal types, many of them sociopaths or psychopaths, are caught and severely punished, people are pleased. According to Buss, “anger towards cheaters motivates revenge, which in turn might deter others from cheating in the future” (407). Even in modern society, humans take great pleasure in the punishment of criminals, a fact that is evident in the popularity of crime narratives where the criminal is brought to justice. In a 2010 study, Haidt and his colleagues studied the reactions of college students to endings of popular films and found that “In general, for the American college sample studied, participants wanted to see revenge. . . . Participants did not just want closure in the mind of the victim; they wanted the perpetrator to suffer.” Although The Green Mile explores the theme of justice in great detail, it is also a story of revenge by default. The town wants to get revenge on John Coffey, but he enacts revenge on both William “Billy the Kid” Wharton, the real killer of the two children, and of Percy, the sadistic prison guard in one of the most satisfying scenes in both the novel and the film adaptation. Percy’s sadistic instincts are used against him as Coffey uses him to kill “Wharton,” which avenges the death of girls. Even more satisfying, though, is Coffey’s revenge against Percy. After healing the Warden’s wife and inhaling all of the disease from her, he grabs Percy and breathes disease back

Rage and Sweet Revenge

129

into him, turning him into a living zombie who then shoots Wharton. Percy’s brain is traumatized so badly by Coffey that he becomes “catatonic” and is committed to a mental hospital for the rest of his life. Wharton suffers a painless death, dying in his sleep, but Percy is symbolically sentenced to life in the prison of his own mind. As King has said in Pet Sematary, some things are worse than death. In Doctor Sleep, Dan enjoys revenge on those who have fed on the psychic energy, or “steam” of others like himself, as their feeding destroys them: “It’s Steam . . . You bastards lived on it; now suck it in and die on it” (493). Even Abra, the twelve-year-old girl, savors vengeance as Rose dies a painful death: “Does it hurt? . . . I hope it does. I hope it hurts a lot” she says (505). Readers, of course, also enjoy the agony suffered by creatures who could torture and kill children, which makes this ending satisfying. While in real life, justice supplants revenge, fiction allows readers to unleash their evolutionary need to punish wrongdoers swiftly and viciously: “rage was powerful” (495). The study of humans’ desire for revenge goes beyond merely enjoying it, however. The subjects in Haidt’s research actually provide evidence to show exactly how revenge should work: “Participants gave us a clearer picture of how to create sweet revenge: a) make the perpetrator suffer in the same way the victim had suffered b) make the perpetrator know that he is suffering for what he did to the victim; c) make restitution to the victim.” Full Dark, No Stars, a collection of novellas, contains stories that King himself has said in the afterword are “harsh” and “hard to read in places” (365). For an author who has made his career by scaring people, that is a strong statement, but it is true. These novellas, in particular, center on horrible crimes, and two of them that I will examine in detail, involve revenge, the kind that participants in Haidt’s study are looking for. “Big Driver” is a classic revenge story. Tess Jean, a professional mystery novelist, is set up, ambushed, and raped by a psychotic serial killer who is part of a psychotic family. In the first part of the book she endured a horrible ordeal of being beaten and raped multiple times, choked, and left for dead in a drainage ditch with the corpses of previous victims. The characters in her novels, the “Willow Grove Knitting Society,” are elderly ladies who solve mysteries, sort of a gray-haired version of The Hardy Boys, and once Tess manages to escape her attacker by pretending to be dead, she herself must become a detective to find out who had done this terrible thing to her. It is worth noting that she refuses to contact the police because she fears that her image will be ruined; she is, apparently, famous enough to be the subject of a tabloid story, were the crime against her revealed, and she lives in a time where women who were raped still are thought of as asking for it. She imagines the tabloids running a picture of her wearing sexy clothing from ten

130

Chapter 13

years ago; “public exposure would make her ashamed. She would be naked. A naked victim,” she thinks (Full Dark 172). Once she has a chance to recover, she undergoes a personality change and her fear turns into anger: “It was as if by raping her, the giant had created a new woman. She didn’t want to be a new woman. She had liked the old one” (158). This new peace-loving woman who writes nonviolent detective stories becomes filled with rage. “Deep inside her (in her harrowed soul) she felt a glowing ember of fury at the man responsible for this” (173). She decides to take the law into her own hands, not just to avenge herself, but for the other women who were killed. She recalls the popular movie genre where heroes enacted vengeance upon those who had wronged them, and she sees herself in their position: “a revenge fantasy. . . . She avoided those kinds of movies, too, but she knew they were out there; you couldn’t avoid the vibe of your culture unless you were a total recluse, and Tess wasn’t” (190–91). Tess, Stephen King, and evolutionary psychologists know that those types of stories are very popular, however, and King’s Constant Reader knows it as well and jumps on board as Tess decides to punish her attacker on her own. “You’re going to pay, Al. And never mind the cops. I’m the one coming to collect” she thinks when she discovers the identity of the Big Driver who raped her. The revenge plays out according to plan, the type of vigilante justice that readers fantasize about. She learns that Ramona Norville had set the trap for her so that her sons could beat, rob, and rape her. Ramona, the mastermind, receives the most painful death as Tess stabs her with a kitchen knife, allows her to understand what has happened to her, and then shoots the woman. Ramona, indeed, suffers, knows why she is suffering, and makes restitution when Tess recovers her stolen diamond earrings. The subjects of Haidt’s study would have given this ending high rankings. The two brothers get off relatively easily with bullets to the head. But justice is done, their crimes will be revealed, and Tess will not be implicated in anything. Unlike real life, with its endless trials and appeals, the evildoers are dispatched and the loose ends are tied up, just the way readers like it. “A Good Marriage” is loosely based upon a real situation where a woman had been married to a serial killer for years without knowing it until he was caught by the police. In King’s fictional account, however, the wife finds out about the husband’s crimes before the police do, and she exacts her own revenge. The novella begins with Darcy Madsen discovering her husband’s secret when she uncovers his hidden treasure box of drivers’ licenses taken from his victims and recognizes one of the pictures from a newscast. When her husband returns home, he realizes that she knows his secret and he puts her in a no-win situation. If she contacts the authorities, she puts herself in danger of being suspected as an accomplice and ruining the lives of her children. Yet if she does nothing, she must live with both the guilt and the

Rage and Sweet Revenge

131

fear that he might kill her. Since her husband is not going to turn himself in, this becomes a classic game of “chicken” in game theory, and her only option is to keep her silence when he promises to stop killing. Although he says he will not kill her, she is understandably terrified and disgusted with her husband, who has become “the darker husband” and so she must play the role of “the darker wife” (Full Dark 334) and deceive him into thinking that she has forgiven him and forgotten his other life as B. D. Darcy’s dilemma is that she loves her husband, or at least loves that part of him that she had known for so many years before learning he is a murderer. But she also knows that, in time he will kill again, and now that she’s aware, she would be an accomplice to any new crimes. She is patient, though, and waits for an opportunity. She bides her time until one day when he comes home excited because he has found a rare coin. They celebrate that evening, and when he has too much to drink, she plots her revenge, though in this case the revenge is for the other women he has killed, and for a young boy who he claimed was accidental, and, of course, to prevent him from committing any additional murders. She is methodical in her strategy, setting up a situation where he is caught off-guard so she can push him down the stairs and make it look like an accident: “She knew what she intended to do as soon as he ordered the second bottle of bubbly” (341). Bob’s death is hard and painful; he has suffered a broken nose, a broken arm, and possibly a broken neck in the fall. And, poignantly, he knows that she has deliberately pushed him. When he asks her why, she first says she doesn’t know, and then she tells him “I guess it was for the Shaverstone boy” (344). Finally, she finishes him off by stuffing a towel covered with plastic down his throat—best of all, he sees what she is about to do when she suffocates him, and he struggles painfully and unsuccessfully. At the very end of the novel, the old detective Ramsey realizes what she has done and assures her that she has done the right thing. And the Constant Reader, of course, concurs. The story fits perfectly into the universal human desire for justified revenge. Revenge, of course, may become pathological, and this phenomenon also appears in “A Good Marriage.” Bob, the “Beadie” killer, mistakenly believes that his horrible crimes are justified because the women he kills are “snooty” and deserve to be raped and murdered. “They wear their skirts too high and show their bra straps on purpose. They entice men” (327), he tells his wife, as if that explains everything. In his mind he is taking revenge against women who reject him. From an evolutionary standpoint, one explanation for this behavior is a highly deviant form of displacement aggression. This phenomenon has been extensively studied in rats. When a lab rat receives a stressful shock that causes pain and frustration, it will attack and bite a companion rat that has not been shocked (Sapolsky, Why 255–56). This aggressive response to stress

132

Chapter 13

and frustration has also been shown in baboons and “humans are very good at it too” (256), which may explain why rates of domestic violence rise with high unemployment rates. On a biological level, Sapolsky says, “displacement aggression can decrease the perpetrator’s stress hormone levels” (Behave 17), which explains why it occurs; it is another evolutionary relic that is still buried in human nature. During high school Bob and his friend B. D. are laughed at by girls, so they plan to bring guns to the school, shoot people, and force the “snooty” girls to have sex with them. Before they can enact this fantasy revenge, B. D. dies in an accident. Bob, still stressed and angry, takes out his frustration on innocent women by raping and killing them years later. And since he has no empathy, he feels no guilt whatsoever. Another case of deviant revenge and displaced aggression occurs in Rage, originally published in 1977 under the Richard Bachman penname. The book, which describes a school shooting, was collected in The Bachman Books in 1985, but King and his publishers have taken the book out of print in response to school violence. And while I deeply respect King’s decision to keep the book off the shelves and away from those who would use it as an excuse to commit violence, I believe the novel has merit in helping nonviolent people to understand the principles of evolutionary psychology that might lead to tragedy. With such an understanding, perhaps future tragedies could be prevented. In fictional form, this novel captures the importance of improving mental health and treating psychological problems before they become deadly. According to biology, violence in humans peaks in late adolescence and early adulthood (Sapolsky, Behave 170), and is more common in males than females, a fact that most people instinctively know. While common wisdom might point the finger at elevated levels of testosterone, the truth is more complicated. Neuroscientists know that the brain is not fully developed in humans until we reach our mid-twenties. The more primitive parts of the brain are completed—the parts that take care of physiological functions like heartbeat and breathing. And the limbic system, which deals with emotions is fully functional. However, the frontal cortex, the analytical, logical part of the brain involved in rational decision making, is still building its wiring in adolescence. It is not growing in size so much as it is growing in efficiency. From an evolutionary viewpoint, it makes sense for the frontal cortex to mature last, because this part of the brain is wired by environment rather than strictly by genetics, as are the older, more primitive regions. The evolutionary advantage of a slowly maturing frontal cortex is to allow it to develop in context with its environment, so it can be better adapted to the conditions that surround it. According to Sapolsky “it is delayed so that the brain gets it right” (Behave 172).

Rage and Sweet Revenge

133

This late maturation of the cerebral cortex explains the behavior of teenagers, who are prone to risk-taking, emotional outbursts, susceptibility to peer pressure, and aggression. Then add Fields’s nine triggers of why we snap into this potion, what he calls LIFEMORTS (life or limb; insult; family; environment; mate; order in society; resources; tribe; and stopped) and there is a potion for potential disaster. While Rage is a book that King does not wish to have readily available—especially to impressionable teens whose limbic systems are overactive and their frontal cortices still developing—I believe an analysis of this book from a biological and evolutionary perspective can provide valuable insight into adolescent violence. Charlie Decker is a realistic depiction of an adolescent who kills two teachers without any real emotion or empathy. He is highly intelligent and articulate, has a high IQ, and in this confessional novel displays a vast amount of knowledge for a high school senior. He is a classic “nerd” who is better at algebra than sports, and he has only one friend, Joe. In fact, the only reason he isn’t constantly bullied is because he enjoys Joe’s protection. He has “weird mannerisms” and is not a member of the in-group of students. When the novel begins, he has already gotten into trouble by attacking one of his teachers, almost killing him, and is called into the principal’s office for expulsion. The novel is written in first person as a “confessional” in the vein of Edgar Allan Poe’s insane narrators, and like Poe stories with their “imp of the perverse” defense, Charlie believes he is sane: “I stand here before you (metaphorically speaking . . .) and tell you I’m perfectly sane. I do have one slightly crooked wheel upstairs, but everything else is ticking along just fouro, thank you very much” (31). Since it is a first-person perspective, however, the narrator’s reliability must be questioned, especially since he is insane as judged by state psychiatrists who sentence him to a hospital rather than to prison. The first part of the novel, when Charlie snaps, is the most powerful and realistic. After a previous incident, where he nearly killed a teacher with a pipe wrench, he is summoned to the principal’s office, where he becomes confrontational. The principal calls him “disturbed” and Charlie snaps: “The words echoed greenly in my head, as if at great depths. They were shark words at deep fathoms, jaws words come to gobble me. Words with teeth and eyes. This is where I started to get it on” (20). The insult trigger for rage was activated, as was his fear of social exclusion. This same trigger was activated when Charlie attacked his chemistry teacher with the wrench. Adolescents are particularly susceptible to insults, since their emotional system is not yet under the complete control of the frontal cortex and they have a “frantic need to belong” (Sapolsky 164). Charlie had been the victim of insult and exclusion often—from his father, who didn’t think he was a real man, from his

134

Chapter 13

classmates, who made fun of his clothes and mannerisms, and now even from his teachers. In hindsight, his rage response was just a matter of time. It is obvious that the school administrators in this novel, published well before the rash of school shootings that started with Columbine, acted badly from the very beginning. They covered up Charlie’s first attack, hoping to save the reputation of the school, and his visits to the school psychologist were unproductive. After his first physical attack, the school should have taken stricter measures; instead, they were totally unprepared for his second meltdown. He was allowed to leave the principal’s office without security or supervision, which directly led to the second attack. “I waited for him to charge out and grab me, all the way to the staircase. I didn’t want salvation. I was either past that point or never reached it. All I wanted was recognition. . . . Or maybe for someone to draw a yellow plague circle around my feet” (23). Of course the book also raises the question of the insanity defense and the law as it applies to minors. Based on the findings of the scientific explanation of brain development, in 2005 the Supreme Court ruled it unconstitutional to execute anyone for crimes committed before they turned eighteen. In decisions in 2010 and 2012, it also forbade life sentences without the possibility of parole, claiming that a still-developing brain was capable of reform. These decisions have prompted a number of debates about the culpability of minors in crimes. The Massachusetts General Hospital Center for Law, Brain and Behavior and researchers are working on answers to these questions by “attempting to promote neuroscientific research that may elucidate the adolescent brain, to establish an effective resource for the translation of new neuroscientific findings that may have implications for juvenile justice to the policy arena, and to realize changes in juvenile criminal law and treatment that accurately reflect the science,” according to their mission statement. This partnership of science and law is an example of how consilience may offer solutions to some difficult issues. One major weakness of Rage, I believe, is that the reactions of the other students aren’t very realistic: a normal classroom would have erupted in pandemonium where students would have fled for the exits, as we have since observed in the unfortunate cases of real school shootings. However, King creates this surreal setting of a kidnapped classroom to provide a metaphorical forum for adolescent problems. The classroom is transformed into a group therapy session, where the teens, including Charlie, share embarrassing secrets. As Clark has suggested, the book might have been better if Charlie had just held the class hostage without killing the teacher (312–13); even in today’s world of graphic violence, that sort of violence would have terrified the students to the point of panic rather than revelation. Carrie White is another example of an adolescent who is pushed into violence by the dangerous mixture of an immature frontal cortex and a host

Rage and Sweet Revenge

135

of rage-inducing triggers. In this story, though, Carrie has a powerful telekinetic ability that she can harness when she is enraged. Carrie’s RAGE circuits are activated by a number of triggers from Fields’s list (life/limb, insult, family, environment, mate, order, resources, tribe, and stopped). Carrie’s first show of strength occurs when she is just three or four years old and sees a neighbor sunbathing in a bikini and asks her about breasts. Carrie’s mother screams at her, makes her come in the house, and locks her in a closet and orders her to pray. Soon afterward, Carrie asserts her powers and hail falls from the sky, furniture flies around the house, and then rocks drop on the White home. Being trapped in the closet engages Carrie’s “stopped” trigger and starts her first rampage. During this episode, nothing in the White’s home is damaged (42), but Carrie does make her mother afraid of her from then on. Carrie’s rage is turned on by the “insult” trigger when she experiences her first period in the girls’ shower and the other girls taunt her. She manages to keep her rage in check but does take it out on a five-year-old boy who taunts her while riding his bike: “Carrie glared at him with a sudden smoking rage. The bike wobbled on its training wheels and suddenly fell over” (28). She enjoys the boy’s screams and wishes she could use her powers whenever she wanted to. Once she goes home, her mother puts her back in the closet and forces her to pray. By now, though, Carrie has been practicing her skills and her mother is afraid that she might break the door down if she keeps her imprisoned for too long. Once Carrie tells her mother that she’s going to the dance with Tommy, her rage surfaces once again when her mother refuses to allow her to go. In this, her “stopped” trigger is activated but so is her “mate” trigger, since she is having romantic and probably lustful thoughts for the first time in her life, and her mother is threatening these emotions. Furthermore, the “tribe” trigger is pulled; for the first time she has an opportunity to belong to a group and to fit in with the others: “I have to . . . to try and get along with the world,” she tells her mother (112), and when her mother refuses, she becomes violent. “Things are going change around here, Momma” (115). She also vows that things will change at school as well, now that she has perfected her supernatural gift: “They had better not start anything. They just better not” (116). When her humiliation occurs at the prom, all of her triggers snap. The insult trigger turns her from victim to avenger. “It was time to teach them a lesson. Time to show them a thing or two” (221). Carrie gloats in her sudden power as she turns the sprinklers on and then she laughs when a boy is electrocuted by the live wires. Another girl is electrocuted and her skirt catches fire: “It might have been at that moment that Carrie went over the edge” (224). In addition to the insult trigger and the humiliation that comes with it, Carrie also knows that Tommy has been killed (mate trigger), that she could have been killed or injured (life/limb trigger), that the rules of society

136

Chapter 13

have been broken (order trigger), that her personal space has been attacked (environment trigger), that her dress has been ruined (resources trigger), that she has been excluded from a group that she finally thought she might belong to (tribe trigger), and that her transformation into a new life has ended (stopped trigger). A lifetime of insult and injury converge on one point as Carrie has her revenge, burning the school, the town, and her tormenters. Her telekinetic ability is an apt metaphor for the power of rage and revenge. And while she might be considered a “monster,” at the end of the novel, when Sue Snell feels her death, Carrie White is a sympathetic figure and Chris and Billy are the villains. The tragedy is that so many innocents are killed— especially Tommy, who, incidentally, is killed by the falling bucket of blood and not by Carrie. However, Chris and Billy’s death do bring about the satisfaction that justice has been done and order has been restored. Rage and revenge are simple tales that fulfill the human universal emotion of “payback” for insult of injustice. These stories are an archetype in narrative and include diverse narratives from Hamlet and Moby Dick, to True Grit and Carrie, the 1974 film version of which is “one of the most memorable revenge movies of all-time” (Bernstein). Like all of the best revenge stories, however, King’s novels go beyond just the mere thrill of “getting even,” though audiences certainly enjoy that aspect of fiction. The Green Mile confronts racism and the death penalty head on. The film adaptation, which remains close to the novel, received an Oscar nomination for best picture, and a People’s Choice Award. “The Big Driver” and Rose Madder delve into the subject of rape and abuse, and Rage examined school violence before it became a household world. Carrie and several other King novels provide insight into religious fanaticism and bullying and the effects these issues can have on an individual and on a community. These stories are entertaining, of course (which is why they have been worldwide best-sellers), but they also give an understanding of the universal condition of rage, an understanding that is perhaps more important than anything else in our fractured society and our troubled world. Science can explain the biochemistry of why people snap. But a good piece of fiction helps an audience understand it on an emotional level, which might help to alleviate at least some acts of rage and violence before they occur.

Chapter Fourteen

Fear Why We Like Scary Stories

In 1927, H. P. Lovecraft wrote “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear” (365). Evolutionary psychology and neuroscience have since proven Lovecraft to be prophetically correct. One of the core affective emotions, according to Panksepp, is FEAR, and its mechanisms seem to be buried in the oldest and deepest centers of the brain, the amygdala, and which, when activated, involves the whole brain. “There remains little doubt that there exists a highly coherent FEAR system in the brain that contributes substantially to the overall emotional response that we typically call anxiety, as well as to more intense forms or terror and dread” (Affective 220). This emotion of fear is an evolutionary adaption to danger, of course, and results in the fight, freeze, or flee response designed to save an organism’s life. Although some fear responses are learned, there is compelling evidence that organisms come with preprogrammed fears at birth. For example, rats born in the lab who have never experienced a predator exhibit signs of fear when even a few milligrams of cat hair are placed in their cage, and children under two years old exhibit fear of sudden noises and unfamiliar objects (221). “Fear is the prototypical negative emotion and a true human universal, one that is found in all normally-developed members of the species Homo sapiens” (Clasen 31). In laboratory settings, animals will try to avoid things that cause fear. Rats, for example, will try to avoid the cat hair in their cage, or escape from it. A house with a cat tends to discourage rodents from living there. Likewise, humans also try to avoid being afraid, at least when the object causing the fear is real. Fear of snakes, for example, is pervasive in the human species, no doubt because any of our ancestors who weren’t afraid of snakes and were bitten by a pit viper died before passing on their genes. Other common instinctive 137

138

Chapter 14

phobias include fear of spiders, fear of heights, and fear of strangers: specific fears manifest themselves at the age when they would be first encountered by an individual (Buss 92). Most humans go out of their way to avoid such things. They avoid spiders, don’t stand too close to the edge of a cliff, and teach their children “stranger danger.” We anticipate danger and fear and prepare for it, hence, cruise ships have lifeboats, automobiles have seatbelts, and many bathrooms even have nightlights. As King has said, “we’re in a very uncomfortable position: we’re the only creatures—at least as far as we know . . .—who are able to contemplate our own end” (Secret 243). While psychoanalytic theory suggests that horror tends to be a subconscious reaction to childhood fears, evolutionary psychology posits that these are ancestral fears inherited for our survival. “While orthodox psychoanalysis has been relegated to the historical curiosity cabinet in psychology departments, it somehow survived in literary university departments and, to a lesser extent, film and media departments” (Clasen 22). Evolutionary biology and neuroscience have rendered much of Freudian theory obsolete and instead explain our fear responses as skills for both individual and gene survival— better to avoid something that might be harmful and is not, rather than ignore something that can be deadly. These ancestral fears have resulted in our ability to experience emotions just by thinking: one need only to think about a creepy, hairy spider to get the chills. Noel Carroll differentiates between natural horror (“real” events such as the Nazi Holocaust) and what he terms “art horror,” which occurs in horror fiction and films (12). One differentiating characteristic of horror from other genres is that the response of the audience mirrors that of the protagonists who are experiencing fear (18). Neuroscientists believe this may have something to do with the mirror neurons in the premotor cortex of the brain, which activate when observing someone else doing something (Sapolsky, Behave 536). The mirror neuron activity “correlates with circumstances of imitation, either conscious or otherwise, including imitating the idea of action, as well as the intent behind it” (537). This might explain why when one person yawns, others follow suit, and why reading about or seeing a character experiencing horror or disgust induces it in the reader or viewer. When the creator of a work of horror hits the right notes, so to speak, the audience shares in the fear, disgust, horror, or terror of the characters. Noel Carroll also explains why art-horror creates fear, even though the audience knows that the cause of that fear is imaginary, in what he terms thought theory: “art-horror here is a genuine emotion, not a pretend emotion, because actual emotion can be generated by entertaining the thought of something horrible” (80). For example, just the thought of being bitten by a snake, or falling off a cliff, or being chased by an eight-foot-tall spider may activate fear circuits, even if we are nowhere near a snake or a cliff, and we don’t believe in the existence of giant arachnids, but reading good fiction can

Fear

139

certainly create these thoughts even in the comfort of our safe and mundane living room. This fear reaction is “a naturally endowed element of our cognitive structure, one upon which the institution of fiction has been erected” (83). The latest evidence from neuroscience supports this view, as fMRI studies have shown that “readers create vivid mental simulations of the sounds, sights, tastes and movements described in a textual narrative while simultaneously activating brain regions used to process similar experiences in real life” (Everding). These studies, conducted by Nicole Speer and her colleagues, suggest that the thoughts produced by reading a text mirror the thoughts produced by engaging in the action or the narrative directly. This would imply that the neurotransmitters, which produce fear will be activated by fictional fear as well, and explains why horror stories and films are scary, even though audiences know they are not real. These studies also support the linguistic theories of J. L. Austin and Searle that posit that words can create reality. Margee Kerr, a self-proclaimed fear junkie, sociology professor, and consultant for theme parks and haunted houses, has worked directly with entertainment venues to terrify their customers. “Lots of people enjoy fear. They love screaming their heads off. . . . They exit haunted houses smiling, laughing, hugging, and giving each other high fives” (6). In 2010, amusement parks in America attracted over 290 million customers (14), skydivers made 3.2 million jumps in 2013 (34), and according to a New York Times article, the public spent $733 million on tickets to horror films in 2017, with Stephen King’s It accounting for over $300 million of the revenue (Murphy). So one question remains to be answered—why do humans enjoy fearinducing activities like riding roller coasters, skydiving, and reading Stephen King? According to Panksepp and Biven, “The answer is simple: At the highest tertiary-process levels of mental activity—for instance, autonoetic consciousness—we can be superbly entertained by having out primary-process systems manipulated in situations where we are in fact safe. We can also enjoy a thunderstorm; however most animals tremble” (15–16). In other words, we can activate the evolutionary fear centers of our brain without having to experience the real life-and-death fear that this activation would trigger in an unsafe setting. As Clasen explains, “the well-told horror tale, in whatever medium, can evoke very real and very strong emotional and physiological reactions in us, essentially sending us on a backwards evolutionary roller coaster ride, straight back to our deep ancestry as hunted prey. And we love it” (7). King says “a great appeal of horror fiction through the ages has been that it serves as a rehearsal for our own deaths” (Secret Windows 30). And as the best-selling horror novelist of all time, he is very good at triggering fears that delight his audience. “Particularly accomplished fright scenes in a horror novel or film . . . captures and holds our attention by engaging the fear system, which, when we are immersed, does not really care that it’s fiction, make-believe, sleight-

140

Chapter 14

of-hand. We know that it’s fiction, which is why we don’t flee the cinema in abject terror or throw aside the Stephen King novel in self-defense” (Clasen 32). Carroll believes much of the attraction of horror narratives centers around our quest to know something that is unknowable, even if it frightens us (182). Hills differentiates between an “affective state” (or feeling) and an emotion and claims that horror “involves an interplay between the two states . . . with cognitive evaluations transforming affects into emotions, while such evaluations can also be challenged or textually complicated. In this latter case, audience emotion is transformed into objectless affect such as anxiety” (28). In other words, affects, such as the sudden shock caused by an unknown object jumping out from the dark, may be transformed into fear if the object is a monster, or relief if it’s just a cat. By the same token, the emotion of fear at the end of the original film version of Carrie, when a hand pushes its way up from the grave, may turn into the feeling of anxiety when the viewer leaves the theater with the impression that the monster is still out there somewhere. King understands the different gradations of fear, and how to use them. “I recognize terror as the finest emotion . . . and so I will try to terrorize the reader. But if I cannot terrify him/her, I will try to horrify; and if I find I cannot horrify, I’ll go for the gross-out. I’m not proud” (Danse Macabre 37). According to Buss, “panic” is a type of instinctual fear caused by an imminent attack, an emotion that would equate with “terror.” Horror would be more like experiencing the attack itself. The gross-out corresponds to the human fear of disease and contamination, or, as King says “a fear of squishy things” (Secret 12), which is why we are revolted by bodily fluids, rotting meat, or moldering food. King often succeeds in invoking terror in his fiction. Terror is generally thought of as the fear that something terrible is about to happen. The Shining, arguably one of the scariest books ever written, hit this mark in many places. One particular scene stands out, when Jack encounters the moving hedge animals in the topiary garden. At first he thinks he is imagining things. But he realizes that they are moving, very slowly, and an analogy makes the scene very real: “It was like that game they had played when they were kids, red light. One person was ‘it’ and while he turned his back and counted to ten, the other players crept forward. When ‘it’ got to ten, he whirled around, and if he caught anyone moving, they were out of the game. The others remained frozen in statue positions until ‘it’ turned his back and counted again. They got closer and closer, and at last, somewhere between five and ten, you would feel a hand on your back . . .” (306–7). Every time he looks, Jack sees that the animals have moved and frozen in place when he looks at them, just like the child in the game. The dog has come close enough that he can see the details, that it was a German shepherd that looked mean. Even

Fear

141

more troubling were the lions, and the buffalo, which had lowered its head to charge. “The thing was, you couldn’t watch all of them. Not all at once” (307). And he wonders with terror what it would sound like if they “got him.” This scene is especially terrible because it is a no-win situation. If the animals really are moving, then they might well attack and kill him. But if they are not, it means he is hallucinating, and he must question his sanity. Either way, something bad is about to happen. Horror is what happens during or after something bad has occurred. Most of the first book of The Stand is horror as the apocalypse is shown in vivid detail. Some of his horrific scenes involve the supernatural. Others, like descriptions of the flu victims, and the breakdown of government are devastatingly realistic. Horror is often delivered through elements of the fantastic or supernatural. One memorable example occurs in the Dark Tower series, when Roland is attacked by the lobstrosity. First the creature tears off two of his fingers and rips through his boot. If it hadn’t been for the waves waking him up in time, it would have easily killed him. The creature has enough intelligence to know that he is weak. “It was almost upon him, a thing four feet long and a foot high, a creature which might weigh as much as seventy pounds, and which was . . . singly-minded carnivorous” (Drawing 19). This alien monstrosity is horrific in its size, speed, and viciousness and, worst of all for Roland, it takes off the two fingers he needs for shooting his pistol. It is insect-like in its structure, combining the worst elements of a spider and a giant lobster. King is just as likely to deliver horror through realism. One of these realistic scenes comes from Misery, where King carefully turns the terror of Annie’s threats into realistic horror. In the film version, Kathy Bates delivers a remarkable performance as she hobbles Paul Sheldon in a scene that is painful to watch. In the novel, Annie amputates Sheldon’s foot with an axe. It takes her two blows to chop his foot off while he watches in horror: He tried to pull back in spite of the pain in his leg and knee and realized that his leg was moving but his foot wasn’t. All he was doing was widening the axe-slash, making it open like a mouth. He had time enough to realize his foot was now only held on his leg by the meat of his calf before the blade came down again, shearing through the rest of his leg and burying itself deep in the mattress. Springs boinked and squoinked. (223)

The realism of this scene, right down to the sound of the axe hitting the mattress, is enough to make the Constant Reader flinch. But King isn’t finished: he goes on to describe in great detail how Annie cauterizes the wound with a propane flame, relating the smell of it to that of a cooked pig that Sheldon recalled from a barbeque in Maui. King brings the scene to a close

142

Chapter 14

with the horror and gross-out of Annie picking up his still spasming foot and taking it out to the trash. The “gross-out” is an instinctive form of revulsion that is preprogramed into the human psyche to keep Homo sapiens from eating poisonous food, handling infections material, and touching “squishy things” that might bite, sting, or carry infections. Aristotle noticed human fascination with the grossout in ancient Greece. “Objects which in themselves we view with pain, we delight to contemplate when reproduced with minute fidelity: such forms of the most ignoble animals and of dead bodies” (11). Even today we have a grim fascination with gross things. People seem unable to look away from the scene of a horrific accident and are fascinated when contestants of survival reality television shows are forced to eat disgusting things like grubs, giant cockroaches, and foul-smelling fish—Andrew Zimmern, the host of Bizarre Foods built a career of eating the foulest food possible. King says he is “not proud” and will use the gross-out technique if all else fails. Early in The Stand he uses the gross-out device to describe the aftermath of the superflu as Stu and the men from the gas station see the first victims, a woman and her child, after their car crashed to a halt. “They were both dead. Their necks were swelled up like inner tubes and the flesh there was a purpleblack color, like a bruise. The flesh was puffed up under their eyes, too. . . . Thick mucus had run from their noses and was now clotted there. Flies buzzed around them, lighting in the mucus, crawling in and out of their open mouths” (8). The man, who is still alive, “began to cough, racking chainlike explosions that sent heavy mucus spraying from his mouth in long and ropy splatters” (9). The description revolts on many levels, not only in the state of the bodies but, even more disturbing, in the potential for transmission of whatever their disease. This fear of sickness is an instinctual fear that has created a lucrative industry for soap and sanitation products. King is a master at targeting evolved instinctual fears. Clasen claims that “horror fiction is crucially dependent on evolved properties of the human central nervous system, and thus that a nuanced and scientifically valid understanding of horror fiction requires that we take human evolutionary history seriously” (Clasen 9). King’s own list of top ten fears is remarkably consistent with those identified by evolutionary psychologists. King’s include fear of the dark, squishy things, snakes, spiders, rats, closed-in places, insects, death, and fear of others (fear of strangers), all of which make the list of people’s most common fears. “One of the greatest abilities King has as an author is being able to understand the fears of his readers and to translate those fears into a work of fiction” (Daley). One of humankind’s most basic instinctual fears is arachnophobia, fear of spiders. This makes sense because primitive peoples could not take a chance on whether or not a spider was venomous or not, so learning to avoid them all was a useful survival skill. Therefore, the spider is a common enough

Fear

143

element in horror, yet no matter how often it is used, it still evokes fear. As Clasen has observed, Needful Things has a cat-sized spider and It has one that stands fifteen feet tall (46): “a nightmare Spider from beyond space and time” (It 1047). “Each of Its legs was as thick as a muscle-builder’s thigh. Its eyes were bright malevolent rubies, bulging from sockets filled with some dripping chromium-colored fluid. Its jagged mandibles opened and closed, opened and closed, dripping ribbons of foam. . . . This foam was alive; it struck the stinking stone-flagged floor and then began to writhe away into the cracks like protozoa” (1048). King adds the gross-out of the wriggling foam to the terror of the giant spider. Another instinctual human fear is being in closed places, especially in the dark. King exploits this fear much of his work, but perhaps the most horrifying example occurs in The Stand when Larry is making his way through the Lincoln Tunnel as he escapes from New York City. This is the part of Larry’s hero’s journey where he is in “the belly of the whale”: “It was much blacker inside than he imagined it would be” the scene begins. Then “claustrophobia wrapped its stealthy banana fingers lovingly around his head and began to first caress and then squeeze his temples” (315). This scene also adds in an element of disgust, our instinctual fear of death and decay. “What was really troubling him, he supposed, were the bodies directly ahead. They were sprawled all each other for eight or nine feet. He couldn’t just step over them as he had stepped over the soldier. . . . If he was to go on, he would have to . . . well . . . he would have to walk over them” (317). Added to this is the thought that there are soldiers at the tunnel’s exit waiting to shoot any stragglers, and all he has is a tiny cigarette lighter that burns his hand if he leaves it lit too long. This is nothing supernatural about this scene, but it checks off some of the worst fears on anyone’s list: fear of the dark, of enclosed places, of strangers (a possible ambush), fear of death, and fear of dead bodies that are beginning to decay. Fear of clowns has become a common fear, and not without reason, since serial killer John Wayne Gacy was a part-time clown. This fear is a direct result of the human aversion to strangers, and since a clown’s face is painted, his emotions are hidden. Furthermore, many tribal societies paint their faces for warfare. Even American football fans often paint themselves in team colors, again to intimidate the visiting team and show their loyalty. Pennywise, the dancing clown, lives in the sewer where “everything floats.” Sewers are closed-in dark places filled with rats, filth, and disease. Pennywise can also take on the form of whatever an individual fears the most, from a character in a horror film to a giant spider. This piles one fear on top of another, which is one of the reasons that readers consider It one of King’s most horrific novels. Interestingly enough, the 2017 film adaptation of It has made Pennywise more menacing than the original 1990 television adaptation, giving the clown a sinister set of multilayered, needlelike teeth.

