In Misery (1987), as in The Shining (1977), a writer is trapped in an evil house during a Colorado winter. Each novel bristles with claustrophobia, stinging insects, and the threat of a lethal explosion. Each is about a writer faced with the dominating monster of his unpredictable muse. Paul Sheldon, the hero of Misery, sees himself as a caged parrot who must return to Africa in order to be free. Thus, in the novel within a novel, the romance novel that his mad captor-nurse, Annie Wilkes, forces him to write, he goes to Africa--a mysterious continent that evokes for him the frightening, implacable solidity of a woman's (Annie's) body. The manuscript fragments he produces tell of a great Bee Goddess, an African queen reminiscent of H. Rider Haggard's She. He hates her, he fears her, he wants to kill her; but all the same he needs her power. Annie Wilkes literally breathes life into him. Misery touches on several large themes: the state of possession by an evil being, the idea that art is an act in which the artist willingly becomes captive, the tortured condition of being a writer, and the fears attendant to becoming a "brand-name" bestselling author with legions of zealous fans. And yet it's a tight, highly resonant echo chamber of a book-- one of King's best novels ever!
Publisher's Weekly King's new novel, about a writer held hostage by his self-proclaimed "number-one fan," is unadulteratedly terrifying. Paul Sheldon, a writer of historical romances, is in a car accident; rescued by nurse Annie Wilkes, he slowly realizes that salvation can be worse than death. Sheldon has killed off Misery Chastain, the popular protagonist of his Misery series and Annie, who has a murderous past, wants her back. Keeping the paralyzed Sheldon prisoner, she forces him to revive the character in a continuation of the series, and she reads each page as it comes out of the typewriter; there is a joyously Dickensian novel within a novel here, and it appears in faded typescript. Studded among the frightening moments are sparkling reflections on the writer and his audience, on the difficulties, joys and responsibilities of being a storyteller, on the nature of the muse, on the differences between ``serious'' and ``popular'' writing. Sheldon is a revealingly autobiographical figure; Annie is not merely a monster but is subtly and often touchingly portrayed, allowing hostage and keeper a believable, if twisted, relationship. The best parts of this novel demand that we take King seriously as a writer with a deeply felt understanding of human psychology.
The New York Times Book Review - John Katzenbach The standard King fan will warm up to the gruesome nature of [the characters'] relationship. Blood flies. . . . This book is built on a single cliff and hangs there throughout its length. But the novel functions as well on a more sophisticated level. Mr. King . . . delves deeply into the psychology of creation, and it is to his credit that much of the tension in the book stems from the devilish dilemma the author-hero discovers: his book based on psychotic demand is actually quite good, by far the best he has written. He is, in a wonderful touch, compelled to finish it -- and to save it, as well as himself, from destruction. . . . Even if Misery is less terrifying than [King's] usual work, . . . it creates strengths out of its realities. Its excitements are more subtle. And, as such, it is an intriguing work.
New Statesman - Kim Newman One of the most pertinent criticisms of King's recent fiction is that he has become too rich and successful to be scared of anything any more and has thus lost his power to communicate fear to the reader: in Misery he opens up a whole new area of potent neuroses and complexes that make the novel the most shatteringly horrid he has ever done. Also, in Annie Wilkes, he has created his most monstrous of monsters: Ultimate Evil as Ultimate Banality.
Washington Post Terrifying...In addition to being able to scare the reader breathless, King says a tremendous amount about writing itself. We delight in his virtuosity.
