DaRK PaRTY ReVIEW
::Literate Blather::
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Literary Criticism: Stephen King's "Quitters, Inc."
(Summary: A chance meeting at an airport lounge changes the life of business executive Dick Morrison. Morrison meets an old colleague, Jimmy McCanns, who appears fit, trim, and successful at his new firm. McCanns slides Morrison a business card of the outfit who helped him quit smoking. A few weeks later, the card for Quitters, Inc. falls out of Morrison’s wallet and he decides to make an appointment. Morrison enrolls after a meeting with Vic Donatti, his program director. Then he learns the real story: Quitters, Inc. has a sure-fire way to help its clients give up cigarettes. Donatti explains that Morrison will be watched 24/7 and if he smokes – they will kidnap his wife and electrocute her. The more he cheats, the longer the treatments for his wife and then child will get. Slip up 10 times and they will murder him. Morrison struggles, cheats once, and gets to watch his wife tortured. Amazingly, she understands. He beats the habit and then is told he’s gained too much weight. Start losing it, Donatti says, or they’ll cut off his wife’s pinkie. Morrison’s marriage is saved, he’s fit and trim and his career on track. So he gives the card to an acquaintance who asks for his secret. Months later, Morrison bumps into McCanns at a party. While shaking McCann’s wife’s hand, he notices she only has four fingers.)

Analysis: Stephen King is much maligned by the alleged guardians of literature. When the horror writer won the National Book Foundation’s annual award for “distinguished contribution” in 2003, the guardians got downright frothy.

“I've described King in the past as a writer of penny dreadfuls, but perhaps even that is too kind,” wrote Harold Bloom, the distinguished literary critic from Yale.

Ouch. Hard to dismiss Bloom, a brilliant literary scholar, but his comment is unfair. Obviously, no one is going to mistake King for D.H. Lawrence, but King has contributed a lot to the world of letters – especially in horror and supernatural fiction.

King’s talent lies in uncovering the dark underbelly of the ordinary. For example, on the surface his novels “Cujo” and “Christine” are stories about a rabid dog and a car geek obsessed with his wheels. But running below both tales – and rippling like a snake – are dark, supernatural currents.

King’s short story “Quitters, Inc.” falls into this family. In this gem of a story, King takes self-help into a nightmarish realm. The beauty of “Quitters, Inc.” is its scope – its damnation of our results driven culture. Who cares about the methodology! Look at the outcome!

Basically, he “mobs up” Weight Watchers. And what hand-wringing fun it is to watch Dick Morrison crack down under the authoritarian rule. How after his mild protests, Dick succumbs to the terrorism and torture. Why not? Once his wife gives her approval (even after being subjected to shock treatment), what’s not to like about quitting cigarettes and losing weight?

Here’s the scene right after Dick’s wife is tortured and he has to tell her why it happened:

“When he had finished he was silent a moment and then said, ‘I suppose you hate me. I wouldn’t blame you.’

He was looking at the floor, and she took his face in both hands and turned it to hers. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t hate you.’

He looked at her in mute surprise.

‘It was worth it,’ she said. ‘God bless these people. They’ve let you out of a prison.’


What an indictment on the American way of life. King is skewering our first under any circumstances mentality – and with such wit.

There’s never a dull moment in King’s stories and “Quitters, Inc.” rips along at a fast pace. The best part of the story is that King lays it all out for the reader – gives us a long, hard look at the consequences and then we get to ride along with Dick and wonder where he’s going to end up.

The reader, in fact, becomes Dick Morrison. We feel his pain – his anguish and his fear. We’re even right there with him when he hands over the business card to another patsy who wants to quit smoking.

And that’s the fascination with “Quitters Inc.” We’re all in the rat race together and we’re all keeping score. So who amongst us didn’t feel smugly superior (despite the sudden jolt in the belly) to Jimmy McCanns when we learned his wife only had four fingers?

Isn’t that the real horror here?


Read our literary criticism of Guy de Maupassant

We've got a King Thing. Read about it here

Read our picks for the five scariest Stephen King novels




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Thursday, February 07, 2008
5 Questions About: Thrillers


An Interview with Novelist Michael Marshall Smith


(Writer Michael Marshall Smith (who also writes under Michael Marshall) is a thriller writer in the UK who knows how to do several things really well: frighten people, make them glance nervously over their shoulders, and write with a tense, driving confidence that makes you hang on to his books as if you were clinging to a cliff side. We recently caught up with him to talk about writing thrillers, his career as a man of dark letters and his intersecting relationship with Stephen King.)