144

Chapter 14

Stephen King readily admits that he enjoys scaring people (Secret 235). As we’ve seen, one of the ways he does this is by appealing to instinctual fears. The fictional techniques that he applies to these fears, though, effectively transfer these fears to the audience. “The basic groundwork of these stories is their intense realism, rooted in genuine small towns as a rule, and quite average individuals, with all the familiar ingredients of their lives. . . . Into this setting he introduces the abnormal, whether a personal faculty possessed by the protagonist, or a fantastic situation” (Indick 9). He achieves this “intense realism” though concrete detail, imagery, and symbolism that makes readers suspend their disbelief. As I have described in a previous book, ‘Salem’s Lot opens with a description of the town that is so intricate that it might be a guided tour of any real Maine town, and the elements of the supernatural are not introduced until 150 pages into to novel (Anderson, Linguistics 21–22). This realistic description lulls the reader into forgetting that the book is a horror novel. Once the reality of the town is established, the appearance of the supernatural must also be believed. It is also described in concrete, realistic detail; sometimes it is the smallest details that make the horror so real. For example, when Barlow kills Henry and June Petrie by smashing their heads together with superhuman force, Callahan notices the vampire’s fingers: “Callahan had just time to see how long and sensitive those livid fingers were, like a concert pianist’s” (‘Salem’s Lot 535). The ironic juxtaposition of sensitivity with violent death violates the vampire stereotype, ironically making the monster seem even more real. When King does use typical horror tropes such as ghosts and vampires, as he does in The Shining and ‘Salem’s Lot, the supernatural beings are also standing in for other, more mundane yet realistic horrors. “Let’s face it, the things we’re afraid of all stand for other things. I’m not a Freudian and I don’t hold with a lot of the Freudian ideas of symbolism, but I think that we’re symbolic creatures; we’re used to handling symbol” (King, Secret 381). This type of “subtext,” he insists, exists in all horror films and novels, where it lives between the lines (Secret 236). The Overlook Hotel, for example, is more than just a “bad place.” It symbolizes the much more real and common horror of alcoholism and addiction, and how these disorders can trap and ruin individuals and families. ‘Salem’s Lot, which was written during the Watergate hearings, is about secrets and hidden things. “The thing that really scared me,” King says, “was not the vampires, but the town in the daytime, the town that was empty, knowing that there were things in closets, , that there were people tucked under beds, under the concrete pilings of all those trailers” (Secret 236). As I have previously quoted, King says, “the work of horror is not interested in the civilized furniture of our lives. . . . It is in search of another place . . . but perhaps most frequently and most success-

Fear

145

fully, the simple and brutally plain hole of a stone-age cave-dweller” (Danse Macabre 18). According to Clasen, “horror stories function as threat-simulation devices. They sensitize us to danger and have real emotional, cognitive, and behavioral effects—but they can also help us think about evil and to cope with danger and calibrate our responses to it” (132). The Stand, for example, might help people to plan ahead for a possible apocalypse, or perhaps just the possibility of a natural disaster like a hurricane or earthquake. Pet Sematary asks readers to imagine how they would react to the death of a child. Cujo acts as a reminder to have pets vaccinated, and forces readers to imagine the worst consequences of neglecting important details. Noel Carroll posits that the horror tale is popular not only because it activates our feeling of fear, but because it is, essentially, a narrative of discovery. “Most horror stories, including the most distinguished ones, tend to be elaborated in such a way that the discovery of the unknown (voluntary or otherwise), the play of ratiocination, and the drama of proof are sustaining sources of narrative pleasure in the horror genre” (126). In other words, most horror stories involve the search for and discovery of knowledge and turning the unknown into the known. This would invoke the SEEKING system in the brain, or curiosity, if you will. “Stories are enjoyable insofar as they involve plan-like sequences and set problems, not just for the story characters but for the readers” (Oatley 247). King’s use of this idea as a narrative technique will be developed further in chapter 17, which discusses storytelling. Finally, though, we must address what Noel Carroll calls “the paradox of horror” (160). As King has suggested, the horror narrative is composed by a mixture of terror, horror, and the gross-out. So if terror and horror evoke the human affective emotions of fear, and perhaps seeking, the gross-out must trigger the human universal of disgust, an evolutionary survival technique that prevented our ancient ancestors from consuming rotting meat or sleeping with decaying bodies. The fascination with exploring the fear and seeking response makes sense, in that it may prepare us for the possibility of encountering something dangerous, or empathizing with those who do, but why would humans subject themselves to nauseating fictional images or situations that cause disgust, as in King’s “gross-out” scenes? Carroll suggests two possibilities, neither of which is mutually exclusive. First, since narratives and films that rely almost exclusively on the gross-out are most often marketed to teenagers, especially adolescent males, these films may offer a rite of passage to demonstrate that they are able to tolerate and even enjoy high levels of disgust (193). Since adolescent males are often accompanied by females to these types of films, splatterpunk and the like, this notion that they are demonstrating their courage and masculinity makes sense. Carroll’s second hypothesis applies to a more general audience for horror films and fiction. According to this idea, the pleasure of horror, and its related genres of

146

Chapter 14

fantasy, involves the human desire for fascination. “We can account for the pleasure that average consumers take in horror fiction by reference to the ways in which the imagery and, in most cases, the plot structures engage fascination. Whatever distress horror causes, as a probable price for our fascination, is outweighed for the average consumer by the pleasure we derive in having our curiosity stimulated and rewarded” (192–93). Hills also suggests that the horror genre’s popularity transcends just the affective fear response. Hard-core horror fans are less concerned about fear, having been desensitized to it after watching seemingly endless hours of film and/or reading many thousands of pages of fiction. Instead, they have become part of a fan culture that appreciates “horror-as-art” and a “discourse of connoisseurship” (74). This audience derives its pleasure from recognizing and valuing the work of accomplished authors, directors, and/or special effects artists in the genre. Having established himself as a “brand name” in horror, King’s Constant Reader fans acknowledge his skill in entertaining them with his characters and narrative techniques. In summary, fear is a human universal, probably the oldest affective emotion, triggered by the most ancient parts of the brain in conjunction with neurotransmitters that prepare individuals to fight, freeze, or flee. It is an affective system that has proven necessary to the evolutionary survival of all living animal species by inducing them to avoid and escape from dangerous situations. Horror fiction, in general, taps into this emotion and brings pleasure by allowing us to imagine ourselves in terrible situations that are not actually real. Prehistoric people, no doubt, lived in constant fear of their environment. I would venture to say that the average reader of horror fiction does not. Activating the fear sensations and using them to explore the unknown brings enjoyment and pleasure to readers, and allows both authors and readers to examine complex themes that might be outside the realms of “realistic” fiction. Stephen King, the master of horror, has managed to successfully exploit this human universal and, in doing so, has both frightened and entertained millions of readers.

Part IV

Darwinism and the Arts

One of the oldest debates in philosophy is the question of nature vs. nurture, the blank slate that is corrupted by society, or the base animal nature that culture must tame. With new research in neuroscience, cognitive psychology, social biology, genetics, and evolutionary psychology beginning to come together, I think it is safe to say that the answer to that question is twofold: neither and both. As we’ve seen in the chapter on altruism, human traits can be thought of as a coevolution of both genetics and culture, that culture itself evolves (and much more quickly than biological evolution), and that most human traits, even if they have a genetic component, are not controlled by a single gene but a complex interaction between many genes, and complicated further by the environment, including prenatal conditions as well as societal and cultural expectations. With this being said, human imagination and the arts are a perfect example of the multifaceted connections between all of these factors, both genetic and environmental, that work together to produce artistic people and creations. Art seems to be a human universal that occurs in every culture on every continent on earth and has been documented since the discovery of prehistoric cave painting and musical artifacts. Whether the arts, including painting, music, dance, and literature, are the result of biological or cultural evolution has been hotly debated, but there is no doubt that artistic endeavors have had an adaptive value to humans, regardless of how or why they emerged. The arts have brought pleasure and understanding to the world, have helped humans understand one another better, and have given people a sense of purpose.

148

Darwinism and the Arts

Literature could not exist without language, and Pinker, Chomsky, and other experts in the fields of neuroscience and linguistics believe that language or the ability to learn language is an innate human instinct, part of our basic make-up. Scholars such as Harry Jerison believe that “language did not evolve as a communication system . . . the initial evolution of language is more likely to have been . . . for the construction of a real world,” as a “tool for thought” (qtd. in Berwick and Chomsky 64). Complex, symbolic language may even have been the trait that caused Homo sapiens to survive, while Neanderthals became extinct. Many scientists take this one step further and extrapolate this innate human trait to storytelling, which not only entertained prehistoric peoples, but allowed them to share important lessons, information, and even moral and ethical codes from one generation to the next. Language, and its evolution into storytelling, was a gamechanger for the species. Imagination and the arts play an important role in Stephen King’s fiction; a large number of his major characters are writers, painters, musicians, and King himself enjoys playing the guitar. His narratives reveal the importance of the arts. Life, for him, is meaningless without them. And considering the amount of money that is spent on the films, television shows, books, paintings, sculptures, recorded and live music, and dance, it is difficult to imagine how dismal life would be without the arts. The chapters in this section will examine these themes in more detail in King’s work, and how his themes of art and imagination attract readers to his stories. His fiction will also be considered from a storytelling perspective, using elements of narratology to explain the “nuts and bolts” of his discourse, and its popularity. Finally, the themes and literary merits of fiction will be explored using a Darwinist Hermeneutic perspective.

Chapter Fifteen

The Symbolic Animal Imagination and Creativity

Panksepp posits that animals in general, and specifically mammals, have evolved a set of innate emotional systems that have assisted in their survival, and that “neurophysiological homologies exist across all mammalian species” (Affective 10), and that “certain aspirations of all mammalian minds, those of mice as well as men, are driven by the same ancient neurotransmitters” (145). According to this theory, all mammals feel emotions, though, of course, we have no way of knowing exactly how they feel them. Previous chapters have examined some of these affective emotional systems (PANIC/ GRIEF, RAGE, CARE, and LUST) and how they appear in King’s fiction. However, one emotional system, the SEEKING system, underlines each of these others and motivates mammals to escape and avoid unpleasant experiences and to pursue pleasant ones. This system, fueled by dopamine and other neurotransmitters (Pankepp and Bevins 109), is what motivates animals to explore their environment and learn about their world. “When the SEEKING system is aroused, animals exhibit an intense, ethereal curiosity about the world” (98). In humans, this system facilitates learning, creativity, and, in conjunction with the PLAY system, has a role in dreams and imagination. As Panksepp and Bevins have observed, children enjoy playing more than anything else (351), as do young animals of many species—puppies and kittens being probably the most obvious, but research has shown that even rats emit high-pitched noises beyond human ability to hear (“laughter”), while at play. According to Michael Austin, “not only is chase play a human universal; it appears to be a mammalian trait common in both predator and prey species” (57). From the perspective of evolution, play serves a useful function in mammals, what Austin calls a “useful fiction.” Rather than learn 149

150

Chapter 15

how to catch or elude prey by dangerous trial and error, mammals can learn and practice their techniques in the safe environment of their parents and siblings. In humans, when the PLAY and SEEKING systems are combined, people actually enjoy their work and are inspired to create and excel. As Confucius advised, “find a job you enjoy doing, and you will never have to work a day in your life.” This intermingling of play and curiosity has helped elevate humans to be the dominant species on the planet. “The SEEKING system of architects, writers, artists, politicians, and scientists urge them to discover new and better ways to solve problems and to express creativity—it has been a mental engine for all civilizations” (103). “PLAY networks give us perhaps the most evolutionary recent primary-process emotional urge: the urge to engage creatively and joyously in the mental world of others” (438). When audiences engage in creative works such as films, plays, music, dance, and stories, they are sharing in the playfulness of the artistic creators and experiencing positive effects. One example of this is laughter: “at its best, PLAY is permeated by one of the greatest joys in life: the capacity to laugh” (103). Imagination and creativity are important concepts in understanding not only Stephen King’s work, but what motivates the author himself. He has written about creativity in his nonfiction books On Writing and Danse Macabre, and many of his characters are creative individuals—writers, artists, and musicians. This chapter will examine the psychological aspects of imagination, along with King’s own idea of creativity, how it is applied to some of his characters, and some of the creative techniques he uses to make his stories original and compelling. Later chapters will focus specifically on his themes of art, music, and writing in his novels. But first, it is necessary to explore exactly what creativity is and how the imagination works. According to Abraham, “there is presently broad agreement regarding originality and appropriateness as being the two defining factors of creativity across domains of human enterprise” (9). Originality includes the concepts of unusual, new, and unique, and appropriateness signifies useful, valuable, adaptive, and valuable. This view of creativity involves both a creator and an audience that evaluates the creative product. Other elements include the ability to invoke surprise, as well as the “freshness” of an idea, which Pope claims is “more than just ‘new’ or ‘novel’ because ‘refreshing’ may involve making strange things familiar as well as familiar things strange” (xvi). Analogy and metaphor are also considered important parts of creativity. Analogy explains insight “when one forges novel associations between two previously unconnected conceptual frameworks” (Abraham 69), as when a writer or artist combines two completely different elements to form a new and interesting one. Metaphor also combines different elements together to form an interesting picture and to help expand and understand concepts. According to Lakoff and Johnson, metaphor transcends language and works as a means to

The Symbolic Animal

151

bond knowledge: “metaphor is pervasive in everyday life, not just in language, but in thought and action” (3). Creativity and imagination are by-products of the large human brain (73–85 cubic inches), which accounts for 2 to 3 percent of body weight, and consumes 25 percent of a resting body’s energy (Harari 8–9). Using the latest technology, neuroscientists have been able to isolate many of the areas of the brain responsible for creativity and imagination, and even specific regions involved in the enjoyment and production of music, art, and literary endeavors (see Abraham), yet the neural networks are much too complicated to understand all of the possible connections between brain regions at this time. The fact that the human brain has attained such complexity and requires so much energy attests to the fact that this organ must serve as an evolutionary advantage to the human species. “The SEEKING system reflects ancestral learning of such importance that it was built into our brain organization” (Panksepp and Bevin 136). Although creativity and imagination may be thought of as a luxury item in the modern world, a means to create works that entertain us, from an evolutionary standpoint it was an important survival trait to prehistoric humans. “Imagination,” according to Asma, is “creative power” and leads to improvisation, which is the “activity” that occurs when it meets the environment (4). This improvisation has helped the species solve countless problems, resulting in the invention of everything from stone tools to the Mars rovers (one of which is appropriately named “Curiosity”), as well as all the arts and humanities. “There are no gods in the universe, no nations, no money, no human rights, no laws, and no justice outside the common imagination of human beings” (Harari 28); in fact, as Asma states, “Human culture itself is impossible without imagination” (1). Creativity and imagination is the foundation for virtually all but instinctual learning in humans and offers a means to consilience between different fields of study. “The two great branches of learning, science and the humanities, are complementary. The realm of science is everything possible in the universe; the realm of humanities, everything conceivable to the human mind” (Wilson, E. O. “Origins of Creativity” 8). Creativity is the essence of all fiction, especially that in the speculative fiction genres of science fiction, fantasy and horror, which invent worlds that do not, and perhaps cannot exist in any realm except that of the imagination. As Wittgenstein has said, “everything that can be thought at all can be thought clearly. Everything that can be said can be said clearly” (35). Searle’s “principle of expressibility” (19) posits that thought and speech can create the impossible with words. Conventional literary critics may dismiss speculative fiction as being “pulp” or genre fiction, suitable only for light entertainment, but the imaginative ideas in the best of these stories involve the deepest applications of creativity and imagination.

152

Chapter 15

Stephen King’s fiction demonstrates literary creativity on both the macro and the micro levels. On the macro level, his stories create an entire multiverse that can be experienced through the five senses, and characters who have become an iconic part of popular culture. On the microlevel, despite the complaints of his critics, he has used language in a novel and unique way to create this multiverse. In addition, he has demonstrated though his nonfiction writings and through some of his artistic characters some of the ways that creativity works. Many of King’s novels revolve around the theme of the evil place, and he has created some of the most memorable evil places in fiction. The Overlook Hotel from The Shining has become a well-known symbol of the haunted place. The disclaimer from the book reads: “Some of the most beautiful resort hotels in the world are located in Colorado, but the hotel in these pages is based on none of them. The Overlook and the people associated with it exist wholly within the author’s imagination.” While that statement may have been true when King first published the novel in 1977, it soon became erroneous, as his Constant Readers began incorporating the place into their imaginations as well. And now, after two film adaptations and millions of copies in print, the Overlook has become part of popular culture, a powerful symbol of the haunted hotel. Considered one of King’s scariest books, in a 2014 Rolling Stone poll, readers ranked it as his third-best novel, behind only It and The Stand (Greene, “Reader’s Poll”). The “haunted house” story is one of the oldest tales known, and while its modern incarnation began with Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Ortranto in 1764 (Janicker 4), for all we know there were Paleolithic tribes telling tales about haunted caves long before writing was even invented. So the question must be asked: how has King’s creativity and imagination transformed this ancient trope into a best-selling novel that is still read and respected forty years after its original publication? First, King does several things to make this story believable. A typical haunted house story has people going into a place they know to be haunted or failing to leave once they realize that it is, which is what any normal individual would do once they are terrified by a particular place. King solves this problem by placing his “bad place” in an area that is inaccessible after the winter snows hit, making it impossible to leave once things become dangerous. Furthermore, the evil of the place is not triggered until Danny, the psychic son with “the shine,” perceives the malevolent forces. Since he is the only one who realizes what is happening, and he is too young to do anything about it, the family is trapped. With his mind corrupted by the hotel and his addiction to alcohol, Jack has no motivation to leave, and even if he did his financial situation is desperate. King also takes the haunted house out of the realm of the creepy and ancient castle and modernizes it in the form of a luxury hotel for the rich and

The Symbolic Animal

153

famous. Corrupted by the very wealth and success that built the hotel, it symbolizes American capitalist society with its luxurious rooms and flamboyant history. Unlike the decaying castle or derelict haunted house that permeates Gothic fiction, the Overlook is still functional and lived in, except during the winter months when hostile weather forces it into hibernation. Its carefully pruned animal topiary (or maze, in the Kubrick film version), its lavish ballroom, and its enormous, hungry boiler creatively capture the imagination, bringing terrifying images to commonplace things that would be considered attractive under different circumstances. Indeed, the hotel’s summer guests would consider the large bathtubs, artistic topiary, and enormous bar perks during their summer vacations. The Overlook Hotel creates much of its fear because of the way it works on Jack Torrence’s mind. “A strong element of the haunting influence that the place comes to have over him is its appeal to his creativity” (Janiker 110). One reason Jack takes the caretaker’s job is so he will have the space and time to be creative and write his play. Instead, the hotel becomes a parasite, sapping Jack’s creativity, strength, and even masculinity as he becomes addicted to alcohol and the history of the hotel itself and abandons his own creative project. Throughout literature, storytelling has meant life, as it often did for primitive man, who used stories to warn about predators and to teach new survival techniques to the next generation. As a literary example, Scheherazade remained alive as long as she could continue to entertain the king with her stories. Once Jack stops writing, his life deteriorates, and the Overlook is determined to corrupt his imagination and prevent him from completing his goal. The horror of the place is how it metaphorically drains him of his life’s energy, like a vampire feeding on his creativity, and ultimately changes him from a man into a monster. The Shining and the Overlook Hotel also resonate with readers because the book goes beyond being just a scary story as it explores several complex themes of modern life in America. According to Janicker, the Overlook and its evil place motif “is a literary strategy for enacting and exploring the traumas and tensions not just of the period, but America two hundred years after its founding” (106). The novel explores several issues that were important in 1979 and have remained important in American culture since that time. Alcohol and substance abuse are huge problems in the world, problems that King has faced in his personal life and which he explores in his fiction. While The Shining lies firmly in the horror genre, it is really the story of a man and a family destroyed by alcohol. Jack is certainly no saint at the beginning of the novel. He is a recovering alcoholic, had broken his son’s arm in an act of anger, and had hit a student, for which he was fired from his teaching job. Alcohol had threatened to ruin his marriage and accepting the caretaker job at the Overlook Hotel was his last chance at redemption. Jack’s

154

Chapter 15

own feelings of guilt and remorse added to his humiliation of having to swallow his pride and endure the degrading job interview with Ullman. Jack’s addictive personality amplifies his personality flaws once he moves into the hotel. While the horror at the Overlook is extreme, Jack’s bad temper and addiction are responsible for his being there in the first place. The novel shows how these negative traits can destroy a family. Wendy is on the verge of divorcing Jack when he and a friend have a lucky accident and drive over a bicycle in the road. They think they’ve killed a child, but when they learn that the bike had been abandoned in the road and no one was hurt, they are frightened into sobriety. Unfortunately, in the real world most DUI accidents don’t turn out so well. Interestingly enough, Jack cites others in his university’s English department who were “hard drinkers” (155). This, along with King’s own battle with alcohol abuse, correlate with studies showing that “creative writers have been singled out as being especially vulnerable to this condition, both in terms of mental illness and propensity towards substance abuse” (Abraham 204). Another theme of the novel is the destruction of Jack’s masculinity. Again, much of this is related to his alcohol and bad temper. Still, Jack transforms from an up-and-coming writer to a man who is unable to take care of his family. He is forced to endure the humiliation of turning in his resignation after beating up a student, then having to invoke the help of his friend to obtain even a caretaker’s job. He then endures a humiliating job interview where Ullman tells Jack he is unsuitable for the job but Albert Schockley “a powerful man with a large interest in the Overlook” (7) has ordered him to be hired. Jack, who had been filled with pride after selling a story to Esquire, finds himself lucky just to get a seasonal job. “Along with his wife and son, six hundred dollars in a checking account, and one weary 1968 Volkswagen, his pride was all that was left” (52). Jack’s downfall is reminiscent of a classical tragedy, with Jack’s weaknesses being his tragic flaws. It is obvious from the beginning of the novel that the family’s move to Colorado is not going to go well, which is foreshadowed in Danny’s visions. Also, it is obvious that Jack’s temper is going to get him in trouble again: in fact, he shows his temper soon after his arrival at the Overlook when he is stung by a wasp. Even as he says, “I’m getting better” he thinks, “they will pay. They will pay for stinging him” (167). While contemplating the wasp’s nest, Jack has remembered the incident with George, the student he beat up in the school parking lot for slashing his tires. Jack relives the incident where he was so consumed with sudden rage that he didn’t even remember hitting the boy (165). As mentioned previously in the chapter on violence and aggression, anger is a primitive survival emotion that “is not created out of environmental events but represents the ability of certain types of stimuli to access the neural circuitry of RAGE within the brain” (Panksepp, Affective 189). The wasp string triggered this emotion at the

The Symbolic Animal

155

Overlook, and George’s destruction of his property triggered it in the school parking lot. This evolutionary response to defense of oneself and one’s property is responsible for violence on a daily basis, from instances of road rage to someone punching a wall. “This beastly propensity toward rage is deeply ingrained in human nature, and that seemingly anyone can suffer a rage attack with a horribly remorseful outcome” (Fields 33). As Strengell has noted, “The horror in King does not ultimately derive from the supernatural monsters but from the reader’s realization that he himself could be Jack” (98). Finally, the Overlook Hotel is a symbol of capitalism and corruption, and the economy of the haves and the have-nots. The hotel, with its opulence and luxury, symbolizes the greed and decay of the ruling class that patronize it. To King, who grew up in a lower-class family and had to work hard to achieve his success, income inequality has been an issue. In 2012, in The Daily Beast, he urged the government to raise his taxes, and the taxes of other wealthy Americans like him (“Stephen King: Tax Me”) and admitted that although he donates over four million dollars to charity per year, money will not solve America’s responsibilities such as solutions to the problem of global warming, or taking care of the sick and the poor. He goes on to harshly chastise his fellow members of the wealthy club: “The majority would rather douse their dicks with lighter fluid, strike a match, and dance around singing ‘Disco Inferno’ than pay one more cent in taxes to Uncle Sugar.” In fact, neuroscience has shown that higher levels of income inequality in a society lead to poor health and higher death rates (Sapolsky, Why 375). As reported by Mariani, a study conducted in 2005 by Noble and Farah at Columbia University used fMRI technology to show developmental differences in the brains of poorer children, including the observation that the prefrontal cortexes of children living in poverty were thinner. In 2015, a follow-up study showed smaller surface areas in the brain regions associated with language and executive functioning. Another 2015 study by Pollak found less grey matter in the frontal and temporal lobes and the hippocampus. While the authors did not specify the exact causes of these discrepancies in the brains of poor children, we might speculate that prenatal care, nutrition, clean water, lead-free environments, and other issues associated with poverty probably contribute to this problem. Furthermore, income inequality is also “a major predictor of violent crime across America and across industrialized nations” (Behave 295). In this case, the Marxist approach to literary criticism matches up with science as it discloses how capitalism can lead to greed, corruption, and suffering. In The Shining, King’s depicts Ullman as the stereotyped uncaring supervisor: “Wendy didn’t much care for Ullman or his officious, ostentatiously bustling manner. He was like every boss she’d ever had, male or female. He would be saccharin sweet with the guests, a petty tyrant when he was backstage with

156

Chapter 15

the help” (129). The wealthy guests aren’t portrayed any better. One obnoxious woman in a fur coat throws a fit when the hotel won’t take her credit card, and Ullman has to appease her (94). For Stephen King’s millions of readers, make-believe small Maine towns and places have become a real part of popular culture. Castle Rock is the setting for or mentioned in a number of King’s novels, including The Dead Zone, Cujo, Needful Things, and Elevation, to name just a few. In 2018, Castle Rock, a new series based on King’s work premiered on Hulu. The other major fictional town, Derry, is the setting for It, Insomnia, Bag of Bones, Dreamcatcher, and others. In these novels, particularly It, Derry is described in such details that devoted fans have created maps of the town and posted them on the internet. Stephen King’s official website includes a map of Maine that shows the location of all of the fictional towns (“Stephen King’s Map”). Shawshank Prison, the Pet Sematary, and ‘Salem’s Lot are other iconic locations in the King canon. Much like Falkner’s Yoknapatawpha County, King’s worlds are interconnected to each other and to a larger and extremely complex multiverse with the Dark Tower itself as its hub, and spokes leading out to other worlds like an interdimensional wheel. The world (or worlds) of the Dark Tower books encompass a multiverse that includes the settings of most of his novels. King himself has stated this, and Vincent and Waiter et al. have described the connections of other stories to the central hub of the Dark Tower in detail in their books. The most iconic Stephen King figures in popular culture are his characters, especially his villains. Carrie White is the icon of the senior prom gone wrong, Cujo represents scary, rabid dogs everywhere, and Annie Wilkes, immortalized by Kathy Bates in the film adaptation of Misery, is the embodiment of the stalker, the “number one fan.” These characters are interesting because they are not the traditional evil villains or supernatural beings, but, much like Jack Torrence, are just characters gone wrong. Carrie, a very sympathetic character, turns deadly after being bullied. Annie Wilkes suffers from a mental illness. And Cujo is a “good dog” destroyed by rabies. These characters are memorable for two reasons. First, King has combined elements in an ironic way to create them—a teenage girl with the power to destroy a town, a nurse who loves romance novels and is a vicious killer, and a loveable St. Bernard that goes mad from disease. Second, these characters are highly believable because they could exist in the real world, and, in some ways, we sympathize with them. Carrie could be our neighbor, Annie our nurse, and Cujo our beloved pet. King has created his share of iconic fantasy villains as well, and they have also entered the collective unconsciousness. The most noteworthy of these characters, Pennywise the Clown, has had the greatest influence on popular culture. “Even if you’ve never seen or read IT, you’re likely familiar with the

