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.