DaRK PaRTY: What attracts you as a writer to the horror and thriller genre?

Michael: To be honest, I don't understand why anyone would write anything else. These are the genres where you can try to write tense, involving fiction, treading the fine line between reality and otherworldliness, and exploring the darkest and most vital aspects of human nature to your heart's content - while at the same time dealing with everyday existence just as fully and deeply as any other genre.

So why not? I've tried writing other types of fiction, but within a few pages my fingers always end up steering toward the shadows. I've given up fighting that impulse, to be honest.

DP: “The Straw Men” (2002) was remarkable for its tense paranoia -- especially since it was released right after 9/11 -- and ability to keep readers tearing through the pages. What's the origin of the storyline and your thoughts on the book?

Michael: Like a lot of books, I suspect, the original idea came not to occupy a huge part of the final narrative. The question I initially found myself considering was why, given the disadvantages at the time, humankind stopped its hunter-gatherer existence and began farming.

Kind of an abstract point, I'll admit, but no-one's really nailed the question, and so I came up with a (rather unlikely) explanation - which I then realized could be used to rationalize very unpleasant ways of living. And from this came the idea of “The Straw Men.” As the series progressed, the conspiracy became more complex and its roots began to draw from further back in history. And these parts came to me with surprising ease, as if I was remembering something I already knew. I've almost forgotten that some of it (probably) isn't true, in
fact.

DP: You are adapting Stephen King's short story "Mrs. Todd's Shortcut" about a woman obsessed with finding shorter routes through the back roads of Maine and finding herself in "another place" as a result. What is it about the story that fascinates you?

Michael: I r
emember reading it years and years ago, and it striking a very vivid chord - even when placed amongst all the other great short stories in that collection. I know when I was writing the first draft of the adaptation, just before Christmas, that the thing that really spoke to me (as it often does with King's work, especially that written in the last five to 10 years) is the melancholy, the quiet and very real horror of chances missed and the irrevocability of time's passing.

Of course that traditional King element of other realms existing just to the side of ours has great appeal too (and is something I often touched on in my Michael Marshall Smith novels), but it's his grip on the human that's always really appealed to me about his work. For such a short story, it packs an amazing punch.

DP: King has written blurbs for your books -- and called "The Straw Men" brilliantly written and scary as hell. Have you met King? What's your relationship with him?

Michael: I don't really have one. I did meet him once - very briefly - at the UK launch of his novel “Bag of Bones.” It was the first time he'd been in the UK for quite some time, and his publishers threw a big party for the book, which I was lucky enough to be invited to.

A mutual friend brought King over and introduced us. Sadly I was rendered utterly inarticulate, muttered something inaudible, and King moved on.

To receive his blurb for “The Straw Men” a number of years later was
definitely one of the highlights of my career. King was probably the thing that inspired me most to start writing, and to receive any kind of validation from him -- Well, you can probably imagine.

DP: You've just published "The Intruders" in 2007 (with the paperback due this year). Can you tell us about your latest thriller?

Michael: Well, it's a step to the side from the last three novels – “The Straw Men” books -- in that I've allowed myself to re-introduce a few slightly otherworldly elements. I don't think they're incredible, but they're not based completely in consensual reality, so I guess perhaps it represents a move back toward the horror field that I started out in.

I've never believed that you should feel you have to stick rigidly to genre boundaries. “The Intruders” is a thriller with a touch of psychological horror about it - which is a direction I suspect I'll find myself following for a little while now...


If you liked this interview then try:

Read our "5 Questions" feature with Fantasy Writer R.A. Salvatore here

Read about our own warped relationship with Stephen King here

Read our picks for the 5 Scariest Stephen King novels here


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Friday, July 14, 2006
A King Thing

When I was in my early teens I spent summers at a lake-side, pine cabin nestled in a conifer forest in Bridgton, Maine. During the day, the sun found pathways through the nettled canopy of hemlocks. The slanting pillars of light looked heaven sent. There was a beautiful flower garden along the side of the cabin filled with marigolds, tiger lilies, and pansies. The flowers attracted butterflies and dragonflies.

The place was tranquil; disturbed only by the occasional slap of a screen door or the splash of a child jumping off the float at the beach. The serenity came in part from the cabin’s isolation down a windy, tar road nearly a mile long. On hot summer days, it was paradise.