The Symbolic Animal

157

iconic image of Tim Curry as Pennywise the Dancing Clown, with his sharp teeth and bright red hair” (Schwartz). The creative element here is how King has combined humor and terror to tap into an ancestral fear of being unable to recognize a human identity underneath the makeup. According to Andy Greene, “It has caused more people to fear clowns than perhaps any movie, book or TV show in history” (Reader’s Poll). The 1990 television miniseries was seen by 18 million households: “never before had a scary clown appeared in living rooms across the country” (Radford 80) and there have since been two newer film versions. The character of Pennywise has inspired an entire subculture of “creepy clowns,” that began in 2013 in Europe and reached their peak in 2016 (Schwarz), where people have dressed up as clowns and terrorized people. In 2016, the “creepy clown craze” resulted in “at least a dozen people arrested for taking part in the menacing stunt or for making false reports. . . . The clown sightings have left people musing whether they’re linked to a marketing ploy for the next Stephen King horror movie—a remake of ‘It’—or are something more sinister” (Shankar). Pennywise and other scary clowns have become a staple for Halloween costumes, and one parents’ website even begged for people to stop impersonating clowns: “You’re going to find yourself up against a person who has a serious clown phobia and knows some jiu-jitsu and someone is really going to get hurt. I mean, no one loves a good prank more than me, and it might seem funny to you (ha ha!), but this is some terrifying shit. Have you read Stephen King’s It? You should. Clowns are no joke” (Wilsey). King himself, in fact, called upon his fans to “cool the clown hysteria” (Flood) before Halloween in 2016. Finally, in 2019, fast-food giant Burger King capitalized on coulrophobia (fear of clowns) in its advertising campaign against McDonalds, promising “clown-free birthday parties” and showing photos of terrified children with clowns (Mettler). While there has been a dichotomy about clowns long before It, Stephen King has amplified it to the point where professional clowns are upset about it (Shanker). “The evil clown is a supercharged version of the conspecific predator, a homicidal human exhibiting unpredictable, psychotic behavior. The clown masks its inner life, its intentions and motives, by obscuring its face with paint, thus making it unreadable and unpredictable” (Clasen 47). For an author who has been criticized for not being able to create believable characters, King has crafted characters that have become embedded in popular culture. Some of them, like John Coffey and Paul Edgecomb from The Green Mile, are heroic figures, while others, like Pennywise and Randall Flagg, embody evil. The film versions have helped make these people, places, and things iconic, but the ideas had to be fascinating enough to turn into films in the first place, and even then, not all films are memorable. Another creative technique is King’s ability to put together different things in new ways on a large scale. The combination of knowledge from

158

Chapter 15

different areas and fields is termed “consilience” by E. O. Wilson, who believes that this convergence of knowledge leads to new, creative understandings. King has adapted this idea into the framework of his stories. “King’s fiction is created as a fusion of several genres, which also contributes to his large readership” (Strengell 100). The idea of merging and melding different genres is pervasive in Stephen King’s novels. In the Hodges trilogy, Joyland, and The Outsider, he combines the mystery novel with horror. The Stand combines science fiction with fantasy, as does Revival, The Tommyknockers, and Under the Dome. The Green Mile, The Dead Zone, and Firestarter combine science fiction with the thriller. The Dark Tower series, perhaps the most creative and imaginative of all his works, combine the science fiction and the fantasy epic with the western gunfighter genre, and pulls most of his other novels into the overall multiverse he has created. The Dark Tower series, he says, is “a combination of Robert Browning’s ‘Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came’ and all those Sergio Leone westerns with Clint Eastwood I saw when I was a kid. You put two things together and somehow they connect” (Secret 392). King acknowledges this combination of divergent ideas is important in his work: “good story ideas seem to come quite literally from nowhere, sailing at you right out of the empty sky: two previously unrelated ideas come together and make something new under the sun” (On Writing 37). On the micro level, King also exhibits a creativity in his use of language. While much of his prose may be considered simple and homespun, it reflects the genuineness of his characters. “I grew up as part of America’s lower middle class, and they’re the people I can write about with the most honesty and knowledge. It means they say shit more often than sugar when they bang their thumbs, but I’ve made my peace with that” (188). According to Peter Straub, “this voice is one of King’s most potent inventions” (xi). King compares himself to Frank Norris, who wrote about the working class and told their stories truthfully. “Talk, whether ugly or beautiful, is an index of character” (189), King says. According to Blatt’s computer analysis of clichés in the works of literary and best-selling authors, in King’s 51 novels he uses clichés at the rate of 125 per 100,000 words. To put this in perspective, James Paterson has a cliché rate of 160, James Joyce 118, and Toni Morrison 97. Since this includes clichés occurring in dialogue, it does reflect King’s average, working-class characters, and narrators, including teenagers who would be more likely to use clichés in their speaking. King’s use of figurative language sometimes vacillates between creative metaphors and clichés to create effects and contrasts. In The Stand, for example, on a single page King uses some beautiful metaphors as he describes the Trashcan Man’s trek through the desert. The narrator describes “the savage gunmetal sky” mountain peaks that “sawed their teeth indifferently at the brilliant sky” as he had been in “God’s

The Symbolic Animal

159

frying pan for a week now.” Then, as he moves from the narrator’s bigpicture point of view and into Trashcan Man’s head, he turns to the cliché, describing him as “just as mad as a hatter” (576). This movement from the poetic to the mundane parallels the journey from the mind of a god-like omniscient narrator to the mind of a psychopath. Many of King’s characters and narrators are simple, hometown folks, and so their stories and language reflect their background. For example, Needful Things opens with an unnamed narrator addressing the Constant Reader directly: “You’ve been here before” (2). The reader is returning to Castle Rock, a setting that has been an important place in King’s canon. This narrator speaks in informal, ungrammatical language and uses the stereotyped clichés that such a character would use: “I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts”(5); “that woman has got more kinds of flowers . . . than Carter has liver pills” (7); and “things are going to look like small potatoes next to what’s coming” (9). These clichés make the world feel familiar, that these are people we know, everyday people who aren’t heroic, but are just average, most of them working-class people whom one might find anywhere. Yet even these “average” people have their clever sayings, sort of regional nuggets of wisdom: “people have more fun than anybody, except for horses, and they can’t” (5). While Stephen King downplays style to story in his fiction, he does enjoy the use of creative language. “The use of simile and other figurative language is one of the delights of fiction—reading it and writing it, as well. When it’s on target, a simile delights us in much the same way meeting an old friend in a crowd of strangers does” (On Writing 178). In his own work, he is quite capable of turning a phrase. Some of his most memorable metaphors come from his nonfiction works about writing. “Books are a uniquely portable magic,” he says in On Writing (104), a line that has become a catchphrase for bibliophiles. In Danse Macabre, he equates Coleridge’s “suspension of disbelief” not to a balloon but to a “lead weight, which has to be hoisted with a clean and jerk and held up by main force” (104). In the introduction to Skeleton Crew he says, “A short story is like a quick kiss in the dark from a stranger.” Despite critics’ contention that his style is simple and unsophisticated, King does pepper his fiction with interesting and entertaining metaphors. He describes the loss of a loved one in Lisey’s Story in reaction to the cliché that time heals all: “time apparently did nothing but blunt grief’s sharpest edge so that it hacked rather than slashed” (14). He personifies time again in 11/22/63: “Time turns on a dime” (510). Time is described again: “Time is a keyhole. . . . We sometimes peer through it. And the wind we feel on our cheeks when we do—the wind that blows through the keyhole—in the breath of all the living universe” (Wind 245). And, in one of my personal favorites, he refers to the butterfly effect in an effective image: “great events turn on small hinges” (Institute 9). These metaphors

160

Chapter 15

force us to look at time in a different way than the cliché of time being money or a straight path to be traveled. Instead, it becomes an object that causes blades to dull, or an object that darts to the side quickly, or a locked door that teases us with its limited view or turns easily. He also uses metaphor as a descriptive device to bring concrete images to life. “The town kept its secrets, and the Marsten House brooded over it like a ruined king,” describes both the house and the mood in ‘Salem’s Lot (635). The detail and description in his fiction are perhaps his strongest stylistic point. In The Gunslinger, for example, he describes Roland’s pistols in intricate, photograph-like detail: Below the waterbag were his guns, carefully weighted to his hands; a plate had been added to each when they had come to him from his father, who had been lighter and not so tall. The two belts crisscrossed above his crotch. The holsters were oiled too deeply for even this Philistine sun to crack. The stocks of the guns were sandalwood, yellow and finely grained. Rawhide tiedowns held the holsters loosely to his thighs, and they swung a bit with his step; they had rubbed away the bluing of his jeans (and thinned the cloth) in a pair of arcs that looked like smiles. (4)

And sometimes he says much in just a few words: “the world had moved on” (3). Finally, many of King’s characters and narrators are very creative people. A child artist is a character in Insomnia and reappears in The Dark Tower series, an architect turned artist narrates Duma Key, and a graphic novel artist is the protagonist of Cell. Larry Underwood, a musician, is a major character in The Stand. Many of King’s novels are populated by authors, writers, and English teachers, including ‘Salem’s Lot, Joyland, and Bag of Bones, to cite just a few. Probably the most creative of all these characters, though, is Scott Landon, the deceased novelist in Lisey’s Story. This character has conquered both the literary world and the world of popular success, a rare combination that makes him a “unicorn” in the world of publishing (Anderson, “Four” 107). Landon has won the Pulitzer, and the National Book Award, and sold enough books to make him wealthy and famous, including a best-selling horror novel. King’s list of author-characters includes writers who are either popular or literary, but Landon is the only one that is so successful in both areas. This can be explained by his creativity, which King carefully showcases. One of King’s themes is about “the healing power of the human imagination” (On Writing 207). Scott Landon is a perfect example of this concept at work. As an abused child, Landon invented a make-believe world in his imagination where “the world is so thin” (326) and he could escape from the horrors of his real life. His father and brother both suffered from mental illness, and Scott fears that he might also have this disease. He manages to

The Symbolic Animal

161

escape his depression and post-traumatic stress disorder by teleporting himself to this place, which he calls Boo’ya Moon. As an adult writer, he has learned to hang on to this imaginary world, travel to it, and fish in it for stories and ideas from the “word pool, the story pool and the myth pool” (97). Landon’s imagination is so strong that he can teleport to Boo’ya Moon at will and can even take others. In this part of King’s multiverse, Scott can see into the future and knows that he will die prematurely, and that his wife will be killed unless she can escape to Boo’ya Moon herself. While he is alive, he takes her there once, and she goes there a second time to take him home when she fears he can’t come back. During his life he leaves clues for his wife so she can travel there after he is gone and save herself. Boo’ya Moon is an extended metaphor for the power of words and story to make the imaginary real, both in our minds and, sometimes, in real places such as the Orlando theme parks, an example of life imitating art. Makebelieve worlds like Oz, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and Narnia have entered the realism of popular culture through words written on a page. With future advances in gaming and virtual reality techniques, humans are drawing even closer to making the imagination real. Lisey’s Story offers an analogy for the realm of creativity and the imagination. Scott’s Boo’ya Moon is the human imagination in Scott’s world, and presumably in King’s as well. In his lectures, Scott refers to it as a “place” rather than a state of mind, as it would be in King’s view of an extended multiverse. “His audiences might believe the myth-pool, the language-pool was figurative . . . she knew better. There was a real pool” (328). Once Lisey goes there, she understands this place as well: It’s the pool where we all go down to drink, to swim, to catch little fish from the edge of the shore; it’s also the pool where some hardy souls go out in their flimsy wooden boats after the big ones. It is the pool of life, the cup of the imagination, and she has an idea that different people see different versions of it, but with two things ever in common: it’s always about a mile deep in the Fairy Forest, and it’s always sad. (338)

Boo’ya Moon is a sad place because imagination works on its own time and requires waiting for something that may come, but no one knows for sure when and if it will. It is also a dangerous place because once someone is there long enough, it is difficult to escape. This realm of the imagination isn’t for everyone—there is room for thousands but the place is nearly deserted— and it borders on madness. “This place is a trap. She’s sure that anyone who stays at the pool for very long will find it impossible to leave” (343). The only thing that keeps Scott from drowning in its madness is his writing and Lisey herself, his anchor to the “real” world.

162

Chapter 15

This imaginary world is not easy to get to. It requires a childlike belief, a belief that Scott acquired when he was young as a means of escaping an abusive father, and it requires the ability to picture it in concrete images involving all of the senses. Scott has taught Lisey this skill, but she still doubts whether she will be able to teleport there now that Scott is dead. The trip requires all of her senses: “she recalled how utterly amazing and wonderful it had been to go from the bitter subzero Maine night to that tropical place in the wink of a maiden’s eye. The somehow sad texture of the air, and the silky aromas of frangipani and bougainvillea. She remembered the tremendous light of the setting sun and the rising moon and how, far off, that bell was ringing” (332). Her powers of remembrance and imagination are strong enough to transport her to that world. Boo’ya Moon illustrates not only the power of imagination, but its rarity and elusiveness. Only a fraction of those who have access to imagination ever use it, as Boo’ya Moon seems nearly deserted. Also, some of those who have made the trip have fallen into madness and are unable to return. There is evidence that some forms of anxiety and mental illness are related to creativity. According to Brian Matthews, a horror writer and psychologist, “neuroimaging techniques reveal that depressed or anxious people are unable to deactivate activity in the right precuneus of the brain, and that then acts on the amygdala, which results in more negative imaging activity. . . . This same type of brain activity can be observed for the creative acts of editing and revising” (qtd. in Murray 190–91). The artistic world has an assortment of examples of mentally ill geniuses, including Vincent Van Gogh and Sylvia Plath; “creative, successful people are eight times more likely to suffer from a depressive illness than a control group” (218). Furthermore, there is a mythology that creative individuals must rely on alcohol or drugs, which results in a tendency for some artists to do so. King battled this issue, fearing that he would not be able to write if he were drug-free. “The idea that creative endeavor and mind-altering substances are entwined is one of the great pop-intellectual myths of our time,” he says in On Writing (98) after realizing that his sobriety did not dull his imagination. Finally, travelling into the world of the imagination is not easy, and producing creative works requires both skill and hard work. “If you don’t want to work your ass off, you have no business trying to write well” (144). In summary, creativity and imagination are evolutionary traits that helped our species to survive, adapt, create tools, and invent culture, and they are traits that are still admired today, as audiences will pay money to experience a creative experience. Stephen King’s horror novels demonstrate creativity on many levels, which is another reason for their popularity, and for the increasing attention that critics are giving them. King’s works tap into the human need for originality by taking traditional horror elements and twisting them into new forms, creating places, scenarios, and characters that are

The Symbolic Animal

163

unique and have become part of popular culture. His iconic places, like the Overlook Hotel, or the small Maine towns of Derry and Castle Rock, or the Dark Tower, have been drawn with such detail that they are real to readers. The same holds true with characters such as Carrie White, Annie Wilkes, and John Coffey, who have been magnified even further in the human consciousness by high-quality film adaptations of these stories. Cujo has become the personification of the rabid dog, and clowns have never been the same after the publication of It. King’s language use is also unique and creative, as he successfully captures the utterances, thoughts, and ideas of middle-class America in his fiction. While it might seem simple and homespun (as might the prose of Hemingway, for that matter), it effectively delivers its message and creates a believable, multidimensional world, even when that world is a fantasy place like Boo’ya Moon, the Dark Tower universe, or middleclass America during the Kennedy administration. King’s language is simple but precise: the use of brand names and specific minor details give his narratives a texture of authenticity. King’s narrative style is also replete with creative metaphors that surprise and open up new and interesting meanings. Scott Landon’s character lives in a world of such extended metaphors, with imagination being a pool from where he gets words and stories. Unimaginative people dare not venture into the pool, but some look at it and others enter its water and wade in it. The true geniuses are able to go deeper into the pool and fish for “the big ones.” Imagination and creativity are elusive in the modern world, where professionals are paid to create experiences and the mass of people merely consume them. King’s creativity is one of the factors responsible for his wildly successful career.

Chapter Sixteen

The Arts Soothing the Savage Beast

Creativity and imagination are uniquely human traits that helped prehistoric peoples survive in a number of ways. Equipped with larger brains, hips, and limbs that allowed them to walk upright, and hands with movable fingers and opposable thumbs, creativity spawned a revolution in toolmaking and technology that allowed Homo sapiens to be the dominant species on the planet. Creativity also birthed the creative arts: music, dance, painting, language, and storytelling. “The birth of the humanities [occurred] . . . closer to 1,000 millennia [ago], and it took place at the site that seemed most logical: the nocturnal firelight of the earliest human encampments” (Wilson, E. O. Origins 8–9). Based on the best available evidence from archeology and paleontology, early humans sang and danced around the campfire, told stories, created music with drums and bone flutes, and probably made carvings and jewelry from wood and stone. They also created the visual arts, as evidenced by cave paintings from prehistory. The arts are a human universal that distinguishes our species from others—though birds may sing, they are not capable of composing music—and, therefore, artistic creations are important parts of every culture on earth. King’s fiction reflects this importance in virtually every one of his works. This chapter will examine music, dance, and the visual arts in King’s fiction, and the following chapter will look at language, literature, and storytelling. Since the arts have survived and flourished from prehistory to the present time, they must have provided some evolutionary advantage. Most evolutionary biologists believe that language acquisition is such an advantage since it allowed humans to communicate and pass on knowledge among the members of the group and to the next generation. Pinker, however, believes that 165

166

Chapter 16

music is a by-product of language, “an auditory cheesecake, an exquisite confection crafted to tickle the sensitive spots of at least six of our mental faculties” (How 534). In other words, it has no survival value, but was a nice luxury that language brought along for the evolutionary ride. Patel claims that music is not an evolutionary adaptation, but a transformational technology, “something we invented that transforms human life” (401). Darwin believed music might be a form of sexual selection, like the peacock’s tail, and may have factored into religious rituals: “Music . . . awakens the gentler feelings of tenderness and love, which readily pass into devotion” (Descent 637). Love songs have been a standard trope in music for as long as it has been recorded, and music remains an integral part of religious ceremonies to this day. “The Darwinian roots of the arts can be witnessed not only in the groupies who mob the lead guitarist of a successful rock band, but also in the tears of sublime pleasure rolling down the cheeks of a singer in a church choir” (Dutton 245–46). Some scientists believe that music and dance aided in social bonding in prehistoric groups and may even have had survival advantages. “Singing around the ancient campfire might have been a way to stay awake, to ward off predators, and to develop social coordination within the group” (Levitin 258). Another theory suggests that music might be the oldest form of art and preceded language, and still another idea is that music and language evolved in parallel lines as distinct forms of communication (Mithen 26). Mithen supports the theory of musicologist Stephen Brown, who proposes that there is “a single precursor for both music and language” (26). Regardless of how or why music has developed, it is obviously a human universal as evidenced by the fact that the music industry generates billions of dollars a year through recording sales alone. “Music was and remains all around us: we hear it when we eat and try to talk in restaurants and airport lounges; it is played all day long on the radio; in fact, there are few occasions when someone is not trying to fill moments of potential silence with music” (Mithen 13). As it relates to narrative, musical scores accompany films, television, and drama. It is no secret that Stephen King is a music lover and an amateur musician and guitar player. He has been part of a charity rock band, The Rock Bottom Remainders, composed of notable authors. His love for music, especially rock music, is reflected in his fiction. First, King’s books usually contain lyrics from well-known songs, either in an epigraph, before chapter headings, or in the texts themselves. Furthermore, songs and music are often referred to even when they are not quoted directly. Lisey’s Story begins with an epigraph from “When the Stars Go Blue” by Ryan Adams, and also quotes lyrics from two songs by Hank Williams. Christine contains over a full page of fine print for permissions to song lyrics used in the novel; there are fifty of them in all, one at the beginning of each chapter except the last, which quotes from a Robert Creeley

The Arts

167

poem. On the copyright page, King admits that it was difficult to obtain the required legal permissions. Furthermore, these permissions cost money and, though King can certainly afford to pay it, he must believe they are worth the time, effort, and cost, or else he wouldn’t use them. According to biologists, music arouses emotion in listeners and “often manipulates our mood” (Mithen 23). Printed lyrics to popular songs, therefore, bring back the memory of the song and the emotions associated with it. The song lyrics in Christine, for example, from Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley, The Beach Boys, and others, bring back the nostalgia of the time when rock and roll was still young—the time when the 1958 Plymouth named Christine was still new. This music brings back memories of the days when teenagers drove their cars with rock and roll music blasting from the radio, and, as discussed in chapter 9, a feeling of nostalgia that humans find pleasant. Virtually every teenage boy from that era remembers his first car—mine was a used powder blue 1966 Mustang convertible that, regrettably, clocked more mileage on the back of a tow truck than it did on the highway. Since all of the lyrics in Christine are related to cars, they rekindle the love that Americans, especially teenage boys, have for the automobile. These lyrics serve the same purpose as a movie soundtrack in this novel, setting the mood and playing in the background of the action. In the 1970s and 1980s obtaining a driver’s license was a rite of passage for sixteen-year-olds—according to Cross, 46 percent of teens had licenses in 1983 compared to just 25 percent in 2014. At that time it was possible to buy a cheap “junk” car and fix it up, as Arnie does with Christine. As time passed, automobiles have become more technologically difficult to repair and more expensive, and restrictions have been put on teen driving. A favorite pastime of teens, immortalized in the 1973 film American Graffiti, was to “cruise” the streets, show off their cars, and play loud music. The automobile was the only sanctuary of privacy for teens during that time. Many of the song lyrics recall memories of specific classic cars. The Chuck Berry commemorates a red Mustang in chapter 17 and yellow Deville convertible in chapter 38. In chapters 34 and 41, The Clash and Bob Seger salute the Cadillac, and in chapter 27 The Medallions invite their audience to ride in a 1959 Buick. Other lyrics reminisce about the “cruising” experience that teens of King’s generation remember so well, and the sense of freedom and rebellion that the automobile provided. In the lyrics opening chapter 23, for example, the Chuck Berry song “Riding Along in my Automobile” brings back the experience of cruising the streets with a girl and listening to the radio, and Glenn Frey’s lyrics in chapter 6 celebrate teenage rebellion. King divides Christine into three distinct sections, with music defining each theme. Part I, “Teenage Car Songs,” celebrates the love of the automobile as Arnie acquires Christine and brings her back to life. Part II, “Teenage Love Songs,” recounts the time when Arnie gets a girlfriend, and Christine,

168

Chapter 16

now street-legal, becomes his mistress. Part III, “Teenage Death Songs,” tells the story of how everything turned bad, complete with song lyrics about teens killed in cars. This three-act structure built around music not only ties the book together, but allows the shift from Dennis’s point of view to that of an omniscient narrator when Dennis is hospitalized, a technical narrative problem that King admits he struggled with (Spignesi 183). The song lyrics, carefree and nostalgic in the novel’s beginning, turn violent in Part III, foreshadowing the disaster that will occur. Chapter 45 references a flaming crash of a young man, chapter 46 laments a death on the railroad tracks, and chapter 47 shows a teen dying alone in a wreck, covered with blood and glass. The music in Christine mirrors the story, and in addition to creating nostalgia that draws the reader in, it enhances the theme and meaning. Music and dance also evoke nostalgia in 11/22/63. King is well-versed in pop music from 1955 until the present, and is especially interested in sharing his early taste in rock and roll with his readers. “The music that made the biggest impression on me was rock ‘n roll from the early fifties. I tried to get into the book the excitement that kids felt to hear someone like Jerry Louis, Chuck Berry, or Little Richard. The first time you heard Little Richard your life changed” (“Conversation” 829). The enhanced e-book contains a playlist of songs he listened to while writing the book, and the reader is invited to listen to the playlist while enjoying the novel. One of the epigrams from the book, “Dancing is Life,” is a saying that Jake repeats throughout the novel when he is the happiest. When he first dances the Lindy Hop with Sadie at the high school dance they chaperone, it is a magical moment: “We danced under the lights. Dancing is life” (11/22/63 371). Later, as Jake settles into life in the 1960s, he reminisces on this simpler time, with typewriters, S&H Green Stamps, and real butter on popcorn. “Home is watching the moon rise over the open, sleeping land and having someone you can call to the window, so you can look together. Home is where you dance with others, and dancing is life” (399); since dancing probably began around ancient hominid campfires, this concept coincides with the anthropologists’ theories that dance was a strong social force that united groups of people. It has also been suggested that dance may have offered an example of Darwin’s sexual selection theory, since those who were most fit, agile, and coordinated would be able to showcase their talents to potential mates. As King says, dancing is “symbolic of the courting ritual” and the “changes in dancing mirror the changes in the way we court and love over the years” (“Conversation” 829). Dance is also interesting from another evolutionary point of view, bipedalism. Homo Erectus achieved bipedalism some 1.8 million years ago, an adaptation to being able to stand up to pick fruit in more ancient ancestors, and then to adapt a running gait on the savannah. This ancestral species instinctively developed a rhythm, according to Mithen (152). This rhythm was necessary for endurance running, which some biologists believe might

The Arts

169

have been more important to hominids than walking. This bipedalism, combined with the lowering of the larynx and the enlargement of the brain, may have paved the way for music and dance to evolve in prehistoric Homo sapiens. Dance itself may have grown out of hand gestures that accompanied emotion and may have helped in early forms of communication. This image and description of dance in 11/22/63 reinforces King’s overall theme that the arts, music, dance, visual arts, and writing are some of the things that not only make life worth living, but which metaphorically at least, are life. From the perspective of cultural and biological coevolution, the arts are one of the distinguishing qualities of Homo sapiens. By 80,000 years ago, humans had developed the ability to process symbolic information, a necessary trait for language and artistic endeavors (Tattersall 234). Once discovered, the arts have defined culture throughout human history and biological scientists and anthropologists agree that it played a role in every known civilization from ancient Mesopotamia to the present. Music is also an important theme in The Stand, which incorporates lyrics from a number of songs in the narrative, including songs by Paul Simon, Bruce Springsteen, and Chuck Berry. Most interesting, though, is the quotation of lyrics from Larry Underwood, one of the major characters in the story. Larry had been a struggling musician and realized his big break just before the onset of the superflu, when his single became a hit on the Billboard Music charts. Ironically, just when he achieves the success he has fought so hard for and achieved a piece of fame, the plague takes it all away and he becomes just another survivor. Along the way, Larry has come to see music more as a business than a passion, as a means to fame, women, and parties. Once the commercial recording business is essentially wiped out by Captain Tripps, he rediscovers why he embraced music in the first place. He finds a guitar and, as they sit by the campfire, Nadine asks him if he plays. He tells her that he does but doesn’t mention his backstory as a musician. He “discovered that he wanted to play, not for her but because sometimes it felt good to play, it eased your mind. And when you had a bonfire on the beach, someone was supposed to play the guitar. That was practically graven in stone” (453). This scene, set in a world that has suddenly turned from the age of technology to a primitive, almost Paleolithic world, echoes the sentiment that prehistoric humans must have felt sitting around their campfires. Prehistoric flutes made from bone have been found and dated to 30,000 years ago (Wilson, E. O. Social 281), and early man undoubtedly knew how to sing and chant, and probably danced to the music as well. This music instinct would, indeed, have been “graven in stone.” As Larry plays, the child “Joe” becomes fascinated with the music. Joe has not been able to speak or even tell Nadine his real name. In many ways, he resembles a prehistoric hominid, without language or culture. But as soon

170

Chapter 16

as he hears the music, he “grins in the way of someone who has discovered a glad secret. Larry thought he looked like someone who had been suffering from an unreachable itch between his shoulder-blades for a long, long time and had finally found someone who knew exactly where to scratch” (454). Later, Larry hands him the guitar and “the boy struck up ‘Jim Dandy’ almost flawlessly, hooting at the words rather than singing them. . . . At the same time it was perfectly obvious that he had never played a guitar in his life before” (455). This power to “soothe the savage beast” illustrates the importance of music, both to prehistoric humans and to humankind today. According to Levitin, music can improve people’s moods because it “taps into primitive brain structures involved with motivation, reward, and emotion” (191). Music affects the cerebellum, the “reptilian” part of brain that helps us to unconsciously measure the passage of time, and which connects directly with the emotion-producing parts of the brain. Panksepp claims that soothing music may release oxytocin in the brain (Archeology 306), which decreases anxiety. Music can also induce sadness, perhaps by creating “sounds that may acoustically resemble separation DVs [distress vocalizations]—the primal cry of being lost or in despair (Affective 278). In fact, music, particularly high-pitched sad notes, can be so moving that it produces “chills” or “goosebumps,” a response controlled by the release of opioids by the brain (279). Joe’s reaction to the music is supported by neurological evidence that the speech and music centers of the brain can operate exclusive of one another. Autistic children are often moved by music even though they have difficulty with language and traditional emotional responses. Shebalin, a world-class composer, suffered a series of strokes that destroyed his ability to produce coherent language or understand speech, yet, he was still able to compose what critics called brilliant works that they considered as good as or better than those he created before his stroke (Mithen 34). Jamie, the narrator and protagonist of Revival, also discovers that he has musical talent at the age of thirteen when he picks up his older brother’s neglected guitar. “Talent is a spooky thing, and has a way of announcing itself quietly but firmly when the right time comes” (Revival 96). Without realizing exactly how, he teaches himself to play Cherry, Cherry in just ten minutes, and he falls in love with playing the guitar. King likens musical talent to writing: “Jamie, just has natural talent. What he can do on the guitar, I can do when I write. It just pours out. Nobody taught me. In Revival, I took what I know about how it feels to write and applied it to music” (qtd. in Greene 79). The arts, music, dance, and literature, all bring life and joy to the human species. Although scientists cannot pinpoint exactly when prehistoric peoples discovered the visual arts, they do know that petroglyphs from caves in India date to at least 290,000 BCE, and a discovery in 2000 by Lawrence Barham of pigment in a stone age site in Zambia “suggests that early humans engaged

