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“I never knew any of the parts when they happened. Only later I knew that.”
Though it was initially released in parts between 1978 and 1981 and then as a single collection in 1982, I didn’t get my hands on Stephen King’s The Gunslinger until the mass-market edition in 1988. I remember stumbling on the book while helping out my grandmother at the church bazaar. I was in charge of restocking the tables. In the midst of countless Reader’s Digest publications and National Geographic magazines with their perfect yellow spines, I found what I now presume to be the abandoned contents of a young man’s closet: hundreds of horror and sci-fi classics.
I use the word “classic” lightly, but, in the sixty-watt flicker of a crowded church hall, these three boxes filled with lurid paperback covers were like a siren’s song. Coveting my neighbor’s booty something fierce, I claimed the boxes without even knowing who the authors were. These literary treasures became the first “adult” books I owned and didn’t just pilfer from my parents, maybe a step above the dusty Isaac Asimov pocket editions on my father’s bookshelves or a step down from the works of Frank Herbert and J.R.R. Tolkien sitting right next to them. To paraphrase, I didn’t realize this was the beginning of something, but it most assuredly was.
Flash forward a quarter of a century or so, as I re-watched Stephen Frears’ High Fidelity (2000), a film for which I had little affection the first time around. As Nick Hornsby adaptations go, I’ll take instead Chris and Paul Weitz’ About a Boy (2002) any day. On second viewing, however, one set piece in particular struck me: John Cusack’s character, Rob, arranging his albums autobiographically. It’s not that I find the premise awe inspiring or anything. As a book collector who’s had his share of moving and unpacking to do, I’ve stared at empty bookshelves enough times in my life to know that little conceit.
I’m on the brink of moving again, though, donating away rows of knickknacks and doodads I’ve carried with me for years. As I prepare for life in a new province, I find myself with the irresistible urge to dust off a series that once fueled my youth with its kinetic hack-and-slash fantasy, a decades long magnum opus that I “outgrew” around the time I was budgeting for my second tattoo. I’m referring, of course, to Stephen King’s The Dark Tower, which just spawned its eighth overachieving entry.
Starting this July, I’m going to delve into the entire Dark Tower series, reading all the books in order and posting my thoughts on them every two weeks. Does The Gunslinger still hold up? How did the franchise evolve after my literary interests turned elsewhere? Did its fictional universe change as much as I did? Stephen King’s novels span nearly my entire life, but the only thing I know for sure is that the early entries have left a permanent mark on my childhood memories.
If you’d like to join me in chasing down the Man in Black this summer, stay tuned, and please post your comments!
Well this is exciting!
Must be something in the air. In recent weeks, I’ve also been pining for those thrilling, transgressive (and, like yours, nearly always accidental) discoveries of youth. Pulling ‘The Shining’ from my Dad’s bookshelf, finding my best friend’s brother’s unruly stash of ‘Heavy Metal’ magazines in their basement, staying up late to watch pay-tv, hoping for a glimpse of video boobies… I believe these are the moments, our first baby steps out of the light and into the shadows, when we truly became independent and developed a sense of self. These paths were not recommended by parents or teachers. They were unpaved and sometimes forbidden. We chose them. We decided which shadows we wanted to step into.
It’s that thrill I’ve been looking to re-capture in the last few months (albeit, only by downloading Blue Öyster Cult albums and scooping up ‘Heavy Metal’ mags off eBay). I’m looking forward to hearing of your return journey through the Waste Lands. Maybe I’ll follow.