But at night, the horrors arrived. The darkness swept in with the gloaming, deepening inside the forest first, and then crawling along the road, beach, and gardens like the tentacles of some hell-spawned creature. When the sun dipped far enough below the horizon, the darkness became complete.

Needles ticking on the tar became the click of claws. Foraging animals sounded like the heavy steps of a wild man who prowled the woods with a rusty axe. The lap of the lake water against the dock was the dripping blood from the recently decapitated remains of the neighbor.

I blame Stephen King.

In those days, I slept in the cabin loft devouring King’s early horror novels – Salem’s Lot, Dead Zone, Firestarter, The Shining, Pet Sematary, and the short stories in Night Shift. Who could sleep? When the clock ticked pass midnight, I would take my Buck knife with me when I needed to pee; creeping through the dark cabin with my ears trained on any and every sound.

I first met Stephen King in a bookstore in Paris, Maine. It was 1982 and he was promoting his new collection of novellas called Different Seasons. The bookstore was one of those cozy bookstores with high stacks and creepy floorboards. King wore baggy jeans before such a thing was fashionable and a t-shirt with the legend: “E.T. Phone Home.” King himself was shaggy, a bit hunched, and shambling like an upright brown bear. But he was gregarious and friendly, especially toward me, a shy and awkward 16-year-old.

I had written a book report on King the year before and had struggled mightily with the source material. After all, he wasn’t yet at the height of his career and critics had yet to analyze his prose – but I did the best I could. We noted that only the dead writers seem to get the most critical analysis.

King got a good laugh out of my story and inscribed in my book: “To George, don’t worry I’m getting closer to dead every day!”

In 1991, my future wife and I spent one of those magical “relationship” days in New Hampshire. The day was blue, clear, and warm – postcard weather. We spent the morning swimming and picnicking at a deep, secluded pool along a bend in the Swift River. We ate ice cream cones at an outdoor stand and spent the afternoon at the midway of a carnival in North Conway, riding the Ferris wheel and knocking over cans at the game booths. After an intimate dinner, we wandered over to the North Conway movie theater for the premiere of Terminator 2.

The theater used to be a single screen cinema, but had been divided into four theaters. The seats were lumpy and my knees banged into back of the chair in front of me. But it was summer and theater smelled of buttered popcorn and coconut suntan lotion. We sat directly behind Stephen King and his son. They devoured a large bucket of popcorn and seemed to really enjoy each other’s company.

Then we all watched Arnold Schwarzenegger tear up the screen. On the way out, I gave Stephen a sheepish hello, but he was so engrossed in discussing the movie with his son that he didn’t hear me. I experienced a sudden moment of jealousy. After all, the man next to me had been my favorite writer for most of my youth. He was the master of horror! I took cold comfort in the fact that we bumped shoulders at the exit.

Several months later, I attended a Dire Straits concert and had a rather copious amount of alcoholic beverages before the show. Shortly before the band came on stage, I wandered through the Worcester Centrum concourse in search for nourishment. At a condiment bar, I found Stephen King sloppily applying relish to a large hotdog.

King was dressed like he’d emptied his hamper, but the only detailed that stuck out was the thick, steel chain that connected his wallet to his belt. Emboldened by the booze, I zeroed in on him. “Stephen!” I bellowed, clapping him on the back. Drunk and nervous, I made some jokes about our paths crossing yet again blah, blah, blah.

He gave him a wide-eyed stare and I could almost hear him thinking: This is it. The crazed fan who rips my throat out. Who could blame him? After all, he had just written Misery. He muttered something about needing to get back to his seat and darted away through the crowd of people, moving with the skill of an NFL linebacker.

I, however, became convinced then that I had a cosmic connection to Stephen King. These chance meetings meant something! My future wife, ever the pragmatist, noted that it might not be a good thing to continually cross paths with the scariest man in America. It might be like having a black cat cross your path.

So I waited for the cosmic connection to shift into high gear. Waited for something to happen. Maybe King would crash by wedding (held under the hemlocks at that pine cabin in Maine) or call me up to invite me over to his summer place in Lovell. We could see a movie together at the Magic Lantern or watch the horse pulling contest at Fryeburg Fair.

But I haven't seen Stephen King again since.

I'm still waiting and wondering if Kathy Bates would have any good advice.


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