The Arts

171

in body painting rituals as early as 400,000 years ago” (Himelfarb). Over 75,000 years ago at Blombos Cave in southern Africa, perforated shells have been found that are believed to have been strung as beads and used as body adornment (Tattersall 221). Plaques showing a distinctly cross-hatched pattern have also been found in these caves, suggesting that symbolic thinking evolved over 70,000 years ago (222). A cave painting of a pig-deer in Indonesia has been dated at over 35,000 years ago, and the famous cave paintings in France are approximately 30,000 years old (Marchant). Art seems to be as old, widespread, and diverse as humanity itself. “Throughout the entire world, at all times and for all kinds of reasons, people have engraved and painted rocks. Wall art is found on all five continents, in the bush or in deserts, on mountain flanks, on cliffs alongside major waterways or at the bottom of canyons in the wilderness” (Clottes 44). Regardless of how or why, it appears to be a human universal. “The universality of art and artistic behaviors, their spontaneous appearance everywhere across the globe through recorded human history, and the fact that in most cases they can be easily recognized as artistic across cultures suggest that they derive from a natural, innate source: a human universal psychology” (Dutton 30). Paleontologists have learned much about the principles and techniques of Paleolithic art from studying cave paintings and artifacts, but the less asked question is why prehistoric people engaged in this activity. From an evolutionary point of view, it seems to have no obvious survival value, and unless ancient artists were somehow considered more sexually attractive, the selfish gene theory provides no explanation. The coevolution of culture and biology may provide some insights, however, particularly when the cultural history of art is thrown into the equation. According to Clottes, prehistoric people developed a shamanic type of religion, a hypotheses first proposed by Mircea Eliade in the 1950s, which served as a basis for their art (20). This type of religion, Clottes goes on to say, has been “documented from every continent and predominantly linked to hunting economies” (20). This religion is based on the belief that special individuals can spiritually link with the gods and supernatural forces of their world. The caves containing these paintings, then, may be the prehistoric equivalent of the cathedrals of the middle ages, complete with their own religious art and probably chanting and music, since some cave sites have excellent acoustic qualities. Clottes speculates the paintings, mostly of animals or occasionally human-animal hybrids, documented the beliefs and mythology of these ancient peoples and were believed to be sources of power (151) and possibly an explanation of the creation of the world. “Construction of myths relating to the creation of the environment one inhabits is a process that counts among the universals of human thought” (149). Furthermore, these sacred caves may have held more practical life-giving qualities. In the Cosquer cave in France, speleothems had been broken and

172

Chapter 16

removed in prehistoric times, and large areas of the cave walls had also been scraped away. These stalactites and stalagmites contain calcium, and, when crushed into powder, would have had numerous medicinal uses, including treating diarrhea, coughs, and wounds. Powder scraped from the cave walls may also have been used as medicines, “It is possible that in Cosquer cave, in association with abundant wall art, we have the first concrete examples of the use of particular specific medicines in the history of the world” (145). For the Paleolithic humans who visited these caves, the art, embedded with supernatural power, and the minerals in the rocks may have been a source of life, both metaphorically and medicinally. The prehistoric arts brought people together to form cohesive groups, practice religion, celebrate and mourn, and even heal themselves. As a side note, prehistoric tattoos may also have had a medicinal function. Studies on Otzi the Iceman, a 5,300-year-old mummy found in the Alps in 1991, suggest that his 61 tattoos were placed at the “hard-working parts of his body,” spots commonly used for acupuncture (Solly). The iceman apparently suffered from a number of ailments, including arthritis and intestinal disorders, diseases that may have been targeted by these complex incisions. Herbal remedies and medicines were also found with the body, indicating that his copper-age culture had more knowledge of medicine than was previously thought. If the tattoos were therapeutic in nature, this supports the idea of art being life, even in ancient societies. This theme of the life-bringing power of the arts consistently runs through King’s fiction. While this is primarily showcased in the characters of authors, like Paul Sheldon of Misery who has to write for his life, life is associated with visual artists as well. As King has noted, “Life isn’t a support system for art. It’s the other way around” (On Writing 101). This view of the arts as an essential human universal, rather than merely what Pinker calls “cheesecake,” is evident in both prehistoric cave paintings and modern places of worship, not to mention museums, art galleries, book covers, and even pictures that everyday people hang on their living room walls. Duma Key is the most obvious example of the power of art in King’s fiction. The protagonist, Edgar Freemantle, is a highly successful building contractor who is nearly killed when a crane rams into his car. He loses his right arm, suffers a fractured skull, broken ribs, and a shattered right hip. His speech and memory are impaired, and he experienced a constant state of anger. After months of rehab and a divorce, he escapes from his former life and takes up residence at a resort home on Duma Key, a small island on Florida’s west coast, where he will recuperate. While there he decides, with the help of his psychologist, to take up sketching and painting, a hobby he’d always been interested in. Miraculously, he discovers that he has an amazing artistic ability that astonishes the local art critics and gallery owners. Freemantle’s art is undoubtedly therapeutic, as are his daily walks on the beach,

The Arts

173

and he grows stronger, both physically and mentally. He meets Wireman, a retired lawyer who had attempted suicide and was now caring for Elizabeth Eastlake, an old woman who owns the island and the property he is renting and who is a patron of the arts. This novel, narrated by an artist, speaks eloquently about art and the artistic process. First, he claims that art “re-makes the world,” and that the act of doing so is heroic. “Pictures are magic” the narrator asserts (1), and although this fact may not be obvious in chapter 1, it is shown to be true by the end of the book. The magic begins when Freemantle begins to paint things that he shouldn’t know. First, he paints his ex-wife with two different men, lovers that she has had since the marriage ended. When he realizes that one of the men, his friend, is suicidal, he is able to confirm his knowledge through his wife, and she is able to prevent him from taking the murderer’s life. In this scenario, art has given life. His next magical painting, that of a serial killer who has been captured and jailed, truly does remake the world by taking his life away. Much like a shaman, Freemantle paints these magical art works in a trance, and barely remembers completing them. In the painting of George “Candy” Brown, the serial killer, Freemantle depicts the murderer without a face, and the next morning Candy is dead in his jail cell. In a third scenario, Freemantle “re-makes the world” when he uses his artistic powers to heal. His friend, Wireman, suffers from headaches and vision problems as a result of his unsuccessful attempt to shoot himself in the head. Freemantle obtains one of Wireman’s MRI scans, then uses it to paint a realistic picture of his friend when he was younger, before the suicide attempt. Miraculously, Wireman’s headaches and vision problems are cured. Of course, King reminds us that not all magic is good, and it can be hijacked by dark forces. This is ultimately what happens on Duma Key, where Perse (Persephone), an entity from outside the known world, returned to life by invading the mind of three-year-old Elizabeth. Persephone, kidnapped by Hades to be his wife and queen of the underworld in Greek mythology, is depicted by Homer as being capable of sending up a monstrous Gorgon (270). This goddess of mythology, a creature from another world, is both beautiful and dreadful, and in Duma Key has been embodied in a china figure wearing a red robe, found by Elizabeth’s father from a ship’s wreckage. Perse commands a death ship, and once she has taken root in Elizabeth’s three-year-old mind, she transforms the child into an artistic prodigy and causes the little girl to bring her powers back through her artwork. At first, Elizabeth’s artwork is surreal and entertaining, smiling horses and upside down birds, but the side effect of the art is that these things come to life. Then the art becomes more malevolent as Elizabeth paints the ghost ship and the storm that becomes real and dumps the treasure in the Gulf for her father to find. As Freemantle learns, “art is magic, and not all magic is white” (152).

174

Chapter 16

With the help of her nanny, Elizabeth has drowned Perse in a cask of freshwater, and the cask was buried in a cistern at the deserted end of the island. Now in her late eighties and suffering from dementia, she recalls none of this but has left clues to follow, along with the warning that the cask was leaking; Perse was back. Freemantle’s arrival at the island was no accident, and once Perse had him there she immediately gifted him amazing artistic talents as well. His paintings bring the death ship back to reality. At first the gift is truly a remarkable gift, and it provides effective physical and mental therapy. He says that when he was painting at Little Pink, he “felt totally awake and alive, a man in exactly the right place at exactly the right time, a ball that was a perfect fit for its socket” (294). Freemantle was transported to another world, a world where he experienced the power of artistic creation: “the fascination of seeing something real emerge from nothing . . . stole over me” (499) It became an addiction to him, a way to stop the pain and itching of his phantom lost arm. “When I was in the work, the pain and grief were at bay. The work was like a drug” (502). In these descriptions of creation, King captures the feeling of being in the artistic zone, so to speak, a magical place where artists, authors, dancers, and musicians find their enchanted, powerful place. It is the artist’s version of Nirvana, Scott Landon’s Boo’ya Moon. As Freemantle says, “The images rose in my mind, clearer and clearer [and] held such hidden memories of their making and makers, encoded in their strokes like DNA” (444). King depicts the artist as not only a creator of art, but as the creator of reality. This view probably goes back to the prehistoric caves of our ancestors and can be documented in antiquity in ancient Egyptian artwork and hieroglyphs painted on tomb walls and designed to return the dead to life in the afterworld and provision them with food, drink, and luxury. Insomnia introduces Patrick Danville, another child artist who reappears as a hero in the last Book of the Dark Tower series. Patrick is mute, but he speaks the language of art, drawing the world with his black pencil. Like Elizabeth and Edgar Freemantle, Patrick can change reality with his art. Like Freemantle, he can heal, as he does to Susannah when he draws her, then erases a cancer on her face. Like Freemantle, who creates passages between realities by painting the death ship, Patrick also draws a doorway allowing Susannah to leave Mid-World. Finally, he destroys the Crimson King by drawing him and then erasing everything but his eyes, which he has colored with a mixture of Roland’s blood and the juice from a rose, rendering him powerless. Patrick’s genius amazes even Roland, who thought he had seen just about everything. “The image of the Crimson King was haunting in its clarity. . . . It’s as if he had a third eye, one that looks out from his imagination and sees everything. It’s that eye he looks through when he rolls the other two up. To own such an ability as this . . . and to express it with something as humble as a pencil!” (792). When this seven-book series finally

The Arts

175

concludes, the artist is shown to possess more power even than Roland, or his nemesis, the Crimson King. The only character more powerful is the author Stephen King, the “character” who created the multiverse. Music, dance, and visual arts are part of the fabric of American culture, a theme that is strongly reflected in King’s work, and which has its roots in evolutionary biology. Music accompanies all major life events, from “happy birthdays” to funerals dirges. Music and dance occur at weddings, parties, and performances. Virtually every American household has a piece of visual art on the wall, either an original or a print. According to data gathered by the National Assembly of State Arts Agencies in 2015, 66 percent of the population attended a live visual or performing arts activity, and the value of artistic production in America was $763.6 billion. King’s work thematizes the importance of the arts in all of our lives, from the wealthy patrons of art in Duma Key to the high school students in 11/22/63. Even the farmers of Calla Bryn Sturgis in Mid-World enjoy their music and dance, and Roland’s dancing ability is probably the element that wins their trust. To King, his characters, and to us, the arts are more than what Pinker calls “cheesecake”; they are a vital part of survival and life, and they can make the imaginary come to life. For King, this is especially true in language and storytelling, the subject of the next chapter.

Chapter Seventeen

King’s Symbolic Animal Language and Storytelling

The human species is the only known species to ever live that has acquired a complex language complete with grammar and symbolic use of words. While Neanderthals may have had some form of communication that was holistic and musical (Mithen, Singing 221), early Homo sapiens evolved along a different line based on symbolic language. “The changeover of Homo sapiens from a non-symbolic, nonlinguistic species to a symbolic, linguistic one is the most mind-boggling cognitive transformation that has ever happened to any organism” (Tattersall, Masters 240). It may have been due to a mutation of the FOXP2 gene, which seems to be critical to speech and language; just two amino acids in this gene make humans different from chimps and gorillas (Mithen 249). “It was, in essence, the origins of symbolic capacity that is unique to the human mind (Prehistory 209). There is no doubt that complex, symbolic language provided an extraordinary evolutionary advantage to modern humans, as evidenced by the fact that all other members of the genus Homo, including Homo neanderthalensis and Homo floresiensis (the so-called “Hobbit Man”) that coexisted with Homo sapiens have become extinct. “Most anthropologists attribute the remarkable success of Homo sapiens to language, a capacity they believe was absent from all other members of the Homo genus” (Singing 246). Symbolic language not only allowed early humans to describe and categorize their world, but, perhaps even more importantly, it allowed them to express thoughts about the past and the future. This was most certainly done through storytelling, beginning with the first use of symbols some 70,000 years ago to the present. “How did Homo sapiens manage to cross this critical threshold [of groups of 150 individuals], eventually founding cities comprising tens of 177

178

Chapter 17

thousands of inhabitants and empires and empires ruling hundreds of millions? The secret may well have been the appearance of fiction. Large numbers of strangers can cooperate successfully by believing in common myths” (Harari 27). These first stories were oral stories and probably were true stories of a successful (or unsuccessful) hunt and offered useful advice on further hunting expeditions—and probably a bit of exaggeration of heroic deeds as well, if contemporary “true life” stories are any indication. These early people would tell others of where and how they found game, fruit, fresh water, and any number of other practical incidents or information that helped the group and the individuals within it to survive. Before long, some of these true stories evolved into what Michael Austin calls “useful fictions,” which he defines as “any statement, proposition, narrative, or piece of information whose adaptive function does not require it to be true” (xiii). Evolutionary biologist Randolf M. Nesse’s “Smoke Detector Principle” (Good 47) posits the idea of better safe than sorry. For example, a paleolithic hunter who hears a noise in the bushes and imagines it is a lion rather than a squirrel has a better chance of survival than one who ignores the noise that turns out to be a lion. According to Austin, the smoke detector principle predicts that in time, narrative would incorporate exaggeration, excitement; these elements are critical components of successful fiction (56–57). Some of King’s “useful fictions” might include warnings to beware of rabid dogs (Cujo), advice to build good fences to protect children (Pet Sematary), and a reminder to keep a key to the handcuffs near before playing bondage sex games (Gerald’s Game). According to sexual selection theory, the best storytellers may even have had the most reproductive success, since they would become known for their intelligence, creativity, and ability to communicate and perhaps seduce others. Over time, this ability to use language to teach, explain, entertain, and predict causal events enabled humans to become the dominant species on the planet. In the contemporary world, humans are still “addicted to story” (Gottschall, Storytelling xiv). Contemporary actors, who relive stories for us on the stage and digital screen have become recognizable celebrities, as have film directors and even the occasional writer (Stephen King can no longer attend autograph sessions because of the crowds he draws). In 2017, the film industry alone made $43 billion in revenue (Robb). Adult fiction books generated $4.38 billion, and children’s and young adult fiction earned another $3.67 billion in 2017 (Rowe). Storytelling is, indeed, big business. While there certainly are critics that question King’s literary merit, his popular success is beyond dispute. Over the last forty-five-plus years he has published more than fifty books of fiction, and, on November 28, 2019, the time of this writing, was ranked number two on Amazon’s most popular authors in literature and fiction. Every one of his books is still in print, with

King’s Symbolic Animal

179

the exception of Rage, which he allowed to go out-of-print because of its controversial content about school shootings. He is read by baby boomers like me, and the millennial students in my English classes. Virtually all his novels have been adapted into film, and other works such as the Castle Rock series have created new stories based upon his settings and characters. Over the years, King’s “brand name” has grown increasingly popular and shows no signs of slowing down. There are some very good reasons for this popular success, which I will examine in this chapter. Evolutionary scientists are convinced that storytelling has provided a significant evolutionary advantage to Homo sapiens, an adaptation that has only occurred in the human species, and which has made a major contribution to our success as the dominant life form on the planet. While scientists may debate the finer points of how language and storytelling developed, there is no doubt that it provided early humans with tools that helped them learn from the past, predict the future, interpret the present, and share what they learned with other members of their tribes, which allowed the formation of larger clans that transformed into societies. Neuroscientists like Ramachandran believe that metaphorical language is unique to humans and is a definitive characteristic of the species (163). Pinker believes that the ability to create and use language is a hardwired instinct: “people know how to talk in more or less the sense that spiders know how to spin webs” (Language 5). Berwick and Chomsky observe that, while language is certainly important for communication, that “statistically speaking, for whatever its worth, the overwhelming use of language is internal—for thought” (Why 64). This means that language constructs our world, and the stories that we tell ourselves, memories of the past and plans for the future, shape our world almost every minute of every day. Deacon has called humans “The Symbolic Species,” and claims that “the real power of symbolic communication lies in its creative and constructive power. . . . A whole novel can be used to convey a sense of a unique life experience” (312). Boyd contends that narrative benefits both storytellers and their audiences, giving storytellers status, and audience a basis on which to make strategic decisions and that, as a result, “narrative has become so central to human life” (Origin 176). According to David Sloan Wilson, “story is the coin and currency of culture” (“Evolutionary” 33). Harari says that “fiction has enabled us not merely to imagine things, but to do so collectively” (25). Gottschall claims that “fiction has probably taught you as much about the world as anything else” (149). This gift of passing on knowledge through narrative remains with us today, as we read for both enjoyment and education. In his fiction, King places story above style, character, and theme, tapping into this human passion for narrative: “the story should always be boss” (On Writing 190). Paul Sheldon, the author protagonist in Misery, calls this “the power of the gotta” (249), the need for the reader to know what happens next.

180

Chapter 17

In creating his narrative for Annie Wilkes, this narrative power saves Sheldon’s life with its “certain passive hold over her” (249). According to studies by Oatley, “narratives that simply offer a basic event sequence are not much liked, whereas, for example, when description of a significant outcome is deferred, the narrative is liked better and involves suspense” (Best 247). Roland Barthes describes this narrative power in terms of semiotics in what he calls the “hermeneutic code . . . by which an enigma can be distinguished, suggested, formulated, held in suspense, and finally disclosed” (S/Z 19). In other words, successful authors pose questions, or enigmas, and then withhold answers until later, which builds suspense and keeps the reader engaged. “All successful narratives of any length are chains of suspense and surprise that keep us in a fluctuating state of impatience, wonderment, and partial gratification. We are held this way until the final moment of closure” (Abbott 57). Noel Carroll calls this “erotetic narration . . . the idea that scenes, situations, and events that appear earlier in the order of exposition in a story are related to later scenes, situations, and events in the story as questions are related to answers” (130).The best example of this, of course, is the detective story, which begins with a detective trying to solve a murder and picking up clues along the way; the author carefully drops breadcrumbs yet withholds the identity of the killer until the very end. And, as Noel Carroll observes, “a key narrative element in most horror stories is suspense” (128). A number of narrative techniques are used to build this suspense, and King is a master of them all. I will examine some of these strategies in his novels to demonstrate some of the “tricks” he uses to keep his Constant Reader’s attention. Seymore Chatman makes a clear distinction between story and discourse in narrative, with the story being the characters and the chain of events they engage in, and the discourse being the manner in which that story is told (19). In Narrative Discourse, Genette explains that one important part of discourse, how the story is told, involves the author’s distortion of time (anachrony) and how this is accomplished using specific narrative devices. The first method I will examine is what Genette terms “as prolepsis any narrative maneuver that consists of evoking in advance an event that will take place later” (Narrative 40). This technique, commonly referred to as foreshadowing, plays an important role in creating Barthes’s “enigmas” and generating suspense. Gerrig outlines the necessary ingredients for sustaining suspense: the reader lacks knowledge (79); there is an important target outcome (80) with “situations triggering strong feelings of suspense . . . in which the reader is most motivated to take on the explicit role of problem solving” (82);there is a challenging problem space; and the suspense survives a period of delay (86). As Gerrig notes, “it clearly takes reasonable skill to sustain suspense” (87), and King uses an array of narrative devices to accomplish this task. The Stand is crammed with prolepses, beginning with the prologue when Charlie rushes home from work in the middle of the night and wakes his

King’s Symbolic Animal

181

wife, an event that poses an enigma compatible with Barthes’s hermeneutic code, an enigma that Sally states directly: “Charlie, what is it? What’s wrong?” (xv). An interesting prolepsis occurs when she then asks him if it’s a fire. This very shrewdly foreshadows the many fires that occur in the novel, from those set by the Trashcan Man to the destruction of Las Vegas by a nuclear warhead. The answer to Sally’s question is delayed, of course, when he tells her that it is worse than a fire, and not to ask questions. Eventually he tells her that there was an accident, and the reader can deduce that it occurred on a military base, since his leaving was going AWOL. But the only clue we have as to the nature of the accident is that it killed people quickly, and that Charlie has a cough that is getting worse, which foreshadows what will happen to him next. The Stand could be considered a trilogy, with the first book being the apocalypse of the superflu, the second book being about the reuniting of civilization into two major groups, and the third book being the showdown between those groups. Each section builds its own suspense. Will the favorite characters survive? Will they make it to Boulder? Will they defeat Randall Flagg? Some of these questions are answered within each section, and others are delayed until the very end of the novel when it becomes evident that humanity will not only survive, but flourish—and probably rebuild the kind of technological world that nearly destroyed it. The very last chapter, “The Circle Closes,” creates another enigma that reverberates within the audience after the text is complete and the book is closed: what kind of trouble will Randall Flagg cause next, now that he has managed to land in a new world as Russell Faraday. “Life was such a wheel that no man could stand upon it for long. And it always, at the end, came round to the same place again” (1153). For true King aficionados, this ending is a prolepsis for the ending of the entire Dark Tower series, which essentially ends where it began, with just a slight deviation of the turn of the wheel. Another extended prolepsis in The Stand concerns the characters supernatural-type dreams about both Randall Flagg and Mother Abigail. Although the characters dream about the dark man, foreshadowing his appearance, Flagg is not introduced directly until chapter 23: “Randall Flagg, the dark man, strode south on US 51, listening to the night sounds that pressed close on both sides of this narrow road that would take him sooner or later out of Idaho and into Nevada” (180). This introduction acts as another prolepsis to the Dark Tower series, foreshadowing the opening of The Gunslinger, which was published four years after King’s first release of the abridged version of The Stand: “The man in black fled across the desert and the gunslinger followed” (3). Some of the characters in The Stand also dream of Mother Abigail, yet she doesn’t directly enter the novel until chapter 45, when “she tottered out onto her porch” with her coffee and toast (481) in direct contrast to the dark man’s stride. King skillfully uses the good dreams and the terrible

182

Chapter 17

nightmares to foreshadow the roles these two enigmatic characters will play in gathering the plague survivors together. Finally, The Stand employs an obvious prolepsis in chapter 72, when Stu breaks his leg. Larry, Glen, and Ralph are forced to leave him behind, and through a clever use of misdirection, King says “and they never saw Stu Redman again” (1056). The insinuation is that Stu Redman will die in the desert, an ending that seems most logical, especially since Mother Abigail has already predicted (in another prolepsis) that not all of them would return. The narrative later reveals, of course, that Stu does survive, but the other three members of the group are killed, which fulfills both the prophecy and the foreshadowing of chapter 72. The Shining, a classic King horror novel and a reader favorite, is the type of book that activates “the power of the gotta.” Although the book is a hefty 600-plus pages, many readers find it almost impossible to put down (including me when I first encountered it back in the prehistoric late 1970s). As fellow horror author Chad Clark says, “from a storytelling perspective, King has put on a clinic on how to develop tension and suspense throughout a book” (21). The tension of the novel begins with references to how isolated the family will be and the difficulty of obtaining help should an accident occur: “suppose your son or your wife tripped on the stairs and fractured his or her skull” (King, Shining 11). Halloran’s discovery of Danny’s “shine,” his warnings about room 217, and his instructions for Danny to call him if there’s trouble all foreshadow future events. Even Jack’s nickname for his son, “Doc,” is an extended (and probably unintentional) foreshadowing of Doctor Sleep, the sequel that was published thirty-six years after The Shining. Danny’s ability to “shine” forms another string of prolepses throughout the novel, as King reveals future events through the eyes of a boy who can see but not understand them. Tony, a projection of his older identity, tries to warn his five-year-old self, but Danny’s inability to understand written language and the significance of his messages complicates matters. King foreshadows future scenes in his prolepses and his metaphors. For example, Danny experiences the future through his “shine” when he experiences his father’s thoughts when Jack is thinking about shingles and the possibility of a wasp’s nest (44). Then, immediately after Danny sees Tony, his “old friend” and feels both pleasure and fear, “as if Tony had come with some darkness hidden behind his back. A jar of wasps which when released would sting deeply” (44–45). Both the “shine” and the metaphor foreshadow his father being stung by a wasp (150), his father’s idea of the wasp’s nest as “a workable symbol of what he had been through” (155), and the resurrection of the wasps later in Danny’s room (191). Tony tries to warn him by transporting him to another place with images of rooms, including one room with the word “REDRUM” appearing in green fire in a mirror (46). Danny begs his imaginary friend to return him to the

King’s Symbolic Animal

183

present, and he does, but the images remain, including the “inexplicable word so much more horrible than any of the others: REDRUM” (48). Danny’s future sight reappears in chapter 50, aptly subtitled “Redrum,” when Jack attempts to kill Wendy. She stabs him but he doesn’t die, and when he begins climbing the stairs to finish her off, the discourse is interrupted by a change in point of view, delaying the outcome (and increasing suspense), until chapter 52. This technique is one of King’s trademarks as he builds a scene up to a climax, then leaves it hanging until later as he introduces an intervening chapter with a different point of view to pause the action. The climax of the first scene is resumed a chapter (or sometimes several chapters) later, keeping narrative tension elevated during the intervening chapters. Another example of the effective use of prolepses appears in Christine, a novel that “smacks of a telenovela, and in the hands of many other authors would have likely ended up cheesy claptrap” (Clark 51). For a number of reasons, however, King has taken the rather inane plot of a possessed classic car and turned it into an entertaining and rather complex story about the complicated lives of teenagers and the power of addiction. The first third part of the novel is a first-person narration from the point of view of Dennis Guilder, the friend of Arnie Cunningham, a nerdish teen who falls in love with a 1958 Plymouth. Dennis tells the story after the fact, and can’t help but drop hints about what will happen in the future. “It was bad from the start. And it got worse in a hurry” Dennis says in the prologue, as he begins to tell the story. From the moment they see the car and stop to look at it, Dennis knows that buying the car would be a mistake. Dennis drives a very ordinary ’75 Duster that gets him back and forth to school and work and can’t understand his friend’s obsession with the old junk car. He gives a hint of his future thoughts, though: “it was only later that I came to believe that his odd sureness might come from other sources” (14). At first he tries to talk his friend out of buying the car for practical reasons, telling him that he’s being cheated, and that the car is a piece of junk that can’t be fixed. When Arnie refuses to listen, he tells him that LeBay, who is selling the car, is weird. Dennis has sensed something ominous about both the man and the car, and he describes Christine in a metaphor that turns out to be more accurate than he thought. “I didn’t think he had any idea of the sinister way that old cars can suck money . . . the way a vampire is supposed to suck blood” (18). As the novel goes on, Dennis drops many more hints about things to come, spicing the novel with the pepper of suspense: “How could that old clunker of a car have come to mean so much to him so damned fast? In the following days that question kept coming at me in different ways, the way I’ve always imagined a fresh grief would” (27). Dennis alerts the reader that his instincts that something wasn’t right couldn’t prepare him for what eventually hap-

184

Chapter 17

pened: “things turned out, he was right. I didn’t know half as much as I thought I did” (42). This ending to a chapter serves as a cliffhanger, a trademark of the horror/ thriller genre that King has used effectively to keep readers turning the page. According to Blatt, a one-sentence paragraph at the end of a chapter is a marker of a cliffhanger, serving as the last thing a reader sees before moving ahead to the next chapter. This cliffhanger motivates the reader to continue and is part of the “gotta” in popular fiction. Blatt’s analysis shows that King is “twice as likely to use a single-sentence paragraph when it’s the last sentence of a chapter” (212). Examples of this type of “cliffhanger” prolepsis abound. From ‘Salem’s Lot: “It became unspeakable” (124). Revival: “That was when I began to scream” (182). Elevation: “The process was speeding up” (61). And from The Dark Tower: “He rushed down on the camp and the sleeping men, a black nightmare on seven legs, his mouth opening and closing” (768). Duma Key contains many obvious prolepses that are King trademarks, especially when the first-person narrator seems to intentionally reveal just enough about the future to build tension, but without giving away any answers. Some of this foreshadowing presents true mysteries that must be unraveled, such as his comment about one of Edgar’s paintings, Girl and Ship No. 8. After finishing it, Edgar thinks it is “disturbing” and “terrifying” and “like looking at a mind turned sideways” (343). His looking ahead into the future, though, is understated but even more disturbing: “No. 8 may have been the best thing I ever did, but in a strange way, I almost forgot it. Until the show, that was. After that I could never forget it” (346). Sometimes the foreshadowing points an obvious finger at death. While Elizabeth’s death is imminent from the beginning of the novel, King’s narrator forces the audience to look at death in a more personal way. “I have wondered since then . . . if she would have smoked more of it if she had known it was to be her last” (385). This image brings the reality of death close and intimate, showing how it could happen at any time, when least expected. Another prolepsis makes it more immediate and personal, when Edgar sees his daughter through the window of an airplane as she returns home. “I wish with all my heart that I could have seen her better, because I never saw her again” (420–21). These foreshadowing of death are perhaps more terrifying than death itself, in their ability to look forward and anticipate, while simultaneously looking back and ruminating. They express regret. Elizabeth never enjoyed the last of her cigarette and Edgar couldn’t fully appreciate his last image of his daughter. When he last speaks to his daughter, he again recalls the moment and points ahead to her death: “That was the last time we spoke, and neither of us knew. We never know, do we?” (485). These narrative devices not only fulfill the prophecy—“Duma Key isn’t a safe place for daughters” (180)—but they force the reader to look at

King’s Symbolic Animal

185

life and loved ones in a new way, as gifts to be treasured every minute of every day. Through Edgar, this reminder about life is made very clear: “We can’t imagine time running out, and God punishes us for what we can’t imagine” (326). He also issues a reminder to treasure the happy moments of life, using another prolepses that looks both forward and backward at the same time. “Someday, if your life is long and your thinking machinery stays in gear, you’ll live to remember the last good thing that ever happened to you. . . . I remember the last one clearly” (369). Genette also identifies another narrative technique, the analepsis, or flashback, as a means of generating suspense. The analepsis is defined as “any evocation after the fact of an event that took place earlier than the point in the story where we are at any given moment” (40). This technique enables the author to refer to past events of the story and allows the discourse to begin in medias res, or in the middle of the action. Misery offers a perfect example of how this technique immediately presents an enigma, and how the enigma is resolved through the use of flashback. The novel begins with a microchapter of three lines of nonsense syllables followed by “These sounds: even in the haze” (3), which makes the reader wonder what is happening. The next section slowly introduces an unconscious and pain-ridden character slowly coming back into consciousness, not even knowing his name, struggling to remember who he was and what happened to him. Finally, on page 5, he regains consciousness when Annie is giving him CPR to revive him. He drops back into a semiconscious state for an undetermined amount of time and doesn’t realize who he is until page 6 when he wakes up and sees Annie reading one of his books. He doesn’t learn what happened to him until page 11, when Annie tells him, but the reader has to wait for Annie to tell it in her own, slow and meandering way, and the full story of Paul Sheldon is not revealed until the next section, when a long narrative analepsis recounts him remembering finishing his last novel and setting out on a snowy road. By then, he realizes that although Annie has saved his life, he is in very deep trouble. It, one of King’s epic horror novels, begins with a captivating first line “the terror, which would not end for another twenty-eight years—if it ever did end—began, so far as I know or can tell, with a boat made from a sheet of newspaper floating down a gutter swollen with rain” (3). This entire first chapter is a flashback to 1957, which leads up to the narrative “present” of the novel, the 1980s. The prolonged analepsis sets the stage for the return of the horror, and the novel masterfully moves back and forth between the two terrors of the late 1950s and the return of the horror in the 1980s. An additional example of using analepsis to introduce an enigma and induce suspense occurs on the very first page of the Bachman book Rage. This novel is told entirely as analepsis, an extended flashback by the protagonist narrating the events of two years before the novel’s beginning. “The

186

Chapter 17

morning I got it on was nice” (7), he says, and then he digresses about seeing a squirrel and about town politics until the very end of chapter 1, when he says “two years ago. To the best of my recollection, that was about the time I started to lose my mind” (7). This line is actually a prolepsis within the flashback, which points ahead to what the “getting it on” might be, while still leaving the question unanswered. In light of the chapter’s last sentence, “getting it on” cannot possibly be something good, and soon enough, that prediction is proven true. The rest of the novel moves forward and backward in time to fill in the gaps and answer the enigmas of what happened next. Other examples abound in King’s novels: the reference to pets being killed in the road by passing tucks in Pet Sematary; the problems that the family experience with their car in Cujo; and the question the doctor asks of Scott Carey’s weight loss—“but where does it end?” (Elevation 29), to name just a few. An entire book of its own could be devoted to narratology in King’s works. The Shining contains a multitude of examples of how analepses can use both foreshadowing and flashback at the same time to evoke suspense. During Jack’s job interview, Ullman reveals some backstory to the hotel that simultaneously foreshadows the conclusion of the novel: “During our first winter I hired a family man instead of a single man. There was a tragedy. A horrible tragedy” (9). The man, Grady, was “a drunk” (10), and Jack has also had issues with alcohol addiction. After some narrative delay while Jack assures Ullman that he and his family will be fine and that he no longer drinks, the nature of the horrible tragedy is revealed, that Grady “murdered the little girls with a hatchet, his wife with a shotgun, and himself the same way” (12). The details are gruesome and create anxiety in the reader on behalf of Jack and his family. This thread is picked up again when Watson is explaining the workings of the boiler, and Jack remembers his previous conversation with Ullman “You lost your temper, Ullman had said” (21) in relation to Jack’s attack on one of his students. King then enters Jack’s mind through a long flashback as Jack recalls losing his temper and breaking Danny’s arm when his son had spilled beer on his manuscripts. The memory brought back “shame and revulsion” and a feeling of worthlessness that “always made him want to have a drink” (25). This analepsis looks backward while simultaneously pointing a long finger into the future. All this occurs while Watson is explaining the complexities of the furnace and the boiler, how “this whole place is gonna go sky-high someday” because of the old heating system (27), a prolepsis that comes immediately after Jack feels a shiver and thinks “the goose just walked over my grave.” This interweaving of foreshadowing, flashback, and premonition throughout the novel makes The Shining such a page-turner and reminds the critics (myself included), about the “jouissance” of reading, and that critical analy-

King’s Symbolic Animal

187

ses “forget . . . the formidable underside of writing: bliss” (Barthes, Pleasure 39). In an article for Seventeen magazine, King espouses his love of reading: “joy and reading . . . have always gone together” (Secret 359). If a story does not bring joy or pleasure, no one will read it. King also uses another important tool of the trade in his fiction, the embedded narrative, or story within a story. Sometimes, when a complete story is presented within the text, the primary narrative is gradually forgotten (Bal 57) and the reader is transported into the new embedded text. The most obvious example of this occurs in Arabian Nights, where Scheherazade must make the King lose himself in her stories if she hopes to stay alive (57). Bal also says that sometimes the embedded narrative is related to the primary narrative and helps to explain it, either explicitly or implicitly (58). The entire novel The Wind Through the Keyhole is an embedded narrative in the Dark Tower series, taking place between books 4 and 5 (making it “Dark Tower 4.5,” King says in the foreword), though it can be read independently of the series. All the Dark Tower books contain embedded narratives, beginning with The Gunslinger, when Brown asks Roland “Will you tell me about Tull?” (19) and the first story within a story, a prolonged analepsis, begins. But The Wind Through the Keyhole takes the embedded narrative much further, with stories within stories, like Russian nesting dolls. The book begins with the Ka-tet hunkering down in a shelter while a starkblast, a MidWorld instant-freeze tornado, rages outside, and Roland is asked to entertain his companions with a story. Roland agrees, and tells his friends that he’ll tell two stories that “nest inside each other” (31), one a true story and the other an old tale his mother had told to him. “Old stories can be useful, you know” (31), he reminds the group, and he begins telling the first part of “The Skin Man.” This story is a true tale of a shape changer that is massacring the inhabitants of a small town, and Roland and his friend are sent out to dispatch the killer. Within this first story within a story, several other short flashbacks are told, including Fortuna’s tale of her attack and disfigurement at the hands of the skinchanger (51–53) at a woman’s convent, Sheriff Peavy’s story about Roland’s father (55–60), and Young Bill’s story about the attack at the bunkhouse when Roland hypnotizes him (90–95). Then, in order to pass the time and keep Young Bill from being afraid in the jail cell while Roland waits for his partner, he tells him a long story set in a different part of MidWorld and about completely different characters than what have been revealed in the Dark Tower series. This long story, with a series of flashbacks of its own, distracts Young Bill—and Roland’s ka-tet who are still waiting for the starkblast to pass. When the story of the keyhole is finished, Roland returns to the second part of “The Skin Man,” where he and his fellow young gunslinger expose the changeling and Roland kills him with a silver bullet, though not before the skin man kills two other men in the climactic struggle. In the aftermath, Roland returns to the convent and receives a letter his dead

188

Chapter 17

mother had left there for him, a letter that tells him she knows what her fate will be, and asks her son’s forgiveness. When Roland finishes this story, the worst of the starkblast is over, as is the story’s “spell that had held them through that long and windy night” (303). The story had done its job: “you talked down the dark” (304), Susannah tells him. Both embedded stories are told as entertainment and are successful to the extent that the reader gradually forgets about Roland and his friends enduring the storm, and instead becomes lost in the new stories. The nesting stories do entertain both the Constant Reader and Roland’s ka-tet, whose fate will not be picked up until the end of the novel—in fact, for readers who have read the complete Dark Tower series before reading The Wind Through the Keyhole, the survival of the ka-tet is already certain. The story is told in order to help alleviate the ka-tet’s stress over the starkblast that is raging outside and over the longer journey to the Dark Tower that lies ahead. The story within the embedded story, of “The Wind Through the Keyhole,” mirrors this goal as it entertains young Bill while also relieving some of his stress of the death of his father, and preparing him for the ordeal ahead, the identification of the killer. But the story has done more than just entertain the ka-tet. It brings Roland and his group some much needed sleep. It brings Jake pleasant dreams. And it enables Susannah to ask more questions the next day, and Roland opens himself to her and shares with her a deep secret that he has been able to forgive. This forges the fellowship of the ka-tet even deeper and brings great insight into Roland’s character in all of the novels of the Dark Tower series. The entire Dark Tower series thematizes the importance of storytelling and artistic creation, and how art and narrative can create life and change the very fabric of the universe. The Wind Through the Keyhole echoes this theme in its microcosm of just over 300 pages. Roland’s first story begins as his friends are sitting around the fire, reminiscent of how early humans would have told stories around a campfire. “There’s nothing like stories on a windy night when folks have found a warm place in a cold world” Roland says (31). When the gunslinger asks Billy if he would hear a story, the boy articulates this theme directly: “Stories take a person away. If they’re good ones, that is” (105). Roland agrees with that sentiment.” A person’s never too old for stories, Bill. Man and boy, girl and woman, never too old. We live for them” (106). As if to offer proof, in the “Keyhole” story Tim saves himself by remembering stories his parents had told and “those the Widow Smack had read to her pupils from her precious books” (202). In one story told by “halffoolish” Splinter Harry, Tim remembers a greeting of high speech, which suddenly befriends him to the mudmen, who rescue him from a dragon and bring him to safety. King says the same thing directly in his introduction to Nightmares and Dreamscapes: “I still see stories as a great thing, something which not only enhances lives but actually save them. . . . Good writing—

King’s Symbolic Animal

189

good stories—are the imagination’s firing pin, and the purpose of the imagination, I believe, is to offer us solace and shelter from situations and lifepassages which would otherwise prove unendurable” (xix). King has been harshly criticized for his simple, middle-class style, yet this style is one of the reasons for his immense popularity. The voice of his narrators invites readers in, asks them to pull up a seat, pour themselves a beer, and listen to a story. It may be around a campfire, at the neighborhood bar, or by pool, but the setting is homey and familiar. We feel welcome and know we are about to be entertained. We trust the narrator to tell a good story, and a truthful one. Levitin believes that trust is an important factor in why we like specific musicians, and it seems like this factor also applies to other artists, including novelists. “We allow them [artists] to control our emotions and even our politics—to lift us up, to bring us down, to comfort us, to inspire us. We let them into our living rooms and bedrooms when no one else is around” (243). King’s homespun style invites trust, as does his way of addressing the audience directly as Constant Reader. His nonfiction work, interviews, and introductions to his work also invite trust, as he expresses his own vulnerability in speaking of his issues with alcohol and drugs, personal fears, and humility about his own writing. Even Harold Bloom, one of his harshest critics, admits that King is, “by all accounts . . . public-spirited, generous, humane, and an exemplary social citizen” (“Afterthought” 207); in other words, someone worthy of trust, worth listening to. To establish this trust, King speaks directly to his readers in the introductions to his books, especially his short story collections. In Nightmares and Dreamscapes, he reminds his audience about why he writes: “it isn’t about the money. . . . The job is still getting to you, Constant Reader, getting you by the short hairs and, hopefully, scaring you so badly you won’t be able to go to sleep without leaving the bathroom light on. . . . It’s still about making you believe what I believe, at least for a little while” (xix). In Bazaar of Bad Dreams he equates his short stories to custom made collectibles, and invites the reader to enjoy them: “I’ve made some things for you, Constant Reader . . . Here, sit down beside me. And do come a little closer. I don’t bite” (1). In Skeleton Crew, King is a personal tour guide: “Grab onto my arm now. Hold tight. We are going into a number of dark places, but I think I know the way” (17–18). King’s narrators often appear like the author himself in their informal demeanor. For example, Needful Things begins with a narrator who addresses the reader directly. “You’ve been here before. Sure you have. Sure. I never forget a face. Come on over here, let me shake your hand!” (2–3). King’s narrator speaks truth when he addresses the Constant Reader, since the story is set in Castle Rock, a place that will be familiar to King’s audience. Still, the reader is given a brief tour of the place, an update for those who haven’t

190

Chapter 17

been there in some time. Then the narrator invites the visitor—us—to “stick around town for a little while” because “things just feel wrong, and if it something happens, it might be just as well if there was a witness” (9). The colloquial style draws in the reader, especially one who is familiar with the goings-on in this unusual town. It is the voice of an old friend, someone known and trusted, someone who is going to share the latest gossip and tell interesting stories about the people and place. The fact that this narrator knows “there’s a storm on the way” (9) makes it impossible to turn down the invitation to stay in town and see what happens next. King claims it is favorite opening: “[You’ve been here before] all there by itself on one page, inviting the reader to keep reading. It suggests a familiar story; at the same time, the unusual presentation brings us outside the realm of the ordinary. And this, in a way, is a promise of the book that’s going to come” (qtd. in Fassler). Levitan posits that a major factor in our enjoyment of music is in the simplicity or complexity of a work, and this also would apply to fiction. “Music, or any art form for that matter, has to strike the right balance between simplicity and complexity in order for us to like it” (235). Something that is too simple doesn’t interest us, perhaps a first-grade textbook, to use an extreme example. On the other end of the scale, something too complex— Finnegans Wake, for example—has a very limited audience. The sweet spot is something in the middle. Robert Frost, for example, was known as “the people’s poet” because he could be understood by everyone, unlike his modernist peers, T. S. Eliot and Ezra Pound, poets who required advanced degrees and either knowledge of many languages or extensive footnotes to decipher their work. Yet Frost’s poetry is also deep enough to be the subject of extensive critical analysis for those who wish to go there, and his verse is still more interesting with multiple readings. A Flesch-Kincaid readability analysis of King ranks his writing at a 6th grade level (Snow). By comparison, Hemingway writes at grade level 4, Tolkien 6.5, Tolstoy 8, and the Affordable Care Act, grade 13. Of course, the validity of readability analysis has been called into question for several reasons. One is the use of dialogue, which is easier to read, and which has been increasing in English-Language novels from 1780 to 2000 (Piper). My analysis of the first 200 words of chapter 1 of The Stand, which contains no dialogue, supports this view, scoring a 9th grade level, as opposed to King’s average score of 6th grade. A readability index uses mathematics to score word, sentence, and paragraph lengths, and doesn’t take into account symbolism, complex themes, or context (Cohen). Still, the index does provide an overview of language use and reading ease at a basic level, as can be seen by comparing James Joyce, 12th grade (though I’d dare any high-school senior to really understand Finnegans Wake), and To Kill a Mockingbird, 6th grade. “Writing doesn’t need to be complicated to be powerful or literary” accord-

King’s Symbolic Animal

191

ing to Blatt (119). But a lower readability score does make a work more accessible, which is one reason that the Harper Lee book is more widely read than Ulysses and is read and discussed in both high school English classes and graduate programs in literature. And while I don’t presume to compare Stephen King to Harper Lee, King’s accessible language is certainly one reason that his books are so popular with the reading public. Zunshine suggests that novelists write because “what drives the creative process is our hankering for mind-making and mind-reading” (160). It is obvious that King no longer writes for the money—he has expressed this in a number of interviews—but for the pleasure of creating characters and stories that readers can relate to. As he says, “the best stories always end up being about the people rather than the event” (On Writing 190), and how people behave when certain events happen to them. Readers enjoy reading the minds of the characters that authors create by melding with these minds and understanding them. “Theory of Mind is a cluster of cognitive adaptations that allows us to navigate our social world and also structures that world. Intensely social species that we are, we thus love fiction because it engages, in a variety of particularly focused ways, our Theory of Mind” (Zunshine 162). Evolutionary psychologists posit that the Theory of Mind, “the ability of one individual to assess what is going on in the mind of another” (Tattersall & DeSalle 120), is one of the major evolutionary adaptations that have allowed humans to become so successful a species. This “intuitive psychology” has developed in children by the time they reach the age of three (Mithen, Prehistory 51). Pinker says that, unlike other primates, humans have the ability to not just copy another person’s actions, but their intent as well: “a mind unequipped to discern other people’s beliefs and intentions, even if it can learn in other ways, is incapable of the kind of learning that perpetuates culture” (Blank Slate 62). Literature, according to Joesph Carroll, engages the theory of mind as “a medium for cultivating our innate and socially adaptive capacity for entering into the experience of other people” (116). King engages the reader’s theory of mind both indirectly, in his character development, and in the direct speech of some of his characters. For example, in Christine, Dennis says something that the reader may also be thinking: “I wondered . . . what it must be like to be Arnie Cunningham trapped behind that oozing face from second to second and minute to minute” (29). Arnie then gives Dennis some insight of how he can never understand what it is like to be the kid everyone picks on: “’Other people—’ he said, and then added carefully, ‘you for instance, Dennis—don’t always understand what that means. It changes how you look at the world when you’re ugly and people laugh at you” (30). But as the novel progresses, the reader is able to enter Arnie’s mind and, at least to some degree, understand what it is like to be him. This is accomplished, in part, from the change in point of view in the middle section of the book, where King leaves Dennis’s first-person point of

192

Chapter 17

view and enters Arnie’s mind as a third-person narrator. In one scene, when he finally brings Christine home and the car is legally registered, his mother tells him to take it back to the garage. “I don’t want it parked here. The place looks like a used car lot” she tells him (182). We are given a direct insight into Arnie’s mind a few paragraphs later: “How do you think I feel? I work my ass off getting the car street-legal—over two and a half months I worked on it—and when I bring it home, the first thing you say is get it out of the driveway. How am I supposed to feel? Happy?” (183). This description of Arnie’s feelings is larger than just the emotions of one teenager; it opens a window on the power struggle between parents and teens, and the issues of becoming an adult and thinking for oneself. Sometimes this involves disobeying the wishes of parents. King’s characters and situations help readers to empathize with others, a crucial element of the human theory of mind. His characters help readers to better understand survivors of domestic abuse in Rose Madder, Dolores Claiborne, and Gerald’s Game. Jack Torrance in The Shining and his son Danny in Doctor Sleep help bring understanding to problems with addiction. King is even able to induce some empathy for villains such as the “Trashcan Man” and Harold Lauder from The Stand. He also creates characters that allow readers to imagine how they might behave if faced with life-or-death situations. The use of horror and/or the supernatural takes this one step further and creates ethical dilemmas for readers to consider. What would you do if you were able to see the future like Johnny Smith from The Dead Zone and you knew that a political candidate would destroy the world? If you could travel back in time, would you kill Lee Harvey Oswald? Would you resurrect your child, as in Pet Sematary? What if you were told you had a terminal illness like Bill Hodges (End of Watch) or that your son had one, like Mike Ross (Joyland)? These questions force readers to put themselves into someone else’s life and imagine what it would be like, for good or bad, and to wonder how they would handle the situation if it happened to them. Finally, as I have shown in previous chapters, King’s popularity can also be explained in his ability to tap into human nature, or what evolutionary psychology refers to as human universals, the common desires and fears that appear in all people of all cultures, and which provide the fuel for storytelling and narrative. “Cross-culturally today and through all known cultural history, stories are about problems and conflict: competing human interests for power or love are prime topics, as well as natural threats to life and limb” (Dutton 118). As Oatley notes, “stories are enjoyable insofar as they make plan-like sequences and set problems, not just for the story characters but for readers” (247). King’s books, for the most part, take ordinary people and place them in situations of conflict where they must fight for life, often against opponents that personify their worst fears. Whether it’s being forced to write for one’s life (Misery), find one’s way out of a forest (The Girl Who Loved Tom

King’s Symbolic Animal

193

Gordon), escape from an abusive relationship (Rose Madder), or destroy a town filled with vampires (‘Salem’s Lot), King’s stories appeal directly to these human universals and are, frankly, enjoyable to read. It is obvious that King has mastered the techniques of effective storytelling and, in doing so, has become a “brand name.” He has accomplished this feat through largely traditional means, by putting story first, using a more-orless linear plot, and using characters that are familiar and easy to relate to. His prose is relatively simple and he mostly avoids modernist and postmodernist techniques that appeal to elite readers while isolating the larger audience of Constant Readers. But while his novels appear undemanding on the surface, there is also something to be found for those who take the time and energy to engage in multiple readings of his works and seek out the subtexts in them. His use of symbolism and theme elevate his work from merely being pulp or genre fiction into something worthy of serious literary study. This will be the topic of the next chapter.

Chapter Eighteen

The Thematic King

While King believes that “story is boss,” he also acknowledges that “every book—at least every one worth reading—is about something” (On Writing 201). This “something” is the theme, an important part of the book that evolves from the story itself. “Good fiction always starts with story and progresses to theme” King says and advises writers to “enrich” the story with meaning: “to do less is to rob your work . . . of the vision that makes each tale you write uniquely your own” (208). A close analysis shows that King’s fiction contains the kind of rich subtext that benefits from multiple readings and analysis. As Magistrale has noted, “King must be viewed as a serious social critic whose work reflects some of the core concerns treated throughout the American literary tradition” (Second Decade 157). While his novels are certainly page-turners, they lend themselves to additional study, unlike many “popular” novels that are just quick reads. Many of King’s characters and narrators are authors themselves, which creates the theme of writing and creativity that permeates King’s fiction. Roland Barthes calls this a textual or metalinguistic code (“Textual” 139), when writing or narrative talks about itself. As I have stated in “Four Quadrants,” King highlights the traits of successful authors through the use of these fictional characters. These characters restate what King himself has said, that writing requires both talent (creativity and imagination) and hard work. Those who lack both traits, such as Wesley Smith in Ur, will never be successful authors in any of the millions of multiverses in King’s world. Those with talent but who lack a work ethic, such as Jack Torrance, will never reach their fullest potential. Those who work hard enough and appeal to a popular audience may achieve financial success, such as Paul Sheldon and George Stark, and some who have talent and appeal to the critics might receive critical recognition, such as Thad Beaumont. The author who has the 195

196

Chapter 18

best of both worlds, imagination, talent, and a childlike imagination, and a strong work ethic may achieve both popular and critical success, as did Scott Landon. Stephen King himself obviously has a strong work ethic, having published over fifty books, and based on the number of awards he has won and the critical studies that have been done on his work, it seems that he has also achieved a measure of critical success as well. This success has come about by appealing to a popular audience and also going a step further and infusing his stories with meaning and subtext that invite discussion and study. While King uses traditional narrative structures in his novels to build plot and suspense, he also employs the postmodern form of metafiction, fiction talking about itself, especially in the Dark Tower series where he makes himself—Stephen King, the author from Bangor Maine—a character in his own story. While this metafictional device may be looked at as simply a trick, King’s putting himself into the work highlights his major theme about writing—that writing (creativity, imagination, and the arts) equates to life. He explored this theme on a small scale in Misery, but in the Dark Tower series, the author becomes divine, able to create not just the world, but the multiverse. While Roland Barthes announced the “death of the author,” King has pronounced the author as God, the supreme creator of worlds, characters, and stories. Other examples of the god-like powers of writing include “The Word Processor of the Gods” and Ur, where words bring reality into existence. “Words have weight,” King says (On Writing 135). The Dark Tower “character” of Stephen King does not know his own power until Roland and members of his ka-tet visit him at his home in Maine, when he learns that the characters he created—and would create in the future—would come to life in Midworld and other worlds that he designed. The iconic first words of The Gunslinger create an entire complex multiverse, even if King did not know it when he wrote the sentence: “The man in black fled across the desert and the gunslinger followed” (3). In order to save King from Barthes’s “death of the author,” Roland and his ka-tet must come to life and return to Maine to prevent their creator’s death. The author’s powers are so strong that the characters do come to life, save Stephen King’s life, and thus ensure that all of the gunslinger books will be written, which, in a paradoxical turn, give them life. According to J. L. Austin’s theory, words do more than just say; they actually do something. In the case of fiction writing, what words “do” is create a reality that can be imagined and recreated in the reader’s mind. In this way, fiction can bring fantasy to life, at least in the minds of its audience and its culture. Including himself as a character also reinforces his theme about time being a wheel and always coming back to the starting point. None of the characters from the Dark Tower series are ever entirely killed, since the story ends with its beginning, and the narrative is set in motion once again, with a

The Thematic King

197

narrative reset button, only each time the game is reopened there is a small difference because the world has moved on. At the end of the series, Roland is where he began, only this time he has the horn. This circular ending is “an appropriate continuation of King’s experimentation with genre and writing within the series as a whole” (McAleer 69). King’s use of postmodern techniques may account for the fact that readers see the Dark Tower series as different from King’s more traditionally plotted works. He combines elements from the horror genre with fantasy, westerns, mystery, and even literary fiction in these books, uses the story within a story extensively, and moves freely between worlds and times. The Dark Tower itself is an enigma in King’s series, as it was in the Robert Browning poem on which it is based. Critics have argued about the poem’s meaning for decades. Margaret Atwood posits an interesting meaning to the poem that fits in well with the idea of writers and writing, and with King’s theme of imagination in the Dark Tower books. Atwood suggests that Childe Roland is a writer, “a stand-in for Robert Browning himself—and that the quest is a quest in search of the as yet unwritten poem ‘Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came’, and that the monster inside the Dark Tower is none other than Childe Roland in his poem-writing aspect” (33). Since Browning claimed that the poem came to him in a dream, Atwood’s argument makes fascinating sense, because the poet could not finish the quest until he finished the poem and, as Atwood posits, Roland/Browning disappears into the poem itself. Transposing Atwood’s analysis onto King’s series results in Roland standing in for the author, Stephen King, who also wasn’t sure how the series would end when he first began the series in 1970, and if he would ever finish it, especially after he was hit by a car and nearly died. So on one level, we can equate Roland, the knight on a quest, with King, a writer on a mission. At the end of the series, Roland (and the author) disappear into the text, only in King’s version, both reappear to begin a new quest, a new story, in an endless cycle. This also answers the question of why Roland must find and enter the tower, a fascinating question that McAleer asks and that is never directly answered in the stories (28). All we know is that it is a self-imposed quest, as was the quest of Browning to finish his poem, and for King to complete what he hoped would be “the longest popular novel in history” (Gunslinger xiv). Writing the Dark Tower series was a self-imposed task, not a project requested by any editor or publisher—the first trade hardcover edition was limited to just 10,000 copies and published by Donald Grant, a small, independent press. As the writing of the series dragged on over the years, however, and readers began to demand the next book, the task did expand into an epic quest that might never be completed. King certainly didn’t finish the books for the fame or the money, which he already had. He completed the

198

Chapter 18

series to satisfy his own desire, the desire of his fans, and because he felt it was a task he was compelled to do and, as he says in the foreword to the expanded edition, “the story of Roland is now done. I hope you enjoy it. As for me, I had the time of my life” (xvii). While Roland is depicted as a fighter, he is much more. Walter says of Roland, “your mind. . . . There has never been one quite like it, in all the history of the world. Perhaps in the history of creation” (Gunslinger 248). Roland is also a storyteller, a skill he has learned over the course of his long life: “storytelling was another thing that didn’t come naturally to me in those days . . . although it was a thing I learned to do well in time. I had to. All gunslingers have to” (Wind 106). He is also a meticulous problem solver, and can often see the larger picture, as when he tricks Blaine the Train into saving their lives if they can stump the machine with a riddle it can’t solve (Wizard 9). Roland’s creativity reaches its limits, however. Just as he is good at telling stories, and knowing how to organize and narrate them, he is also accomplished in presenting riddles for the psychotic train to solve. Most notably, though, he can only pose riddles that he has already learned from his teacher, Cort; he is not able to create new riddles, but only repeat the riddles he has heard in his culture. It is up to Eddie to destroy the psychotic monorail with silly and childish jokes he’d heard on the streets of New York. Finally, Eddie kills the train with a dead baby joke, and Roland has to admit that the jokes he held in contempt saved their lives (58). The Dark Tower itself, the wheel upon which the multiverse turns, represents imagination, creativity, and the magic of creation. This magic is always in danger of being broken, of getting old and decaying, of being taken over by a devilish Crimson King that wants to destroy it (perhaps in King’s case, a slippage back into drugs and alcohol, which he thought he needed to write before he became sober). Imagination, creativity, and story contain enough magic to hold the world and even the multiverse together. However, unlike the case in King’s story, not all things serve the beam. In the “real” world of Keystone Earth, imagination is at a premium. The world has become automated, mechanized, and mundane. When Roland finds himself in New York, he is amazed by the things he sees and cannot believe that the inhabitants of this world lack a sense of excitement. “Here he was in a world that struck him dumb with fresh wonders seemingly at every step, a world where carriages flew through the air and paper was as cheap as sand. And the newest wonder was simply that for these people, wonder had run out: here, in a place of miracles, he saw only dull faces and plodding bodies” (Drawing 362). This was a world that had not moved on. Although the original magic had disappeared, it still contained the magic of technology, but its inhabitants were too jaded to see it. The inhabitants of Keystone earth—those living in the real world—are surrounded by marvels that they do not even see. For Roland, the marvels are

The Thematic King

199

the miracles of technology, airplanes, antibiotics, and tuna sandwiches, things that everyday people take for granted. But there are also more sublime pieces of beauty that go unnoticed, like the beautiful rose that Jake discovers in an abandoned lot in New York, the rose that was the key to everything: “it disclosed a dark scarlet furnace, petal upon secret petal, each burning with its own secret fury. He had never seen anything so intensely and utterly alive in his whole life” (Wastelands 125). Jake has special talents and an imagination that allows him to see the rose and find the key that has been in plain sight all along. The Tower, a symbol of imagination and creativity, is slowly being destroyed, and when it is brought down all worlds in the multiverse will end. Creativity and imagination are slowly being dissolved, or “deconstructed” by postmodernism artists and critics. One example of this is the rambling, nonsensical essay that Jake writes for his English class, which receives high praise from his English teacher, who ironically applauds his use of stream-ofconsciousness writing and symbolism (136). The Tower is analogous to artistic creation and must be saved at all costs. As I have demonstrated in the previous chapters on creativity, imagination, art, music, and story, the Tower encompasses not just King’s world of writing and his magic words that create his multiverse, but all artistic creation. As King has said, “art isn’t a support system for life. It’s the other way around” (On Writing 101). Using narrative as an example, Turner posits that art and imagination are critical developments in the human mind: “the narrative imagining, often thought of as literary and optional, appears instead to be inseparable from our evolutionary past and our necessary personal experience. It also appears to be a fundamental target for the developing human mind” (Literary 23). Imagination, then, seems to be the pivotal element in humanness, the one thing that humans cannot allow to decay or be destroyed. And for King, who believes that “the story value holds dominance over every other facet of the writer’s craft” (Nightshift xx), Roland Barthes’s “death of the author” and the overthrowing of traditional narrative by postmodernism is tantamount to the destruction of the Tower and the end of the imagination. King’s fiction also tackles themes involving social issues. For example, he has realistically examined themes of justice, prisons, and the death penalty in several of his books. “Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption” is a case in point. This short novel, which was adapted into a very successful film that downplayed the Stephen King name, is more of a literary novel than a genre book and it examines the very real failures of the justice system in general, and prisons in particular. The narrator, “Red,” is reliable from the very beginning of the story when he says “I am one of the few people in our happy little family willing to own up to what they did. I committed murder” (Different 15). He was incarcerated when he was just twenty years old and goes on to explain how his plan to kill his wife also ended up killing an

200

Chapter 18

innocent woman and a child. But he has taken responsibility for his actions and has carved out a place for himself as a man who can get anything brought into Shawshank (15), any luxury another prisoner might want, for a price, anything except guns or drugs (17). Red is presented as a mature man who made a terrible mistake as a kid and has spent the rest of his life paying for it. He speaks the truth, even when it makes him look bad, as when the judge called what he did a “hideous, heinous crime” (15), or when it is personal, such as admitting that he was raped in prison. Red, a convicted killer, speaks in a reasonable, sane voice about Shawshank, and lets the audience judge for itself. “The oath of a convicted murderer may not be worth much, but believe this: I don’t lie” (46), he says. From the very beginning, the novella questions the purpose of prisons as Red addresses the concept of rehabilitation. “I think it’s a politician’s word” (15–16), he says. The prison, then, is really a by-product of society and politics, and the only reason it exists is to keep its inmates inside. Rehabilitation is not part of the plan, and neither is parole. When a prisoner is released, it is “long after any chance he might have had to become a useful part of society was gone” (57). When Red himself is finally released—“I suppose they decided that, at the age of fifty-eight, I was finally used up enough to be deemed safe” (101)—he is totally unprepared for the outside world. The free world had changed so much in thirty-eight years that “everything was strange and frightening” (103) and he considers committing a petty crime to return to Shawshank. The system had not prepared him for life outside of prison, which is why the narrator implies there is such a high rate of recidivism. The novella also questions justice because Andy Dufresne is sentenced to life for a crime he did not commit. This in itself might not be unjust because the evidence against him is strong and the jury is convinced of his guilt— even Red would have found him guilty if he had been on the jury and Red “only became convinced of his innocence over a period of years” (18). Much later, though, when Andy finds a way to prove his innocence and brings his request to the warden, he is denied justice. By then he is using his banking knowledge to help the corrupt warden hide the money he is making on “extracurricular activities” and the warden is not about to lose his assistance or risk Andy’s turning him in. He tells Andy he will remain in Shawshank for as long as he is the warden (84). “Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption” presents the employees of the prison, and especially its wardens, as hypocrites and criminals. One warden was fired in 1953 for using inmates as free labor in an auto-repair scheme he ran from the prison. His successor, Greg Stammas, was a “cruel, wretched, cold-hearted man” and under his direction “there was a lot of brutality . . . and maybe half a dozen moonlight burials” (48). The corruption returned under Stammas, until he was discovered and fled the state. In the 1950s and 1960s there were kickbacks and a black market on drugs “and the

The Thematic King

201

same administrative crowd was involved in turning a buck on that” (61). When Sam Norton became warden, Red says he was “the foulest hypocrite” he’d ever seen in a position of power (66). The new warden ran a work release program that skimmed money from work being done and took bribes from private companies to not bid on certain projects. Norton prevented Andy’s case from being heard because Andy was helping him launder money in return for a private cell and funds for the prison library. Norton knew the man was innocent, but he was determined to keep him in prison. The guards were no better. They would accept payoffs from “angels,” people on the outside, for prisoners to receive favors or better conditions (61). Even worse, the guards allowed brutality to go unchecked. Gang rapes regularly occured in the laundry. “A lot has gone on in that long, dusty and narrow space over the years; the guards know about it and just let it be” (38). Red admits that he knows about this from personal experience, and then tells about the aftermath of being raped in detail that is disturbing to read. Prisoners were beaten or put into solitary confinement on the whim of the warden. The politicians considered inmates the “scum of the earth. They were there to do hard time, and by God and Sonny Jesus, it was hard time they were going to do” (69). Solitary confinement at Shawshank was especially hellish. Red equates it to “a throwback to those hardy pioneer days of the early to mid1700s in Maine (79) where criminals dug their own hole, were thrown into it with just skins for a blanket and a bucket, and then bars were installed on the top. Shawshank’s “hole” was in the basement and consisted of keg-shaped cells lit by a 60-watt bulb that was turned off at 8:00 p.m. There was a bunk and a can for a toilet. “You had three ways to spend your time: sitting, shitting, or sleeping” (81). Once Norton became the warden, the diet in solitary consisted of just bread and water. Conditions at Shawshank prison are worse than those at Cold Mountain’s E. Block, where Paul Edgecombe oversaw the prisoners before they walked the Green Mile to the electric chair. The difference, of course, originated with the administration. Edgecomb was an ethical, moral man who treated the inmates as humans, even those who deserved to be thought of as monsters. The administration at Shawshank made no such distinctions—every prisoner was an animal, even when the prisoner was innocent. While injustice occurs at both Shawshank and the Green Mile, it is more institutionalized in the Maine prison due to corrupt administration, while it is a result of racism and cultural prejudices at Cold Mountain. Maine does not have a death penalty, so there were no executions at Shawshank, though Red claims there were “moonlight burials” at the prison (48). However, except for Delacrroix’s execution, life and death on Cellblock E was much kinder than incarceration at Shawshank. There two prison novels do highlight the theme of the failure of the justice system in several ways: the possibility that innocent individuals will be found guilty and even executed; the idea (in The

202

Chapter 18

Green Mile at least) that race plays a factor in justice; the issue of corruption in prisons (an idea that was picked up on by the creators of the Hulu television series Castle Rock, where Shawshank is now a private, for-profit prison, and still corrupt); and the belief that prisoners should be treated as humanely as possible. Both narratives provide an insight into prison life and force the audience to ponder the difficult questions of justice in American society. Many of King’s themes address the kind of issues that appeal to real people, not academics and intellectuals. Bullying is one such theme that concerns King’s readers. Bullying and abuse by the guards occurs in the prison novels that have been discussed. But this theme is even more evident in King’s novels about children and teens, who often suffer abuse of neglect from their parents and bullying from other youths. This theme appears in Carrie, his first published novel; “The Body” (which was adapted into the Academy Award-nominated film Stand by Me); and It, where the members the “Loser’s Club” are victimized by the town bullies. In Carrie, the protagonist faces her tormentors with anger and rage, overreacting and, causing mass carnage. In “The Body,” the boys stand up to the bullies, and in doing so they find their inner strength, even though they each pay a price at the hands of the bullies later on. And in It, the members of the “Loser’s Club” not only confront the bullies but go on to face and conquer their innermost fears and the horrors that menaced their town, both as children and then later as adults. This confrontation with those stronger than us is a real part of the lives of normal, everyday people, and while these people don’t have to face anything as terrible as “It,” they do enjoy the narrative of the victory of the underdog over the bully in whatever form it may take. King also directly confronts the theme of teen suicide, a theme that is sometimes tied in to bullying. This is a difficult and sensitive topic, but in End of Watch, the last book in the Hodges trilogy, King uses the horror motif to examine it in a novel way. In this book, a comatose serial killer is able to take over the minds of his victims and uses a video game to put them into a zombie-like state to commit crimes or, one of his favorite actions, to kill themselves. He does this by inducting depressive thought, convincing them they are worthless, and destroying any self-esteem, goals, or positive thoughts they might have. He, in effect, manipulates the PANIC/GRIEF response to its extreme. The importance of this theme and the understanding of it is more important than ever, with suicide rates up 33 percent since 1999; the rate among teens aged fifteen to nineteen increased from 8 per 100,000 in 2000 to 11.8 per 100,000 in 2017. The rate among young adults (ages twenty to twenty-four) increased from 12.5 per 100,000 to 17 per 100,000 during this time (Howard) and suicide is the third leading cause of deaths in young people from ages ten to twenty-four, according to the American Psychological Association (Kaslow 4). King uses horror fiction to call attention to this problem and some of the reasons for it, including teens’ feelings of a lack of

The Thematic King

203

self-worth, the hypnotic quality of video games that can cause isolation, and the destructive effects of manipulation by bullies on social media. End of Watch looks at this disturbing phenomenon in a compelling way that helps both parents and teens to better understand and prevent it. King explores the issue of domestic abuse in much of his fiction, as has been mentioned in chapter 10. This matter is, of course, important to women, but since King has an enormous following of male readers as well, his addressing the issue is especially significant. Unless a man has experienced sexual or domestic abuse for himself, understanding being a victim of this crime may be difficult (though I would recommend reading James Dickey’s famous rape scene in Deliverance as a disturbing fictional account). However, King’s ability to create abuse survivors like those in Rose Madder, 11/22/63, and Gerald’s Game do help us to imagine what this horrendous experience might be like, and this, in turn, can help build empathy toward survivors and disgust toward those who abuse them. This theme and others in the King canon are fictionally presented within the context of an entertaining (though often disturbing) story that uses elements of horror and the fantastic to shed light on consequential real-life situations. Throughout his career, King has been an outspoken advocate of progressive political positions, both in his interviews and in themes of his novels. With the election of Barack Obama as president, the political rift between progressives and conservatives widened, and with Donald Trump’s presidency, it became a canyon with no middle ground. While King has been highly vocal about his displeasure of the Trump presidency (to the point that Trump blocked him from his Twitter account), King has attempted to address the political and social divide in America in a short novel, Elevation, published in 2018, a story that appeals to the theme of diversity and acceptance. In this narrative, Scott Carey begins to lose weight but, unlike the protagonist of Thinner, he does not lose mass. The theme of the story involves Scott’s “elevation” as he finds common ground with a lesbian couple who move into Castle Rock and open a new restaurant. King’s theme is certainly welcome, especially during a time of social and political divide that has pitted normally rational people against one another and encouraged intolerance in the world. However, Elevation seems to defy King’s idea that story comes first and then theme, since the theme is much more heavy-handed than in his other novels. King suggests that civility, mutual understanding, and acceptance of different ideas and lifestyles will elevate us both as a society and as individual members of it: “Scott Carey continued to gain elevation, rising above the earth’s mortal grip with his face turned towards the stars” (146). While Elevation is not among King’s strongest works in a literary sense, it is, perhaps, his “gift” to a society that has become so divided as to be essentially dysfunctional.

Chapter Nineteen

The Literary King

The great storytellers—Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Hemingway, for example—have been able to capture the imagination but have also touched on the human universals: survival, power, love, fear, curiosity, and play. Stephen King’s fiction also appeals to human universals, often touching upon several of them in each novel. This, coupled with his ability to create characters the Constant Reader can relate to and his knack for building suspense in his fiction, has led to his overwhelming commercial success. However, the academy has, for the most part, been unwilling to embrace him as being worthy of notice despite his numerous awards, his being published in mainstream literary journals such as The New Yorker, The Atlantic, and The Virginia Quarterly Review, and his being chosen to edit an edition of The Year’s Best Stories. As Magistale has observed, “while the cultural gatekeepers of High Literature were dozing in their wooden rocking chairs, Stephen King managed to slip past their guardianship at Walhalla and entered the pantheon as an elder statesman of American letters” (“Rehabilitation” 8). In order to dig deeper into King’s literary merits, I have decided to do a close reading of “Cookie Jar,” a short story published in The Virginia Quarterly Review, a respected literary journal that has, over the years, published such esteemed authors and poets as Thomas Wolfe, Joyce Carol Oates, Robert Frost, and Rita Dove. I’ve chosen this story for the simple reason that it was published by a literary press, one sponsored by the University of Virginia, and therefore the journal’s editor must have deemed it worthy of literary merit. I will conduct my analysis using a blend of critical theory, the essence of what I’ve termed “Darwinist Hermeneutics,” including the genre theory of Tzvatan Todorov; the linguistic semiotic codes of Roland Barthes from S/Z and “Structural Analysis of Poe’s ‘Valdemar’”; the narratology of Gerard Genette and other structuralist critics; and, of course, theories based on the 205

206

Chapter 19

evolution of the biology and behavior of the human species that can be applied to literature. “Cookie Jar” is, in true King fashion, a story within a story, as ninetyyear-old Barrett “Rhett” Alderson tells his great-grandson Dale about a cookie jar that he inherited from his mother. Taking narrative one layer deeper, Rhett’s mother Moira told him stories about an alternate world that she believed were true. In Rhett’s story, the cookie jar produced an endless amount of cookies, even after Rhett’s mother was dead, and, when emptied, a small mountain of cookies emerged to reveal that “other world” through the bottom of the jar. The most obvious fact is that this story contains elements of supernatural fiction, though we have no way of knowing for sure if the story is “true” or not. According to Tzvetan Todorov’s theory of genre, in a story of the fantastic “there occurs an event which cannot be explained by the laws of this . . . world” (25). Todorov proposes that in such a story of the fantastic, either the unexplained event is imaginary, or else the event is “an integral part of reality . . . [a] reality . . . controlled by laws unknown to us” (25). If the unexplained event can be explained at the end of the narrative, Todorov terms it “the uncanny,” but if the event is the result of a violation of natural laws as we know them, he calls this genre “the marvelous.” In “Cookie Jar,” King does not explicitly state if the magic of the story is real but leaves it to the reader to analyze the evidence and determine the answer. The key to understanding this enigma is whether or not ninety-year-old Rhett should be believed. If not, he is either suffering from dementia, or else he is telling his great-grandson an elaborate fairy tale. If the story is true, then we have a typical King story involving the existence of “other worlds than these,” as Jake says in The Gunslinger (222). “Cookie Jar” begins quite rationally, with an omniscient narrator narrating a straightforward story of an old man telling his thirteen-year-old greatgrandson about his life so the boy can write a report for school. The narrator appears sober, well-spoken, and insightful from the beginning: “there was a certain accord between them” (137). The omniscient narrator relates the account in a direct, no-nonsense way, making this level of narration believable: the man really did tell this story to the boy. Before long, though, the omniscient narrator moves behind the curtain as the actual dialogue begins between Rhett and Dale, and we see the world directly through the old man’s point of view. By looking at Rhett’s character and thoughts, one question can be answered: whether or not he is senile enough to think his mother had a magic cookie jar. The first indication of his health comes from the boy, who “thought the old man looked pretty good for ninety” (137). Rhett remembers the details of his childhood with detail and clarity, but that doesn’t preclude his having dementia, since Alzheimer’s patients often remember things from

The Literary King

207

past decades without knowing who the president is in the current time. But Rhett is quite lucid about the present as well, understanding how the boy’s iPhone works (138), knowing that the old songs he sang are “not very politically correct by today’s standards” (139), and he is cognizant of the routine at the nursing home, including what would be for lunch (146). His thinking was also clear enough for him to know when it was time for him to go to a nursing home, after he realized he was “becoming a burden” to his relatives (148). Rhett also knows that Dale will ask him if he still has the cookie jar, and he does. One might also question if his experiences in the war stimulated his imagination to dream up a magic cookie jar. And he admits that the memories of the war were awful (145), especially what he witnessed at the Nazi death camps, which had “knocked him crooked, and he’d never been really straight afterward” (147). But he does go on to live a normal life, start a family and a highly successful business; he shows no signs of mental illness and still remains optimistic about the world, despite the horrors of war that he had witnessed. It seems clear, then, that Rhett has no obvious signs of dementia or any other mental illness. The narrative shows him to be completely cogent, articulate, and reasonable. The argument could be made, however, that he might be like his mother: “about all other things, though, she was completely rational” (140). But, unlike his mother, the cookie jar has not affected his behavior. He has told no one else about it, not even his brother Paul. He has not drawn maps on the walls, and has not considered suicide. Indeed, if the old man were delusional, it is doubtful that Dale’s mother would have allowed her son to interview the old man in the first place. The evidence, then, seems to indicate that Rhett’s mental competence is not an issue. Both he and the omniscient narrator seem to be completely reliable. The next question, then, is whether Rhett is just telling the boy a makebelieve story. If so, it could be to have some fun at his great-grandson’s behalf, or to keep the boy interested enough to stay around and visit with him a little bit longer. Neither of these ideas seem plausible. Rhett does like the boy and wants him to regard him as more than just “a talking fossil” (138). He obviously enjoys his company, but the boy is committed to stay long enough to gather enough information for his report, so telling a make-believe story would serve no purpose. Besides, with his experiences in the war Rhett would have enough real stories to tell, but he knows those stories of horror would not be suitable for a boy of thirteen. Neither would a fairy tale. He thinks that the boy was “quick. And funny” (138). He sizes the boy up before telling the story, and the thought process of his decision is clear: “Why not tell him? You have never told anyone, and you’ll be dead soon enough” (138). Rhett’s tale is more of a deathbed confession than a practical joke. This evidence, along with the fact that Stephen King is the last author one would expect to shy away from Todorov’s genre of the marvelous, leads to

208

Chapter 19

the conclusion that the magic cookie jar must be real, and all of the supernatural elements associated with it must be true. Since this is a story about stories, Roland Barthes’s textual code, when narrative speaks about itself, can shed further light on “Cookie Jar.” The story references writing on the first page, when Dale tells his great-grandfather about the two-page report he has been assigned to write about “how much things have changed” (137). Since the teacher wants specifics, the conversation begins with Rhett describing how when he was thirteen, he listened to old radio shows. This contrasts directly with Dale’s iPhone which can do just about everything. As the interview goes on, though, Rhett shifts his purpose and instead of telling him about life when he was thirteen, he narrates the cookie jar story, which has a subtext of how things are still the same. The narrative carries the old man and the boy through World War II and makes references to the war in Korea and Vietnam, and Rhett wonders if there will always be a Red Henry and a Black Aldolf (146). Despite his optimism, the answer seems to be “yes”; there will always be wars and atrocities, and the subtext of the narrative reminds the reader that such horrors were still occurring when the story was published in the spring of 2016, a time when North Korea was launching ballistic missiles, the civil war in Syria was in full swing, as well as the continued wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. This serves as a reminder that while technology may have changed, human nature and conflict have not really changed at all. Examining the textual code in further detail reveals the theme of storytelling and its importance to the human species as postulated by evolutionary studies. According to evolutionary biologists, storytelling and narrative have been one of the major factors in the emergence of Homo sapiens as the dominant species on the planet. In much of his work, King has echoed this idea, thematizing the concept of story equaling life. “Cookie Jar” also supports this theme of narrative granting life and sanity to Rhett’s mother: “those stories were her way of staying sane.” When the stories stop working for his mother, she dies (141). Several different tales occur in this short story; some are told to both the reader and the boy, some are told just to the reader, and some are left untold but must be flushed out from between the lines. Rhett easily tells the story of how he, his brothers and his father listened to radio programs, describing them in great detail. Once he feels that he has earned his great-grandson’s trust, he opens up to him and tells him the story of the cookie jar, the story that is only shared with the boy and the reader. He does not tell the boy the details of the concentration camps that were liberated, or that he has blood in his stool, or that he knows the boy will empty the cookie jar and peer inside. These are details for the reader only. Finally, there are the stories that are never told, and which the reader must surmise from the text itself—Barthes’s

The Literary King

209

death of the author personified, especially since Rhett does not have long to live and won’t be telling the story again. Whether or not the other worlds are real or not is one of the questions that has already been dealt with in this chapter. In fact, the Constant Reader will see how these other worlds are part of the multiverse that King has created, with references to “The Mist,” the portals between worlds in the Dark Tower series, and the “black” of Randall Flagg and the “red” of the Crimson King. The cookie jar, then, is a window into these other worlds where time has stopped. But there are other questions that are never answered completely. Although Moira claims that the entities might invade our world, she never explains how this might happen, only that the other world was “tearing holes in the fabric of existence. If the time-stop spreads to our world, boys, we’re doomed” (141). This is a very close approximation to what is occurring in Roland’s world, where the beams are being destroyed so the Dark Tower will fall. There is no indication whether the window in the jar is really a door. If so, the cookies might be the only thing keeping the door closed and keeping the slowing down of time from happening in our world as well, just as his mother’s stories were “a way to cover that hole in reality the way you might cover a well with a board” (141). Moira also says that she left the boys and their father because it wouldn’t be safe if she stayed. This is not explained either, but the boy’s father does age very quickly in the story, which might have something to do with the answer. The most interesting question, I think, is why he tells Dale the story about the cookie jar in the first place, and tells him where to find it. This leads to another major theme of this story, one that H. P. Lovecraft used extensively and that is especially suited to horror. If the knowledge of the cookie jar is forbidden, a secret, why is it revealed? The answer lies in human nature itself, and our obsession with telling and hearing stories. First of all, keeping a secret is difficult, “takes work and is fatiguing,” and “undermines our sense of well-being” (Brenner). People have an innate need to share information with others, generally through stories, or even gossip. Moira was compelled to share her stories with her sons, though she never told them explicitly about the cookie jar because she knew it was “dangerous.” Rhett was able to share the secret of the cookie jar with his brother, until he died, but then felt forced to keep it to himself, again, because it was dangerous. Keeping such a secret is a burden, though, and even more troubling would be his worries about what might happen to it if he died without revealing its story. What might happen if it were broken, or if someone were able to pass through its portal to the other worlds? What if someone could allow the other worlds to invade this world? Neither the reader, nor Rhett, nor Dale know the answers to this for sure, but if Moira is correct, the inhabitants of the other worlds could consume this one. Moira is portrayed as insane—but once Rhett realizes the truth about the cookie jar, his mother becomes a much more reliable narrator

210

Chapter 19

and Rhett is doing more than passing down second-hand information or old folk stories to his great-grandson. Rhett is careful to evaluate Dale before telling him the story. He admires his willingness to travel across town to visit him. He thinks the boy is quick, funny, and wise. He wants to make sure that the boy is mature enough to be able to handle the truth. He even asks the boy if he believes the story, and believes his “I don’t really know” as a “fair answer” (148). Not only is the knowledge of the cookie jar a secret, but it is also “forbidden” in that it goes against common knowledge, and it is potentially dangerous, a potential Pandora’s Box in cookie jar form. From as far back as the Pandora myth, it seems impossible for humankind to return knowledge back to its source once it’s discovered, even if the knowledge could be cataclysmic, like that of knowing how to build nuclear warheads, for example. Lovecraft exploited this theme in The Strange Case of Charles Dexter Ward when records were kept in secret code (then later deciphered) and the pages of a book were glued together to hide records, rather than just torn out and burned. And so Rhett cannot discard or destroy the cookie jar; it would be “throwing out a miracle, one that had belonged to his mother” (147). Instead, he gives it to the boy and tells him where to find it, so that he might safeguard it for another generation or two. He warns his great-grandson to be careful, but he knows the boy won’t, just as his mother could not, and he could not. “In the end we all prefer the bitter to the sweet. It’s our curse,” he thinks (148). The theme of time occurs again in this short story, originally manifesting itself in the differences between the ages of the two characters. This seventyseven-year difference is just a “pond” to Rhett, though “probably . . . an ocean” to Dale. Rhett thinks of it as a short swim between two shores and the “brevity” is surprising. Rhett takes time backward when he tells about his own youth, then speeds it through his experiences in the war, and slows it down to tell the story of the cookie jar and the world inside it where time stands still. Time is symbolically represented by the watch that was passed down from Moira to each of the brothers, and which stops ticking when in the vicinity of the cookie jar. It is also represented in the early aging of Rhett’s father, and in the different generations (and wars) that are mentioned. Lakoff and Turner have posited that metaphors must be conceptual in nature and they help determine the way we think, especially about abstract concepts. These universal metaphors help us think about and understand the world around us in a simpler way, and are often effectively used in literature, especially poetry. Lakoff and Turner have listed numerous conceptual metaphors for time, including the metaphor of time and movement (44). In one case, it is time itself that moves, and King does employ this idea in the story, as when time stops in the cookie jar, or time being a wheel in the Dark Tower stories. In a second case, it is we who move through time, and King expresses

The Literary King

211

this in a clever way, with the old man and the boy each being on the opposite bank of a body of water, with a “swim between your bank and mine” (137). “Cookie Jar” takes us into the mind of one major character, Rhett, who is not an academic or an elite member of society, but a man who fought heroically in World War II, helped to liberate prisoners from two Nazi concentration camps, returned home to marry, have children, build a highly successful business, and lead a relatively uneventful life after putting the cookie jar away. While he is articulate, he speaks in plain, everyday English, and he shows common sense and rational thinking, even when he is narrating incredible events. Both he and his great-grandson are common, average people, yet both are very believable and easy for anyone to relate to. In short, these are the types of characters that King’s Constant Reader has grown to know and love. His stories are not usually about superheroes that live in an unrecognizable landscape; they are about everyday people, living in a recognizable America. More than this though, the stories he tells are a reflection of the lives of these ordinary people, even as they contain horrors and supernatural events that are extraordinary” (Daley). In “Cookie Jar,” King uses all of the same literary tricks that he uses in his horror novels, to great effect. There is the placement of mystery, as expected by Barthes’s hermeneutic code “Why not tell him? You have never told anyone” (“Cookie Jar” 139), the story within a story is a prolepsis, and Moira’s recollections are flashbacks within a flashback. There are analepses, as when Rhett knows that the boy will look into the cookie jar, and the story ends, typically, with a one-sentence paragraph that leaves the reader hanging, a Stephen King trademark. This “literary” story has basically the same elements that can be found in all of King’s fiction, only this one was published in a respected academic journal, and not in the pages of men’s magazines, like his first short stories. The obvious question must be, if King is responsible for the “dumbing down of American Letters,” as Harold Bloom has accused, why did the editors of Virginia Quarterly Review (VQR)—and, previously, The Atlantic and The New Yorker—decide to publish his story as serious literary fiction? It seems to me that there are three possibilities. First, these editors are, themselves, a product of the dumbing down of American culture and they can’t tell literature from pulp fiction. Since I admire all three journals and would love to place one of my own stories in any one of them, I’m not going to even acknowledge that idea with a reply. Second, these editors are shrewdly appealing to King’s popularity in order to boost sales of their journals. I will agree that people will buy just about anything with King’s name on it, but, again, these high-quality journals rely on their reputation to stay in business, and if publishing a Stephen King story would diminish their reputation, or offend their readers, I would hazard to say that they would not sell out for one story in a single issue. As Magistrale has observed of The New

212

Chapter 19

Yorker, “because King has published some of his best writing there, his inclusion has served to increase the reputations of both author and magazine, undoubtedly bringing new readers to the periodical and skeptical subscribers to a reevaluation of King’s artistic talent” (“Rehabilitation” 9). So I’m left with the conclusion that the editor of VQR chose to include “The Cookie Jar” in the journal based upon its literary merits. Hopefully, its publication in such a respected journal will demonstrate to a more academic audience that King really is more than a literary hack, and that his work is really worth reading and studying. Perhaps “The Cookie Jar” is more literary than King’s other fiction. I believe it is an excellent story, better than some of his work, certainly. But it is also emblematic of his work in that it uses a supernatural element to make its point, uses the same narrative devices found in all of King’s fiction, and is a real story about something and where something actually happens—a family patriarch turns over the family heirloom, with all of its secrets, to the youngest member of the family to safeguard. Most importantly, the story is entertaining. Beautiful, in fact. One of the problems with much modern and postmodern fiction is that it devalues beauty for the sake of breaking down and destroying traditional forms and structures. This can be seen in some modern art, which is often ugly and distasteful in its efforts to shock the viewer and please the elitist who somehow “knows better” than the average person who isn’t sophisticated enough to appreciate such things. According to Dutton: Promoters of modernism cited Dadaist experiments to insist that beauty could reside in any perceptual object, that people could be ‘taught’ to take aesthetic pleasure in any experience whatsoever . . . so modernist hopes went, we would all become free to enjoy abstraction in painting, atonality in music, random word-order poetry, Finnegans Wake, and readymades. (205)

There are those in American culture who complain that the arts have been devalued by so-called popular culture and decry the fact that symphonies and ballet companies are suffering while popular music is thriving. “In the West this [music] elite has been formed by those who have the resources to learn complex instruments such as the piano and violin, and attend classical concerts, and who have mistakenly come to believe that this type of activity is music, rather than just one type of musical activity” (Mithen 271). I would suggest that the literature elite, the Harold Blooms of the world, are analogous to this in writing: many of those who have the time and resources to study literature at high-priced universities believe that postmodern classics, like Finnegans Wake are literature, and everything else should be left to the unwashed masses, so to speak. The truth be known, many of these literature snobs do not even enjoy writers like James Joyce—they

The Literary King

213

merely enjoy being elitist about his work, even if they don’t really understand it either. This is true of literature as well: those who write what they call “literary fiction” seem to complain the most, since it seldom sells many copies. Yet, like literature of the past, King’s fiction captures the intricacies of popular culture: all fiction worth its mettle, does what science cannot: it provides an exact snapshot of culture in a particular time and place. The productions are like photographs that preserve for all time not just the people as they actually seemed, looked, or even truly were, including their dress and posture and facial expressions, but also the surroundings most important to them—their homes, their pets, their transportation, their trails and streets. (Wilson, E. O., Origins 40)

It is obvious that, love him or hate him, Stephen King owns the horror market, having more copies of his books on the shelf of what few bookstores remain than nearly all other horror writers combined. Will another H. P. Lovecraft rise from obscurity to be regarded as the most accomplished literary figure in the horror genre of our generation? It is possible, of course. But I don’t think it will happen. Most of the writers from the horror boom of the 1980s are now forgotten, and most, rightfully so. Their books, while often entertaining, have not, in my opinion, matched Stephen King in overall complexity or in aesthetic value. There are exceptions (Peter Straub, Clive Barker, Neil Gaiman, for example), but many of those who claim to have critical insight and who also write horror fiction (I will not name names here) do not sell many books and will not achieve lasting critical acclaim either.

Conclusion Darwinist Hermeneutics and Stephen King

Call me Jim. I know it’s not as good as Melville’s opening to Moby Dick, but that’s what everyone calls me when I’m not standing in front of a class of bored first-year students trying to explain to them why you can’t connect two complete sentences with a comma. I’m writing this at Myrland Stables on the back of a ripped-up carton of Coke with a purple pen while sitting in a folding chair outside my horse’s stall, and I’m about to break all the rules of scholarly discourse. I’ve taken off the academic regalia, erased the alphabet soup of letters after my name, and will now speak directly to you, my reader, not as a professor but as one Constant Reader to another. There will be few citations here, and if you do a readability study on my prose it will probably fall into a fifth or sixth grade level at best. But as long as my editors indulge me, I’m fine with that. After all, my very first job was picking butternut squash at a New England farm, and by the time King had published Carrie I was working full time as a janitor trying to make enough money to pay my tuition at a state college. The kind of study I’ve done in this book is not like the traditional analyses you’re probably used to. I’ve made up my own word for it—Darwinist Hermeneutics—which will no doubt go viral and become a household word as soon as this book is published (and I’m certain to win the Megabucks multimillion dollar drawing the same day, and be nominated for a Nobel Prize in Mathematics). What this is really all about, though, is combining a close reading of a text with Darwinist theories, including research from the areas of neurology, evolutionary psychology, sociology, anthropology, and even some good old-fashioned linguistics and narratology thrown in for good measure. I hope that this witches’ brew has yielded some useful results that 215

216

Conclusion

have helped you, Constant Reader, understand and appreciate Stephen King’s fiction a little more. Darwinist theories, especially evolutionary psychology, have taken a hit in the academy, one that is undeserved, in my opinion. Frankly, this is partially true because the findings from this field are not always politically correct. Evolutionary psychology predicts that men like attractive women, and women like wealthy men. That’s not something that feminist critics want to hear. It explains why males are, generally, much more violent than females, and much more likely to commit murder. That’s not something that men want to hear. It explains why racism exists. That’s something that no one wants to hear. After learning some of the paleontology involved in this theory, I now know why I crave fast food, and why I can’t eat just one potato chip but find myself compelled to finish off the whole bag. It also clarifies why I’m drinking that Coke that supplied the cardboard from the box that I’m writing on instead of just plain water, which I know is better for me. Despite their best attempts, my soft drink craving is not something the Marxist critics can explain; if the capitalists in the fast food and soft drink industry are exploiting me, they are doing it with my permission. But here’s the important part. Evolutionary psychology is different from other literary theories because it is evidence-based, unlike Freud’s Oedipus complex that, at least in my humble opinion, has absolutely no science or facts to back it up. And just because evolutionary science can explain something that is part of human biology, that doesn’t mean that we are stuck with it, and it certainly doesn’t make bad behavior acceptable. We can—and have—become more than just our biology because of our development of culture, which also provided our species with a distinct evolutionary advantage. If, for example, we know what triggers violence, then we may be able to do something to prevent it. If we know why we eat junk food, we can work a little harder to avoid the salts, fats, and sugars that were good for our ancient ancestors, in moderation, but are killing us now. If we know the evolutionary causes of racism, that in-group out-group thing, then we may be able to eliminate it, especially when evolutionary biology tells us with factbased evidence that race is a social construct because we all share the same genome—in fact, someone like me, an old white guy, is more likely to share more genes with one of my African-American students than I am with Stephen King himself, another old, white guy. We also have to remember that if evolutionary study predicts bad behavior, it also helps us understand some of the more harmless, mundane aspects of our existence, like why we follow a particular sports team (that in-group out group thing again), and why we like landscape art with green fields, perhaps a river or pond, and a nice, tall tree or two that are easy to climb, and maybe a deer or other grazing animal. Furthermore, it also tells us about the good things that humanity has passed down from the Paleolithic age to the

Conclusion

217

present, things like altruism, our need for friendship, and our desire to mostly do the right thing. It explains why we put a man on the moon and hope to put a woman on Mars; why people like skydiving and roller coasters; and why we like stories that, as Aristotle noted way back in the BCE times, have a beginning, a middle, and an end, and, as Stephen King has said, where something actually happens. The concepts of modernism and, to some extent, postmodernism have tried to engage the brain but have neglected the heart. They have dismissed beauty as unimportant, and favored chaos over order. The elitist critics who dismiss popular fiction want us to read authors who are “good for us” like Virginia Woolf, James Joyce, and Samuel Beckett, to name just a few. These authors have stretched the limits of story structure to the breaking point, and, more importantly, to the point where no one reads them unless they are required masochism in order to earn a degree in English. They are not read because some, like Waiting for Godot, have nothing to say and basically cheat the audience out of its enjoyment and its money. Others, like Mrs. Dalloway, require readers to “process a string of fifth- and sixth-level intentionalities” (Zunshine 33) when Theory of Mind suggests that we are most comfortable with fourth-level intentionalities or lower: for example, “John knew that Sally suspected that Peter hoped that Jane was interested in him.” Anything beyond this fourth-level intention is difficult and confusing, and only the most dedicated readers will even make the effort to follow it. Then there are the poets like Ezra Pound that require readers to be fluent in multiple languages in order to understand their works. “The dominant theories of elite art and criticism in the twentieth century grew out of a militant denial of human nature. One legacy is ugly, baffling, and insulting art. The other is pretentious and unintelligible scholarship. And they’re surprised that people are staying away in droves?” (Pinker, Blank Slate 416). What readers really want is entertainment, and if that entertainment enlightens them about life, so much the better. “Ultimately what draws us to a work of art is not just the sensory experience of the medium but its emotional content and insight into the human condition” (418). Elitist writers and artists have taken all of the fun out of art and replaced it with abstract pieces that make no sense and, in the case of modern visual art, aren’t even attractive to look at. At a 2019 art exhibit at Art Basel, a “prestigious” art show in my city of Miami, for example, a banana duct-taped to a wall was considered art and sold for $120,000. Another performance artist mocked the exhibit by taking the banana down and eating it, which I think made a fluent statement about what most people think about such nonsense art. So now my rambling has finally come home to roost: there is no reason that popular stories can’t also be considered literature. Shakespeare managed it; he entertained both the groundlings and the Crown (though some of those history plays were said to set Queen Elizabeth off when they questioned that

218

Conclusion

divine right thing). Dickens had it mastered. And Robert Frost, “the people’s poet,” won four Pulitzer Prizes and recited a poem at Kennedy’s inauguration. So it can be done. That brings us back to Stephen King and Darwinist Hermeneutics. Based on what I’ve found doing this study, coupled with my previous work, I am convinced that King has become that rare “unicorn” (Anderson, “Four Quadrants” 106) of an author who can sell books and make a valuable contribution to American literature. I strongly disagree with the postmodern critics who believe that literature has collapsed because people prefer a good story to experimental fiction. Margaret Atwood and Toni Morrison, two of the finest contemporary writers in the English language (at least in my opinion), tell good stories where things actually happen, and which, incidentally, have been turned into successful film projects. At the time of this writing, Amazon ranked Atwood at number twenty-five and Morrison number twenty-six in their “Most Popular Authors” ranking, which proves that people do appreciate fine writing that is accessible and has something to say. King, incidentally, is ranked at number two. So how does King do it? I believe a Darwinist Hermeneutic analysis holds some answers. He appeals to human universals, or basic human nature, if you will. His stories are actually about something and contain the conflict and suspense that people crave. His characters are real human beings, not pompous intellectuals that readers can’t relate to. His stories are accessible, and don’t need an advanced degree to decipher. And, finally, they are both enjoyable and say something important and truthful about the human condition. King’s stories engage our survival instincts and force us to imagine ourselves in situations of life and death. What would I do if I were trapped in a car by a rabid dog? Or handcuffed to a bed with no food, water, or help? Or if I were one of the “lucky” survivors of a plague that wiped out virtually everyone? Even as I write this, the coronavirus fear is going full steam. True, none of these things are likely to happen, but I could lose control of my vehicle, plow into the woods, and be trapped inside. How would I handle that? Or, much more likely, how would I prepare for a natural disaster, say a hurricane since I live in Florida, where the power goes out and I can’t leave my home? King’s stories force us to face our worst fears—mine happens to be spiders, and King’s giant spiders get me every time. What would I do if I fell off my horse into a bed of spiders? King’s stories make me think about that, and perhaps prepare a plan. What would I do if I became lost in the woods? The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon might help me with that problem. According to Magistrale, King’s fiction is “a reminder that the world is not a safe place. . . . In the age of terrorism and surveillance . . . King’s fiction has come to seem less about paranoid fantasy projections and more about horrible inevitabilities” (“Rehabilitation” 12).

Conclusion

219

King’s books appeal to our seeking instinct as they take us on amazing adventures. What would it be like travel across the country, like Jack Sawyer in The Talisman, on a quest to save the life of someone I love? What would it be like to be a gunslinger on a quest? What would it be like to travel into the sewers to fight a supernatural demonic thing that messes with your mind? King forces me to experience the grief that comes with loss. How would I handle the death of one of my children? What would I do if I knew that one of them had a terminal illness? What if I had a terminal illness or knew I was about to die? Would I be strong enough finish the projects I’m working on, like Bill Hodges in End of Watch? Would I try to do some good and accept my fate like Johnny Smith in The Dead Zone or John Coffey in The Green Mile? Would I enjoy each minute I had left to the fullest, like Mike from Joyland? King’s works allow me to examine the possibilities. King takes me into the minds of others who are not like me. What would it be like to be married to an abuser, a psychopath, or even a serial killer? What goes on in the mind of someone like the Trashcan Man? What would it be like to be thrown in prison for a crime I didn’t commit? What would it be like to be an alcoholic, or a black woman who lost her legs after being pushed onto a subway track by a racist, or even to be able to read other people’s thoughts? The experiences and questions posed by King’s excursions into human nature are important. Although the books can certainly be read for fun on the beach or in an airplane, there is more to them than that. His most powerful scenes are not just read and forgotten. They stay with you long after the book has been put up on the shelf. During the course of my life I have read hundreds of horror, fantasy, and science fiction stories, and have taught some of the best of them in my college science fiction class. Only a few of them make the cut, since as the brilliant fantasy author Ted Sturgeon once said, “90% of everything is crap.” I originally read The Stand in its first abridged version back in the 1970s, and never could forget the scene of Larry Underwood’s journey through the “belly of the whale” in the Lincoln Tunnel. The “Redrum” of The Shining never went away either, or the image of the Dark Tower, read while I was writing a paper on the Robert Browning poem for a graduate class in Victorian Literature. I did read Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist, Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, and Ezra Pound’s Cantos in grad school as well, and for the life of me I can’t remember anything about any of them, except trying to stay awake long enough to finish the chapter. Frankly, I couldn’t relate to the characters, couldn’t understand what (if anything) was really happening, and, in the case of Pound, couldn’t understand the Latin, Greek, Mandarin Chinese, or any of the other languages he uses except the English and a little bit of French. These books, for me at least, lacked an entertaining story with suspense and conflict. I read them, wrote the obligatory essays on them using the obligatory literary theories, and promptly forgot

220

Conclusion

them. I did what I had to do, read the books I was required to read, enjoyed Shakespeare and Chaucer immensely, and Hemingway and Fitzgerald, and even came to appreciate Faulkner’s convoluted prose, but when I’m reading books I don’t have to read, I pick up something by Margaret Atwood, Clive Barker, Kurt Vonnegut, Ray Bradbury, H. P. Lovecraft, Tanith Lee (who once gave me the greatest compliment a horror writer can get, when she called one of my stories “quite nasty” while signing the anthology which contained both of our tales), and, of course, Stephen King. Blame it on my lower-middle-class background, if you will, or the fact that I went to public school and couldn’t afford to attend Harvard or Yale and so opted for state college instead (and majored in science for my first two undergraduate years, until the literature bug captured me completely and never let go). Blame it on the fact that I grew up reading The Hardy Boys and Doc Savage and Famous Monsters of Filmland, and watching the creature double feature, The Twilight Zone, and Star Trek, but I, like most of the world’s population, became addicted to story, not the word puzzles of modernist literature. So here I am, another Constant Reader who has spent most of my adult life growing old with the work of Stephen King, and the past decade or so studying it in detail and writing about it. I hope that I’ve managed to spread some light on his works, and on how applying science to literature can bring about some of that consilience between the sciences and the humanities that E. O. Wilson is hoping for. And now that I see the academic side of me beginning to return, I would say that it’s time to leave this project behind and move on. After all, there is a new Stephen King book that’s just about to be released (isn’t there always?). I preordered it and it should be in my mailbox any day now.

Works Cited

Abbott, H. Porter. The Cambridge Introduction to Narrative, 2nd Edition. Cambridge, 2008. Abraham, Anna. The Neuroscience of Creativity. Cambridge, 2018. Allen, Dwight. “My Stephen King Problem: A Snob’s Notes.” Los Angeles Review of Books, July 3, 2012. https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/my-stephen-king-problem-a-snobs-notes/. Allen, Katherine. “Sometimes Dead is Better: King, Daedalus, Dragon-Tyrants, and Deathism.” Stephen King and Philosophy, Ed. Jacob. M. Held. Rowman & Littlefield, 2016. Anderson, James Arthur. “Four Quadrants of Success: The Metalinguistics of Author Protagonists in the Fiction of Stephen King.” Horror Literature from Gothic to Postmodern: Critical Essays, Ed. Michelle Brittany and Nicholas Diak, pp. 101–12. McFarland, 2020. ———. The Linguistics of Stephen King: Layered Language and Meaning in the Fiction. McFarland, 2017. Aristotle. Poetics, Dover Thrift Edition, e-book. 1997. Asma, Stephen T. The Evolution of Imagination. University of Chicago Press, 2017. Atwood, Margaret. Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing. Anchor, 2003. Austin, J. L. How to Do Things with Words, 2nd Edition, Ed. J. O. Urmson and Marina Sbisa. Harvard University Press, 14th printing, 1994. Austin, Michael. Useful Fictions: Evolution, Anxiety, and the Origins of Literature. University of Nebraska Press, 2010. Auxier, Randall. “Time Belongs to the Tower.” Stephen King and Philosophy, Ed. Jacob M. Held. Rowman & Littlefield, 2016. ———. “Ur 88,416.” Stephen King and Philosophy, Ed. Jacob M. Held. Rowman & Littlefield, 2016. Bal, Mieke. Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative, 3rd Edition. University of Toronto Press, 2009. Barbaro, Nicole and Todd K. Shackelford. “Female-Directed Violence as a Form of Sexual Coercion in Humans (Homo sapiens). Journal of Comparative Psychology 130, no. 4 (2016): 321–27. Barthes, Roland. “The Death of the Author.” Image, Music, Text, Trans. Steve Heath. Hill and Wang, 1978. ———. The Pleasure of the Text, Trans. Richard Miller. Hill and Wang, 1975. ———. “Textual Analysis of Poe’s ‘Valdemar,’” Untying the Text: A Post-Structuralist Reader, Ed. Robert Young, pp. 133–61. Routledge, 1981. ———. S/Z, Trans. Richard Miller. Hill and Wang, 1974. Baudrillard, Jean. The Consumer Society: Myths and Structures. Sage, 1998. Beahm, George. The Stephen King Story. Andrews and McMeel, 1998.

221

222

Works Cited

Bernstein, Bobby. “26 Best Revenge Movies of All-Time: The Ultimate List (2019).” https:// www.nerdmuch.com/movies/2561/best-revenge-movies/ Berwick, Robert C., and Noam Chomsky. Why Only Us: Language and Evolution. MIT Press, 2017. Bickerton, Derek. Language and Species. University of Chicago Press, 1990. Bishop, Kyle William. How Zombies Conquered Popular Culture. McFarland, 2015. Blatt, Ben. Nabokov’s Favorite Word is Mauve. Simon & Schuster, 2017. Bloom, Harold. “Afterthought.” Bloom’s Modern Critical Views: Stephen King, Updated Edition, Ed. Harold Bloom, pp. 207–8. Chelsea House, 2007. ———. “The Anxiety of Influence.” The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism, Ed. Vincent B. Leitch et al., pp. 1797–1805. Norton, 2001. ———. “Dumbing Down American Readers.” The Boston Globe. September 24, 2003. ———. “Introduction.” Bloom’s Modern Critical Views: Stephen King, Updated Edition, Ed. Harold Bloom, pp. 1–3. Chelsea House, 2007. Boem, Christopher. Moral Origins: The Evolution of Virtue, Altruism, and Shame. E-book. Basic Books, 2012. Bosky, Bernadette Lynn. “Choice, Sacrifice, Destiny, and Nature in The Stand.” A Casebook on the Stand, Ed. Tony Magistrale. Wildside, 2006. Boyd, Brian. “Evolutionary Theories of Art.” The Literary Animal, Ed. Jonathan Gottschall and David Sloan Wilson, pp. 147–76. Northwestern University Press, 2005. ———. On the Origin of Stories: Evolution, Cognition, and Fiction. Cambridge: Harvard Press, 2009. Bowles, Samuel, and Herbert Girtis. The Cooperative Species. Princeton, 2016. Bradbury, Ray. “A Sound of Thunder.” A Sound of Thunder and Other Stories, William Morrow Reprint Edition, 2005. Brenner, Grant Hilary. “The Secrets You Keep Are Hurting You—Here’s How.” Psychology Today, January 22, 2019. https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/experimentations/ 201901/the-secrets-you-keep-are-hurting-you-heres-how. Brewer, William F., and Edward H. Lichtenstein. “Event Schemas and Story Grammars.” Attention and Performance IX: Proceedings of the Ninth International Symposium on Attention and Performance, Ed. John Long and Alan Baddeley. Lawrence Erlnaum Associates, 1981. Brice, Makina. “The Science of Pedophilia: Is It a Sexual Orientation? Medical Daily, September 7, 2012. https://www.medicaldaily.com/science-pedophilia-it-sexual-orientation-242403. Brooks, Max. The Zombie Survival Guide. Random House, 2003. Burger, Alissa. Teaching Stephen King: Horror, the Supernatural, and New Approaches to Literature. Palgave MacMillan, 2016. Buss, David. Evolutionary Psychology: The New Science of the Mind, 4th Edition. Allyn & Bacon, 2012. Campbell, Joseph. The Hero with a Thousand Faces. New World, 2008. Carroll, Joseph. Evolution and Literary Theory. University of Missouri Press, 1995. ———. Literary Darwinism. New York: Routledge, 2004. Carroll, Noel. The Philosophy of Horror. Routledge, 1990. Carroll, Sean. From Eternity to Here. Dutton, 2016. Cassuto, Leonard. “The Power of Blackness in The Stand.” A Casebook on the Stand, Ed. Tony Magistrale. Wildside, 2006. Cave, Stephen. “There’s No Such Thing as Free Will; But We’re Better Off Believing In It Anyway.” The Atlantic, June 2016. https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2016/06/ theres-no-such-thing-as-free-will/480750/. Center for Disease Control. “Genetics of Hearing Loss.” updated February 2, 2015. https:// www.cdc.gov/ncbddd. Chandler, Kelly. “Canon Construction Ahead.” Reading Stephen King: Issues of Censorship, Student Choice, and Popular Literature, Eds. Brenda Muller Power et al., pp. 105–11. NCTE, 1997. Chatman, Seymour. Story and Discourse: Narrative Structure in Fiction and Film. Cornell, 1980.

Works Cited

223

Chomsky, Noam. “From Aspects of the Theory of Syntax.” Critical Theory Since 1965, Eds. Hazad Adams and Leory Searle, pp. 40–55. Florida State University Press, 1990. Ciabatarri, Jane. “Is Stephen King a Great Writer?” BBC Culture, October 31, 2014. www.bbc.com/culture/story/20141031-is-stephen-king-a-great-writer. Clasen, Mathias. Why Horror Seduces. Oxford University Press, 2017. Clark, Chad A. Tracing the Trails: A Constant Reader’s Reflections on the Work of Stephen King. Darker Worlds Publishing, 2018. Clottes, Jean. What is Paleolithic Art?: Cave Paintings and the Dawn of Human Creativity. Trans. Loiver Y. Martin and Robert D. Martin. University of Chicago Press, 2016. Cohen, Noam. “Lots of Big Words, But Is It Literature?” New York Times, March 19, 2006. https://www.nytimes.com/2006/03/19/business/worldbusiness/19iht-book.html Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. “From Biographia Literaria.” The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism, Eds. Vincent B. Leitch et al., pp. 684–82. Norton, 2001. Cresap, Kelly M. Pop Trickster Fool: Warhol Performs Naivete. University of Illinois Press, 2004. Cron, Lisa. Wired for Story. Ten Speed Press, 2012. Cross, Gary. “Where Has Teen Car Culture Gone?” The Atlantic, May 27, 2018. https:// www.theatlantic.com/family/archive/2018/05/teen-car-culture/561290/. Daley, Beth. “Stephen King: A Master of Horror Who Finds Terror in Everyday Life.” The Conversation, September 12, 2017. theconversation.com/stephen-king-a-master-of-horrorwho-finds-terror-in-the-e veryday-83758. Dan, Neil. “Driven: Why Cars Move Men.” Men’s Health, May 26, 2011. https:// www.menshealth.com/technology-gear/a19555066/why-cars-move-men/ Darwin, Charles. The Descent of Man. Penguin, 2004. ———. The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals, E-book. John Murray, 1872. Davies, Ian. “Why Do People Still Love Classic Cars?” Petrolicious Productions, June 30, 2015. https://petrolicious.com/articles/why-do-people-still-love-classic-cars. Dawkins, Richard. The God Delusion. Mariner Books, 2008. ———. The Selfish Gene, 40th Anniversary Edition, E-book. Oxford, 2016. Deacon, Terrance W. The Symbolic Species. Norton: 1997. De Becker, Gavin. The Gift of Fear. Dell, 1998. Denworth, Lydia. “The Social Lives of the Amboseli Baboons.” Scientific American, pp. 36–45, January 2019. “Domestic Violence: Domestic Violence Statistics and Facts.” Safehorizon, 2019. https:// www.safehorizon.org/get-informed/domestic-violence-statistics-facts/#definition/. Dutton, Denis. The Art Instinct: Beauty, Pleasure, and Human Evolution. Bloomsbury, 2009. Eliade, Mircea. “Myths and Mythical Thought.” The Universal Myths, Ed. Alexander Eliot, pp. 14–40. Plume, 1990. Everding, Gerry. “Readers Build Vivid Mental Simulations of Narrative Situations, Brain Scans Suggest.” The Source. Washington University in St. Louis, January 26, 2009. https:// source.wustl.edu/2009/01/readers-build-vivid-mental-simulations-of-narrative-situationsbrain-scans-suggest/. Fahmy, Dalia. “Key Findings About Americans’ Belief in God.” Factank: News in the Numbers, PEW Research Center, April 25, 2018. www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2018/04/25/ key-findings-about-americans-belief-in-god/. “Faith in the 2016 Campaign.” PEW Research Center, January 27, 2016. www.pewforum.org/ 2016/01/27/faith-and-the-2016-campaign/. Fassler, Joe. “Why Stephen King Spends ’Months and Even Years’ Writing Opening Sentences.” The Atlantic, July 23, 2013. https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/ 2013/07/why-stephen-king-spends-months-and-even-years-writing-opening-sentences/ 278043/. Fields, R. Douglas. Why We Snap: Understanding the Rage Circuit in Your Brain. Dutton, 2015. Fisher, Ronald Aylmer. The Genetical Theory of Natural Selection, E-book. Oxford, 1930. Fuentes, Agustin. Biological Anthropology. McGraw Hill, 2019.

224

Works Cited

Furth, Robin. Stephen King’s Dark Tower: The Complete Concordance Revised and Updated. Scribner, 2012. Geher, Glenn. Evolutionary Psychology 101, E-book. Springer, 2014. Geiger, Jennifer. “Survey: One of Four People Name Their Car.” USA Today, October 27, 2013. https://www.usatoday.com/story/money/cars/2013/10/27/name-your-car/3189269/. “Genetics of Alcohol Use Disorder” National Institute of Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism. https://www.niaaa.nih.gov/alcohol-health/overview-alcohol-consumption/alcohol-usedisorders/genetics-alcohol-use-disorders. Genette, Gerard. Narrative Discourse, Trans. Jane. E. Lewin. Cornell, 1980. Gerrig, Richard J. Experiencing Narrative Worlds: On the Psychological Activities of Reading. Westview Press, 1998. Gorostiza, E. Axel, and Julien Colomb and Björn Brembs. “A Decision Underlies Phototaxis in an Insect.” The Royalty Society Publishing, December 1, 2016.https://royalsocietypublishing.org/doi/full/10.1098/rsob.160229. Gottschall, Jonathan. The Storytelling Animal. Mariner, 2012. Graham, Edward. “Using Smart Phones in the Classroom.” National Education Association. http://www.nea.org/tools/56274.htm. Green, Anna. “Why Do We Laugh When We’re Scared?” Mentalfloss.com, October 16, 2015. mentalfloss.com/article/69830/why-do-we-laugh-when-were-scared. Greene, Andy. “Stephen King: The Rolling Stone Interview.” Rolling Stone, pp. 72–79, November 6, 2014. ——— “Reader’s Poll: The 10 Best Stephen King Books.” Rolling Stone, November 5, 2014. https://www.rollingstone.com/culture/culture-lists/readers-poll-the-10-best-stephen-kingbooks-149782/salems-lot-36745/. Greene, Brian. The Hidden Reality: Parallel Universes and the Deep Laws of the Cosmos. Vintage, 2011. Gregory, Paul. “Lee Harvey Oswald Was My Friend.” New York Times, November 7, 2013. https://www.nytimes.com/2013/11/10/magazine/lee-harvey-oswald-was-my-friend.html. Haidt, Jonathan, et al. “What Exactly Makes Revenge Sweet? How Anger Is Satisfied In Real Life and At the Movies.” June 22, 2010. https://view.officeapps.live.com/op/view.aspx?src= http%3A%2F%2Ffaculty.virginia.edu%2Fhaidtlab%2Farticles%2Fmanuscripts%2Fhaidt. sabini.submitted.sweet-revenge.pub615.doc. Hanson, Rick, and Richard Mendius. Buddha’s Brain: The Practical Neuroscience of Happiness, Love & Eisdom. New Harbinger, 2009. Harari, Yuval Noah. Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind. Harper, 2015. Harris, Sam. Freewill. Free Press, 2012. Held, Jacob M., Ed. Stephen King and Philosophy. Rowman & Littlefield, 2016. Herron, Don. “Stephen King: The Good, the Bad, and the Academic.” Bloom’s Modern Critical Views: Stephen King, Updated Edition, Ed. Harold Bloom, pp. 17–40. Chelsea House, 2007. Hills, Matt. The Pleasures of Horror. Continum, 2005. Himelfarb, Elizabeth J. “Prehistoric Body Painting.” Archeology 53, no. 4 (July/August 2000). https://archive.archaeology.org/0007/newsbriefs/zambia.html Hogan, Patrick Colm. Cognitive Science, Literature, and the Arts: a Guide for Humanists. Routledge, 2003. Holy Bible. New International Version. Zondervan, 1988. Homer. The Odyssey, Trans. Robert Fagles. Penguin Classics, 1996. Hoppenstand, Gary. “On Stephen King.” Critical Insights: Stephen King, Ed. Gary Hoppenstand, pp. 3–7. Salem Press, 2011. “How Americans Feel About Religious Groups.” PEW Research Center, July 16, 2014. http:// www.pewforum.org/2014/07/16/how-americans-feel-about-religious-groups/ Howard, Jacquleine. “The US Suicide Rate Is Up 33% Since 1999, Research Says.” CNN, June 21, 2019. https://www.cnn.com/2019/06/20/health/suicide-rates-nchs-study/index.html. Huron, David. Sweet Anticipation: Music and the Psychology of Expectation. MIT Press, 2008. Huston, Matt. “10 Myths About the Mind.” Psychology Today, pp. 52–61, October 2019. Hyde, Lewis. Trickster Makes This World. Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 1998.

Works Cited

225

Indick, Ben P. “What Makes Him So Scary.” Discovering Stephen King, Ed. Darrell Schweitzer, pp. 9–14. Starmont, 1985. Jacobs, Alan. “A Defense of Stephen King, Master of the Decisive Moment.” The Atlantic, July 24, 2012. https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2012/07/a-defense-of-stephenking-master-of-the-decisive-moment/260187/. Janiker, Rebecca. The Literary Haunted House. McFarland, 2015. Jones III, Ronnie. “Gobekli Tepe.” Ancient History Encyclopedia, May 7, 2015. https:// www.ancient.eu/Gobekli_Tepe/. Jong, Allison De. “Protestants Decline, More Have No Religion in a Sharply Shifting Religious Landscape.” ABC News, May 10, 2018. https://abcnews.go.com/Politics/wireStory/muellerreport-looming-attorney-general-hot-seat-61230301. Joshi, S. T. Unutterable Horror: A History of Supernatural Fiction 2: The Twentieth and Twenty-first Centuries. Hippocampus, 2014. Jung, Carl. “On the Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry.” The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism, Eds. Vincent B. Leitch et al. Norton, 2001. Kaku, Michio. Physics of the Impossible. Penguin, 2009. Kaslow, Nadine. Suicidal Behavior in Children and Adolescents. https://www.apa.org/about/ governance/president/suicidal-behavior-adolescents.pdf Keesey, Douglas. “‘I Think the Government Stinks!’: Stephen King’s The Stand.” A Casebook on the Stand, Ed. Tony Magistrale. Wildside, 2006. Keleman, Deborah. “Are Children ‘Intuitive Theists’?” Psychological Science 15, no. 5 (2004): 295–301. www.bu.edu/cdl/files/2013/08/2004_Kelemen_IntuitiveTheist.pdf. Kempton, Daniel. “Stephen King: Best-Selling Author, Horror Novelist—and a Christian Moralist?” The Catholic World Report, March 20, 2015. https://www.catholicworldreport.com/ 2015/03/20/stephen-king-best-selling-author-horror-novelist-and-christian-moralist/. Kerr, Margee. Scream: Chilling Adventures in the Science of Fear. PublicAfffairs Books, 2015. King, Stephen. 11/22/63. Scribner, 2011. ———. The Bazaar of Bad Dreams. Scribner, 2015. ———. Carrie, First Mass Market Edition. Anchor Books, 2011. ———. Cell. Scribner, 2006. ———. “A Conversation with Stephen King about 11/22/63.” 11/22/63, Enhanced e-Book. Scribner, 2011. ———. “Cookie Jar.” Virginia Quarterly Review, Spring 2016. ———. Cujo. Viking, 1981. ———. Christine. Viking, 1983. ———. Danse Macabre. Everest House, 1981. ———. The Dark Tower, First Trade Edition. Donald Grant Publisher, 2004. ———. The Dead Zone. Viking, 1979 ———. Desperation. Viking, 1996. ———. Different Seasons. Signet, 1998. ———. Doctor. Sleep. Scribner, 2013. ———. The Drawing of the Three. Plume, 1987. ———. Duma Key. Scribner, 2008. ———. Elevation. Scribner, 2018. ———. Full Dark, No Stars. Scribner, 2010. ———. Gerald’s Game. Signet, 1993. ———. The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon. Scribner, 1999. ———. The Gunslinger, Expanded Edition. Scribner, 2003. ———. “Introduction.” The Best American Short Stories 2007, Series Ed. Heidi Pitlor. Houghton Mifflin, 2007. ———. Insomnia. Viking, 1994. ———. The Institute. Scribner 2019. ———. It. Viking, 1986. ———. Joyland. Titian Books, 2013. ———. Lisey’s Story. Scribner, 2006. ———. Misery. Signet, 1988.

226

Works Cited

———. Needful Things. Viking, 1991. ———. Nightmares & Dreamscapes, First Paperback Edition. Scribner, 2017. ———. Nightshift. Signet, 1979. ———. On Writing, Paperback Edition. Scribner, 2010. ———. The Outsider. Scribner, 2018. ———. Pet Sematary. Doubleday, 1983. ———. “Rage.” The Bachman Books. Signet, 1986. ———. Revival. Scribner, 2014. ———. Rose Madder. Viking, 1995. ———. Secret Windows: Essays and Fiction on the Craft of Writing. Book-of-the-Month Club, 2000. ———. Song of Susannah. Pocket Books, 2004. ———. Skeleton Crew. Putnam, 1985. ———. The Stand, The Complete Uncut Edition. Doubleday, 1990. ———. “Stephen King: Tax Me, for F@%&’s Sake!” Daily Beast, April 30, 2012. https:// www.thedailybeast.com/stephen-king-tax-me-for-fands-sake?ref=scroll. ———. The Shining, First Mass Market Edition. Anchor Books, 2012. ———. Ur, Kindle Edition. 2009. ———. The Wastelands. Plume, 1992. ———. The Wind through the Keyhole. Gallery, 2012. ———. Wizard and Glass. Plume, 1997. ———. Wolves of the Calla. Pocket Books, 2003. King, Stephen, and Owen King. Sleeping Beauties. Scribner, 2017. Lakoff, George, and Mark Johnson. Metaphors We Live By. University of Chicago Press, 2003. Lakoff, George, and Mark Turner. More than Cool Reason: A Field Guide to Poetic Metaphor. University of Chicago Press, 1989. LaFrance, Adrienne. “Why People Name Their Machines.” The Atlantic, June 23, 2014. https:// www.theatlantic.com/technology/archive/2014/06/why-people-give-human-names-to-machines/373219/. Lant, Kathleen, and Theresa Thompson. Imagining the Worst: Stephen King and the Representation of Women. Praeger, 1998. Leeming, David. The Oxford Illustrated Companion to World Mythology. Tess Press, 2008. Leeming, David and Jake Page. God: Myths of the Male Divine. Oxford, 1996. Lehmann-Haupt, Christopher, and Nathaniel Rich. “The Art of Fiction.” No. 189, The Paris Review, Fall, 2006. Levitin, Daniel J. This Is Your Brain on Music: The Science of a Human Obsession. Dutton, 2016. Lovecraft, H. P. Dagon and Other Macabre Tales Arkham House, 1965. Lukacs, Gyorgy. Realism in Our Time. Harper, 1969. Macherey, Pierre. A Theory of Literary Production, Trans. Geoffrey Wall. Routledge, 1978. Magistrale, Tony. “Free Will and Sexual Choice in The Stand.” A Casebook on the Stand, Ed. Tony Magistrale. Wildside, 2006. ———. Landscape of Fear: Stephen King’s American Gothic, Bowling Green, 1988. ———. “The Rehabilitation of Stephen King.” The Modern Stephen King Canon: Beyond Horror, Eds. Philip L. Simpson and Patrick McAleer. Lexington Books, 2019. ———. Stephen King: The Second Danse Macabre to The Dark Half. Twyne, 1992. Marchant, Jo. “A Journey to the Oldest Decade Cave Paintings in the World. Smithsonian Magazine, January 2016. Mari, Mike. “The Neuroscience of Inequity: Does Poverty Show Up in Children’s Brains?” The Guardian, July 13, 2017. https://www.theguardian.com/inequality/2017/jul/13/neuroscience-inequality-does-poverty-show-up-in-childrens-brains. May, Ashley. “How Many People Believe in Ghosts or Dead Spirits?” USA Today, October 25, 2017. https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation-now/2017/10/25/how-many-people-believeghosts-dead-spirits/794215001/.

Works Cited

227

Mayhell, Hillary. “Genghis Khan a Prolific Lover, DNA Data Implies.” National Geographic, February 14, 2003. https://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2003/02/mongolia-genghiskhan-dna/. McAleer, Patrick. Inside the Dark Tower Series. McFarland, 2009. McAleer, Patrick, and Michael Perry. “Introduction: A More Subtle Macabre.” Stephen King’s Modern Macabre: Essays on the Later Works, pp. 1–8. McFarland, 2014. Mettler, Lyn. “Burger King Takes a Swipe at McDonald’s with Terrifying Clown Ads” USA Today, May 8, 2019. https://www.today.com/food/burger-king-takes-swipe-mcdonald-s-terrifying-clown-ads-t153775. Miller, Sara G. “Monsters and Zombies? Nope, Americans Are Most Afraid of the Government.” Live Science, October 12, 2017. https://www.livescience.com/60663-americans-topfears-2017.html. Mithen, Steven. The Prehistory of the Mind. Thames and Hudson, 1996. ———. The Singing Neanderthals: the Origins of Music, Language, Mind, and Body. Harvard, 2006. Moore, Ward. Bring the Jubilee, Reprint Edition. Wildside PresS, 2009. Murphy, Mekado. “2017: The Biggest Year in Horror History.” New York Times, October 27, 2017. https://www.nytimes.com/2017/10/26/movies/top-horror-movies-box-office-itget-out.htm. Murray, Lee. “Writing from a Dark Place.” Headlands: New Stories of Anxiety, Ed. Naomi Arnold, pp. 216–24. University of Victoria Press, 2018. Mustazza, Leonard. “Repaying Service with Pain: The Role of God in The Stand. A Casebook on the Stand, Ed. Tony Magistrale. Wildside, 2006. National Assembly of State Arts Agencies. “Facts & Figures on the Creative Economy.” 2018. https://nasaa-arts.org/nasaa_research/facts-figures-on-the-creative-economy/ National Human Genome Research Institute. “Does My Genome Determine Everything about Me?” Introduction to Genomics, NIH. https://www.genome.gov/About-Genomics/ Introduction-to-Genomics. Nelson, Cherie. “Stage Right: Themes and Lessons Learned From the Stage.” Music Think Tank, February 4, 2016. www.musicthinktank.com/mtt-open/stage-right-themes-and-lifelessons-learned-from-the-stage.html. Nesse, Randolf, M. “An Evolutionary Framework for Understanding Grief.” Spousal Bereavement in Late Life, Eds. Deborah Carr, Randolph M. Nesse, and Camille B Wortman. Springer Publishing, 2005. ———. Good Reasons for Bad Feelings: Insights from the Frontier of Evolutionary Psychiatry. Dutton, 2019. “The Neuroscience of Nostalgia.” Learning Sciences, July 30, 2018. https://learningwithscience.wordpress.com/2018/07/30/the-neuroscience-of-nostalgia/ Newport, Frank. “More than 9 of 10 Americans Believe in God.” Gallup, June 3, 2011. https:// news.gallup.com/poll/147887/americans-continue-believe-god.aspx Nikitina, Svetlana. “Hackers as Trickster of the Digital Age: Creativity in Hacker Culture.” The Journal of Popular Culture 45, no. 1 (2012): 133–52. Norenzayan, Ara. Big Gods: How Religion Transformed Cooperation and Conflict. Princeton: 2013. “Nostalgia Rewards the Brain.” Nature 515, no. 11 (November 6, 2014). https://www.nature. com/articles/515011c. Oatley, Keith. Best Laid Schemes: The Psychology of Emotions. Cambridge, 1992. Oatley, Keith, and P. N. Johnson-Laird. “Cognitive Approaches to Emotions.” Trends in Cognitive Sciences 18, no. 3 (March 2014): 134–40. O’Farrell, Neal. “Fear and Worry in America? Identity Theft and Cybercrime.” The Huffington Post, November 5, 2014. https://www.huffingtonpost.com/creditsesamecom/fear-andworry-in-america_b_6102910.html. O’Nan, Stewart, and Stephen King. Faithful: Two Diehard Boston Red Sox Fans Chronicle the Historic 20004 Season. Scribner, 2004. Panksepp, Jaak. Affective Neuroscience: The Foundations of Human and Animal Emotions. Oxford, 1998.

228

Works Cited

Panksepp, Jaak, and Lucy Biven. The Archeology of the Mind. Norton, 2012. Paquette, Jenifer. Respecting the Stand: A Critical Analysis of Stephen King’s Apocalyptic Novel. McFarland, 2012. Patel, Aniruddh D. Music, Language, and the Brain. Oxford, 2008. Peterson, Valerie. “What You Need to Know About Romance Fiction Genre.” The Balance Careers, November 30, 2018. https://www.thebalancecareers.com/romance-novels-aboutthe-romance-fiction-genre-2799896. Pharr, Mary. “Almost Better: Surviving the Plague in Stephen King’s The Stand.” A Casebook on the Stand, Ed. Tony Magistrale. Wildside, 2006. Pinker, Steven. The Blank Slate. Penguin, 2003. ———. How the Mind Works. Norton, 2009. ———. The Language Instinct. Harper Modern Classics, 2007. ———. The Stuff of Thought. Viking, 2007. Piper, Andrew. “Are Novels Getting Easier to Read?” TXTLab, McGill University, January 10, 2018. txtlab.org/2018/01/are-novels-getting-easier-to-read/ Pope, Rob. Creativity: Theory, History, Practice. Routledge, 2005. Przyblski, Andrew K., and Netta Weinstein. “Can You Connect with Me Now? How the Presence of Mobile Communication Technology Influences Face-to-Face Conversation Quality.” Journal of Social and Personal Relationships 30, no. 3. http://journals.sagepub. com/doi/pdf/10.1177/0265407512453827 Radford, Benjamin. Bad Clowns. University of New Mexico Press, 2016. Radiological Society of North America. “Smartphone Addiction Causes Imbalance in Brain.” EurekAlert, November 30, 2017. https://www.eurekalert.org/pub_releases/2017-11/rsonsac111717.php. Ramachandran, V. S. The Tell-Tale Brain: A Neuroscientist’s Quest for What Makes us Human. Norton reprint edition, 2012. Ray, Darrel. The God Virus: How Religion Infects Our Lives and Culture. IBC Press, 2009. Restak, Richard. The Naked Brain. Harmony Books, 2006. Robb, David. “U.S. Film Industry Topped $43 billion in Revenue Lat Year, Study Finds, But it’s Not All Good News.” Deadline, July 13, 2018. https://deadline.com/2018/07/film-industry-revenue-2017-ibisworld-report-gloomy-box-office-1202425692/. Robinson, Douglas. American Apocalypses. John Hopkins, 1985. Rogak, Lisa. Haunted Heart: The Life and Times of Stephen King. Thomas Donne, 2008. Rogers, Catherine H. et al. “Long-Term Effects of the Death of a Child on Parents’ Adjustment in Midlife.” NCBI Resources, U.S. Library of Medicine National Institutes of Health, March 17, 2010. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2841012/. Rosenberg, Donna. World Mythology: An Anthology of the Great Myths and Epics, 3rd Edition. NTC Publishing, 1994. Routledge, Clay. Nostalgia: A Psychological Resource. Routledge, 2015. Routledge, Clay, et al. “Nostalgia as a Resource for Psychological Health.” Social and Personality Compass 7, no. 11 (2013), Academic Search Complete. Rowe, Adam. “Estimated U.S. Book Publisher Revenue was North of $26 Billion in 2017. Forbes, July 22, 2018. https://www.forbes.com/sites/adamrowe1/2018/07/22/estimated-u-sbook-publisher-revenue-was-north-of-26-billion-in-2017/#52623b393196. Samson, Geoffrey. The Language Instinct Debate. Continuum, 2005. Sapolsky, Robert M. Behave: The Biology of Humans at our Best and Worst. Penguin, 2018 ———. Why Zebras Don’t Get Ulcers, 3rd Edition. St. Martins, 2004. Sayers, Nicola. The Promise of Nostalgia: Reminiscence, Longing, and Hope in Contemporary American Culture. Routledge, 2020. Scheub, Harold. Trickster and Hero. University of Wisconsin Press, 2013. Schuman, Samuel. “Taking King Seriously: Reflections on a Decade of Best-sellers.” Critical Insights: Stephen King, Ed. Gary Hoppenstand, pp. 157–167. Salem Press, 2011. Schwarz, Rob. “Will Creepy Clowns Return this Fall? Police Issue Warning.” Stranger Dimensions, September 4, 2017. https://www.strangerdimensions.com/2017/09/04/creepy-clownsreturn-warning/.

Works Cited

229

Schweitzer, Darrell. “Introduction.” Discovering Stephen King, Ed. Darrell Schweitzer. Starmont House, 1985. Seabrook, William. The Magic Island. Dover, 2016. Searle, John R. Speech Acts: An Essay in the Philosophy of Language. Cambridge University Press, 27th printing, 2005. Senf, Carol A. “Gerald’s Game and Delores Claiborne: Stephen King and the Evolution of an Authentic Female Narrative Voice.” Imagining the Worst: Stephen King and the Representation of Women, Eds. Kathleen Margaret Land and Theresa Thompson. Greenwood Press, 1998. ———. “Donna Trenton, Stephen King’s Modern American Heroine.” Contemporary Literary Criticism Select. Gale, 2008. Literature Resource Center. https://clicktime. symantec.com/3BypWiuZ1gfciJhH2us1oP87Vc?u=http%3A%2F%2Flink.galegroup. com%2Fapps%2Fdoc%2FH1100003948%2FLitRC%3Fu%3Dprov43712%26sid%3DLi tRC%26xid%3D2806954a. Accessed April 22, 2019. Originally published in Heroines of Popular Culture, Ed. Pat Browne, pp. 91–100. Bowling Green State University Popular Press, 1987. Shankar, Dakshayani. “Spike in Creepy Clown Sightings, With More Arrests Across U.S.” NBC News, October 1, 2016. Digital. https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/spikecreepy-clown-sightings-hoaxes-lead-arrests-across-country-n657956. Singh, R. S. Encyclopedia of Genetics. https://www.sciencedirect.com/topics/neuroscience/ genetic-polymorphisms. 2001. Sligo, Frank. “The Mischievous, Multifarious Machinations of Trickster Trump.” European Journal of American Culture 37, no. 3 (2018): 203–22. Snow, Shane. “This Surprising Reading Level Analysis Will Change the Way You Write.” Contently.com, January 28, 2015. https://contently.com/2015/01/28/this-surprising-readinglevel-analysis-will-change-the-way-you-write/. Solly, Meilan. “What Ötzi the Iceman’s Tattoos Reveal about Copper Age Medical Practices.” Smithsonian.com, September 10, 2018. https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/ what-otzi-icemans-tattoos-reveal-about-copper-age-medical-practices-180970244/. Speer, Megan E., and Mauricio R. Delgado. “Reminiscing about Positive Memories Buffers Acute Stress Responses.” Nature Human Behavior 1, no. 0093 (April 24, 2015). http:// nwkpsych.rutgers.edu/neuroscience/publications/Speer,%20Delgado_NatHumBeh_10_ 2017.pdf. Spignesi, Stephen. Stephen King: American Master. Permuted Press, 2018. “Stephen King’s Map of Maine.” https://stephenking.com/images/map_of_maine.jpg. Stevenson, Randall. “Remembering the Pleasant Bits: Nostalgia and the Legacies of Modernism.” Novel: A Forum on Fiction 43, no. 1 (Spring 2010), Academic Search Complete. Stewart-Williams, Steve. The Ape That Understood the Universe. Cambridge, 2018. Straub, Peter. “Introduction.” Secret Windows: Essays and Fiction on the Craft of Writing. Book-of-the-Month Club, 2000. Strengell, Heidi. Dissecting Stephen King: From the Gothic to Literary Naturalism. Popular Press, 2005. Stritof, Sheri “Estimated Median Age of First Marriage by Gender: 1890 to 2018.” The Spruce February 23, 2019. https://www.thespruce.com/estimated-median-age-marriage-2303878 Sugiyama, Michelle Scalise. “Reverse-Engineering Narrative: Evidence of Special Design.” The Literary Animal, Eds. Jonathan Gottschall and David Sloan Wilson, pp. 177–196. Northwestern University Press, 2005. Sullivan, Bob. “Identity Theft Hit an All-Time High in 2016.” USA Today, February 6, 2016. https://www.usatoday.com/story/money/personalfinance/2017/02/06/identity-theft-hit-alltime-high-2016/97398548/. Tattersall, Ian. Masters of the Planet: the Search for our Human Origins, eBook. St Martin, 2012. Tattersall, Ian, and Rob DeSalle. The Accidental Homo Sapiens. Pegasus, 2019. Thompson, Theresa. “Rituals of Male Violence: Unlocking the (Fe)Male self in Gerald’s Game and Delores Claiborne.” Imagining the Worst: Stephen King and the Representation of Women, Eds. Kathleen Margaret Land and Theresa Thompson. Greenwood Press, 1998.

230

Works Cited

Todorov, Tzvetan. The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre. Cornell, 1975. Tonnies, Ferdinand. Community and Society, Trans. C. P. Loomis. Routledge, 2017. Turner, Mark. The Literary Animal. Oxford, 1996. Underwood, Tim, and Chuck Miller, Eds. Bare Bones: Conversations on Terror with Stephen King. McGraw-Hill, 1988. Vincent, Bev. The Dark Tower Companion. New American Library, 2013. ———. The Road to the Dark Tower. New American Library, 2004. Waller, Bruce N. Restorative Free Will: Back to the Biological Base. Lexington Books, 2015. Walton, Alice G. “Phone Addiction Is Real—And So Are Its Mental Health Risks. Forbes, December 11, 2017. https://www.forbes.com/sites/alicegwalton/2017/12/11/phone-addiction-is-realand-so-are-its-mental-health-risks/#68a8a52513df. Wells, H. G. “The Star.” Prentice Hall Anthology of Science Fiction, Ed. Garyn G. Roberts, pp. 373–77. Prentice Hall, 2003. Whiteman, Honor. “Immune Response Determined By our Genes, Study Shows.” Medical News Today, September 30, 2013. https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/266746.php. Wiater, Stanley, Christopher Golden, and Hand Wagner. The Complete Stephen King Universe. St. Martin’s, 2006. Wilson, David Sloan. Darwin’s Cathedral: Evolution, Religion, and the Nature of Society. University of Chicago Press, 2003. ———. Does Altruism Exist?: Culture, Genes, and the Welfare of Others. Yale, 2015. ———. “Evolutionary Social Construction.” The Literary Animal: Evolution and the Nature of Narrative, Eds. Jonathan Gottschall and David Sloan Wilson, pp. 20–37. Northwestern University Press, 2005. Wilson, E. O. Consilience: The Unity of Knowledge. Knopf, 1998. ———. “Origins of Creativity.” The Secrets of Creativity. Centennial Media, 2019. ———. The Social Conquest of Earth. Liverlight, 2012. Williams, David. The Trickster Brain: Neuroscience, Evolution, and Narrative, E-book. Lexington Books, 2012. Wing, Nick. “There Are Still No Open Atheists In Congress.” The Huffington Post, January 4, 2017. https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/no-atheists-in-congress_us_586c074ae4b0de3a08 f9d487. Wingo, T. S., et al. “The Heritability of Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis in a Clinically Ascertained United States Research Registry.” PLOS One 6, no. 11. https://journals.plos.org/ plosone/article?id=10.1371/journal.pone.0027985 Winter, Douglas E. Stephen King: The Art of Darkness. New American Library, 1984. Wisley, Joelle. “No Clowns for Halloween, Please, I’m Begging You.” Scary Mommy, September 26, 2016. https://www.scarymommy.com/no-clowns-halloween-please/. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. Tractatus Logio-Philosophicus, Trans. O. K. Ogden. Cosimo, 2007. Yarbro, Chelsea Quinn. “Cinderella’s Revenge.” Fear Itself: The Early Works of Stephen King, Eds. Time Underwood and Chuck Miller. Underwood Miller, 1993. Young, Larry, and Brian Alexander. The Chemistry Between Us: Love, Sex, and the Science of Attraction. Penguin, 2012. Zunshine, Lisa. Why We Read Fiction: Theory of Mind and the Novel. Ohio State, 2006.

Index

11/22/63, 23, 23–24, 61, 63, 71–78, 81, 82, 114–115; love and relationships in, 96–97; Nostalia in, 115, 168–169 “1922,” 100 Abbott, H. Porter, 179 Abraham, Anna, 150–151, 153 affective emotions, 91–92 affective state, 140 alcohol, xviii, 17, 67, 138, 162, 198; in The Shining, 141–154, 152, 153, 186; Alcohol Use Disorder, 67 Allen, Dwight, xi, xii, xiii Allen, Katherine, 31, 121 altruism, 4, 37, 40, 46, 57; in The Stand, 47, 52 American Graffiti, 167 American New Criticism, xiii Analepsis, 185–186 Analogy, 150 Andros, Nick, 51, 57 apocalypse stories, 3, 15, 23; in Cell, 25–34 archetypes, xviii, xx, 1, 3 Asma, Stephen, 151 atheism, 57–58; in The Stand, 48 Austin, John L., 196 automobiles as nostalgia, 85–86, 167 Austin, Michael, 149 Auxier, Randall, 71, 73

Bachman Books, 17, 129 Bag of Bones, 115, 156, 160 Barbaro, Nicole, 99 Barthes, Roland, xvii, 20, 22, 179–180, 186, 195–196, 199, 205, 208, 211 Baseball, 89, 105 Berwick, Robert, 179 “Big Driver,” 128, 129 big gods, 49, 54, 57 Blatt, Ben, 158, 184, 190 Bloom, Harold, xi, xiii, xiv, 17, 189, 211, 212 Bloom, Paul, 55–56 “The Body,” 17, 202 Boehm, Christopher, 41, 42, 44, 47, 48, 52 Boo’ya Moon, 160–162, 174 Bosky, Bernadette Lynn, 43, 45 Bowlby’s Attachment Theory, 119 Bowles, Samuel, 46 Boyd, Brian, xiv, xv, xvi, xvii, 47, 179 Brewer, William F., xvii Browning, Robert, 197 Bradbury, Ray, 72 brand names (King’s use of), xiii, 31, 32, 82, 163 Brice, Makina, 124 Burger, Alissa, xii Campbell, Joseph, xix, xx, 3–9, 11, 110 capital Punishment, 86–87

231

232

Index

CARE (affective emotion), 91, 107, 108, 113, 117–118, 122, 149 Carrie, xi, 55, 56, 134–136, 140, 156, 202 Carroll, Joseph, xiv, xvi, xix, xx, 3, 93 Carroll, Noel, 138, 139, 145, 183, 191 Carroll, Sean, 73, 78 Cassuto, Leonard, 43, 45, 65 cave painting, 147, 165, 170–171, 172 Cell, xvi, 25–34, 122–123 Chandler, Kelly, xii Chatman, Seymour, 180 Chaucer, Geoffrey, 82 Chomsky, Noam, 20, 148, 151 Christine, 85–86, 166–167, 178, 183 Ciabattari, Jane, 89 Clark, Chad, 121, 134, 182, 183 Clasen, Mathias, 137, 138, 139, 142, 145, 156 clichés, 158 cliffhanger (as narrative device), 184 Clottes, Jean, 170, 171 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 18, 159 collective unconscious, xviii, xx, 3, 16, 18, 22, 156 Collings, Michael, xvii “Cookie Jar,” 205–212 conscience, 40, 41, 42, 52 consilience, xviii, 1, 39, 73, 134, 151, 157, 220 contrastive affect theory, 59 Cowan, Douglas E., 53, 61 clowns, 12, 143, 156, 162 creation narrative, 3, 19–24 creativity, 195–196, 198, 199 Creep Show, 16 Crimson King, 12, 13, 14, 15, 19, 23, 43, 54, 174, 198, 209 Cron, Lisa, xv, xvi, xvii Cujo, 64, 103–104, 118, 145, 156, 178, 186 Danse Macabre, 15, 16, 63, 67, 85, 88, 96, 98, 99, 140, 144, 150, 159 dance, xix, 82, 107, 114, 147–148, 149, 165–166, 169, 170, 175 The Dark Half, 22 The Dark Tower Series, xix, 12, 14, 15, 16, 19, 20–22, 23–24, 26, 43, 61, 63, 64, 66, 68–69, 71, 74, 75, 78, 84, 141, 156, 157, 160, 181, 187–188, 196–198, 209

Darwin, Charles, 37, 39–40, 165, 168 Davies, Ian, 86 Darwinist Hermeneutics (definition of), xix Dawkins, Richard, 46, 55, 57, 58, 61, 117, 127 Deacon, Terrance, 179 The Dead Zone, 61, 72, 82, 83–84, 192 death of the author, 20, 196, 199, 208 death of a child, 122–123 De Becker, Gavin, 97, 98 deconstructionism, xiv, xviii, xix, 39 D’Elia, Jenifer Michelle, xviii Desperation, 60 defectors, 43, 127. See also free riders Denworth, Lydia, 47 displacement aggression, 131 Doctor Sleep, 129, 182, 192 domestic violence, 97–102, 131 dopamine, 59, 96, 112, 149 The Drawing of the Three, 72 Duma Key, 172–174 Elevation, 82, 203 embedded narrative, 187 End of Watch, 27, 202 eusocial, 39 euthanasia. See terminal illness Everding, Gerry, xvi, 91, 138 evolutionary psychology, xv, 45, 93–94, 98, 101, 109, 111, 119, 132, 137, 138, 147, 192, 215–216 The Eyes of the Dragon, 12, 43 The Faithful, 89 FEAR (affective emotion), 91, 137–146 feminist critical theory, 93, 216 Fisher, Roland, 50 Flashback. See analepsis forbidden knowledge, 210 free-rider, 8, 40 free will, 9, 16, 22, 24, 43–44, 63–70, 71–73, 114–115 Freudian critical theory, xiv, 138, 144, 216 Fields, R. Douglas, 94, 117–118, 133, 134, 154 Full Dark, No Stars, 129 Furth, Robin, 131

Index game theory, 37, 40, 42, 46, 57, 127–128, 130 Gan, 23, 61, 69 Geher, Glenn, 46, 47–48 gender and gender roles, 93–105 Genette, Gerard, 180, 185, 205 Gerald’s Game, 100–102 Gerrig, Richard, xv, 180 Gilgamesh, 3, 6, 7, 25, 30, 53, 119, 127 The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, xii, 105 The Golden Rule, 48, 50, 54 “A Good Marriage,” 127–131 Gorostiza, E. Axel, 64 Gottschall, Jonathan, xiv, xv, xvi, xvii, xviii, 3, 178, 179 Green, Anna, 59 The Green Mile, 86–87, 128, 136, 201 Gregory, Paul, 97 GRIEF (affective emotion), 91, 113, 119–123, 149, 202 The Gunslinger, 160, 181, 196, 206. See also the Dark Tower series Haidt, Jonathan, 128, 129, 130 Harari, Yuval Noah, 47, 151, 177, 179 Harris, Sam, 65, 66, 67, 183 Hawking, Stephen, 50 Hearts in Atlantis, 23 Held, Jacob, xiii, xviii hermeneutic code, xvii, 179, 211 hero’s quest, 1, 3–9 Hills, Matt, 140, 146 Hodges trilogy, 27, 202 Hogan, Patrick Colm, 91 Hoppenstand, Gary, xviii human universals, xvi, 9, 192 Huron, David, 59 Husttion, Matt, 94 Hyde, Lewis, 11, 15, 16 The Iliad, 6, 7, 107, 127 imagination, 160–162, 163, 165, 188, 195–199 in-groups and out-groups, 40, 41, 48, 52 incest avoidance, 95, 101 inclusive fitness theory, 46 income inequality, 155 Indick, Ben P., 144 insanity defense, 134

233

Insomnia, 14–15, 23, 68, 70, 174 The Institute, 56, 78 It, 11, 12, 88, 139, 142, 143, 152, 156, 162, 185, 202 Jacobs, Alan, xvi Janiker, Rebecca, 153 jealousy, 46, 113–114 Johnson, Mark, 150 Johnson-Laird, P.N., 91 Joshi, S.T., xii Joyland, 58, 60, 84–85, 115 Jung, Carl, xix, xx, 3, 22 Justice, theme of, 128, 199, 200, 201. See also prison Kaku, Michio, 74 Kerr, Margee, 139 Keystone Earth, 72, 198 kin-selection theory, 46 King, Owen, 34 King, Stephen (as character in the Dark Tower series), 12, 15–16, 19, 20–22, 24, 60–61, 69, 71, 174, 196–197 King, Tabitha, xi the Koran, 19 Lakoff, George, 150, 210 Lant, Kathleen, 94 Leeming, David, 19 Livitin, Daniel, 165, 169, 189 LIFEMORTS, 133 Lisey’s Story, 159, 160–162 Literary Darwinism, xviii, xix Love (as a human universal), 6, 93, 96, 107–115 Lovecraft, H. P., 24, 117, 137, 206, 210 Lukacs, Gyorgy, xiii LUST (affective emotion), 91, 107, 108, 113, 149 Macherey, Pierre, 22 Magistrale, Tony, xvii, 26, 43, 44, 46, 64, 195, 211, 218 Marxist criticism, xiii, xiv, xix, 22, 155, 216 Matthews, Brian, 162 Maternal Behavior, 111, 112–113, 117 Mayan creation myth, 19

234

Index

McAleer, Patrick, xii, 20, 196, 197 meme, 46, 58, 61 Men in Yellow Coats, 19, 23 metafiction, 16, 21, 196 Mithen, Steven, 165, 167, 168, 170, 212 metalinguistic code, 195 Mid-World, 16, 19, 21, 23, 72, 174, 175, 187, 196 Miller, Sara G., 29 mirror neurons, 138 Misery, 22, 141, 156, 172, 179, 185, 196 Moore, Ward, 72 morality, 17, 40, 48, 52, 57, 127 MRI studies, xv multicultural evolution, 42 multilevel selection, xx, 40, 41, 46, 47 multiverse, 14, 20–24, 71–75, 156, 157, 174, 196, 198–199, 209 music, 33, 59, 82, 165–175; as a human universal, 147–148, 165–166; and nostalgia, 59; and religion, 82, 167 Mustazza, Leonard, 49, 52 narratology, xviii, xix, 148, 205, 215 National Book Foundation Award, xi, 17, 160 Neanderthal, 47, 148, 177 Needful Things, 12, 17, 31, 82, 105, 142, 159, 189 Nelson, Cherie, 107 neuroscience, xiii, xv, xvii, xix, 37, 102, 123, 137, 138, 147, 155 neurotransmitters, 107, 108, 122, 124, 138, 146, 149 Norenzayan, Ana, 54, 57, 161 nostalgia, 76, 81–89, 167–168 Oatley, Keith, 91, 145, 167, 192 The Odyssey, 1, 7, 127 On Writing, 88, 150 The Outsider, 16, 123–124 the Overlook Hotel, 18, 61, 75, 144, 152, 153–155 oxytocin, 52, 108, 112, 117, 122, 124, 169 Page, Jake, 19 Paquette, Jennifer, 8, 9, 42, 44, 45 PANIC (affective emotion), 91, 111, 113, 119, 122, 149, 202

Panksepp, Jaak, 118, 119, 122, 137, 139, 149, 151, 154, 169 Paradise Lost, 1, 53 Patel, Aniruddth D., 165 pedophilia, 124 Pennywise, 11–12, 61, 143, 156–157 Perry, Michael, xii Pet Sematary, 15, 31, 61, 120–122, 124, 128, 145 Pharr, Mary, 45 Pinker, Steven, xvi, 20, 33, 148, 165, 172, 175, 179, 191, 217 PLAY (affective emotion), 91, 149 Poe, Edgar Allan, xiii, 12, 133 Polymorphism, 50 Pope, Rob, 150 poststructuralism, xiv principle of expressibility, 75, 151 prison (as theme), 199–201 project narrative, xvii prolepsis, 180–184 Propp, Vladimir, 3 predestinate horror, 67 prisoner’s dilemma, 46, 127. See also game theory racism, theme of, xviii, 32, 50, 76, 77, 86, 98, 136, 201, 216 Rage, 17, 133–134, 136, 185 RAGE (affective emotion), 91, 113, 134, 149, 154 Rage (triggers of), 103, 117, 118, 127–136, 154 Ray, Darrel, 56, 57, 58 readability study, 190 reciprocal altruism, 57 religion, 37, 42, 47–50, 53–61, 171 Rent, 107 revenge, 65, 98, 127–136 Revival, 26, 31, 48, 58–59, 170, 184 Richards, I. A., xiii “Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption,” 199–201 romance, xvi, 6, 96, 109. See also love romance novels, 6, 96, 107 Rose Madder, 97, 97–98, 100, 123, 136 Routledge, Clay, 81, 83, 84, 87 ‘Salem’s Lot, 12, 61, 115, 144, 150, 184

Index Sapolsky, Robert M., 131, 132, 133, 138, 155 Sayers, Nicola, 81 Scheherazade, 153, 187 Shackelford, Todd K., 99 Scheub, Harold, 11 Schuman, Samuel, xvii Schweitzer, Darrell, xii Searle, John, 75, 138, 151 SEEKING (affective emotion), 91, 122, 145, 149, 151, 219 selfish gene theory, 46, 117, 171 semiotics, xvii, xviii, xix, 39, 179, 205 Shelley, Mary, 120 The Shining, xviii, 17, 18, 140, 144, 152–155, 182, 186 simile, 159. See also metaphor Sligo, Frank, 13 smoke detector principle, 178 Social Darwinism, 40, 42 social dominance hierachy, 41 song lyrics, 166–167, 169 Song of Susannah, 20, 21, 22 Speer, Nicole, xv, 89, 138 spousal abuse, 76, 77, 97. See also domestic violence The Stand, xvi, xviii, 4–9, 12–14, 16, 26, 39–52, 54, 56, 57, 59–60, 64, 66–67, 69, 82, 94–96, 109–114, 139, 141, 143, 158, 169–170, 180–182, 190 Stein, Gertrude, xiv, 1 Stevenson, Randall, 89 storytelling, importance of, xv–xvii, xix, 148, 153, 177–179, 188, 192, 208 Strengell, Heidi, 154, 157 Strauss, Claude Levi, xix, 3 Structuralism, xviii, xix, xx, 3, 4, 39, 205 Sugiyama, Michelle Scalise, xiii, xvi suspense, creation of, xvii, 179–186

235

Tattersall, Ian, 191 teleology, 56 textual code, 208 theory of mind, 191–192, 217 Thompson, Theresa, 94, 100, 101, 102 Todorov, Tzvetan, 3, 205, 206, 207 Tolkien, J. R. R., 23, 110 Tonnies, Ferdinand, 40 The Tommyknockers, 31, 157 tragic flaw, 67–68 trickster story, 1, 11–18, 19 Trump, Donald, 203 Updike, John, 82 Ur, 195, 196 useful fictions, 149, 177 vasopressin, 108, 113 Vincent, Bev, 14, 21, 23 visual arts, xix, 165, 169, 170–171, 172–175 Waller, Bruce N., 64, 65 Walpole, Horace, 152 Wetmore, Jameson, 85 Williams, David, 6, 17, 18 The Wind through the Keyhole, 187–188 Wilson, David Sloan, xx, 46, 47, 52, 53, 54, 179 Wilson, E. O., xviii, xix, 3, 39, 40, 73, 110, 151, 157, 165, 169, 213, 220 Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 151 Wolves of the Calla, 16 “The Word Processor of the Gods,” 63, 196 Yarboro, Chelsea Quinn, 94, 103 Young, Larry, 112, 113 Zunshine, Lisa, 191, 217

About the Author

James Arthur Anderson teaches writing and literature at Johnson & Wales University’s North Miami Campus at the rank of professor. He has a PhD in English from the University of Rhode Island and a BA and MA from Rhode Island College. He is the author of three previous critical studies: Out of the Shadows: A Structuralist Approach to the Fiction of H. P. Lovecraft; The Illustrated Ray Bradbury: A Structuralist Reading of Bradbury’s “The Illustrated Man”; and, most recently, The Linguistics of Stephen King: Layered Language and Meaning in the Fiction. He has presented numerous papers on Stephen King at several conferences, including the “Reading Stephen King Conference” at the University of Maine; the International Conference for the Fantastic in the Arts; Stokercon; and The Ann Radcliffe Academic Conference. He is the 2017 recipient of the Rocky Wood Memorial Scholarship for Nonfiction in 2017, presented by the Horror Writers Association.

237