From a Buick 8

Stephen King

Most of us, at least among the Stephen King fans on the planet—and we are legion, much to the dismay of academics around the country—met the news of King's announced retirement with surprise and outrage. The man can't retire. Who could fill his shoes? Etc. And how could he say he's lost a step after, within the space of three years, publishing Hearts in Atlantis, containing “Blind Willie,” one of his finest stories ever; The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, a book so good it brought George Romero back to America after a decade of self-imposed exile; and Everything's Eventual, the latest in his string of just plain excellent story collections (not a one of which has been less than excellent)? Somewhere in there, we overlooked the bloated horror that was Dreamcatcher, and while no one really expected much of Black House, it lived up to those expectations with a nefarious excellence. And now we have From a Buick 8, and I can't help but think, okay, maybe the man's right.

Not to say there isn't a lot here for the dedicated King fan. The man can do more to give us a character in a paragraph then some authors can in a whole novel. And there's no shortage of the weird, the wild, and the woolly to be found betwixt these covers. But under the surface, it feels like King is treading water; there's nothing new here, nor is there anything inspired. It feels rather like Miles Davis' performance at Live Aid; the man showed up to perform, but there's no passion here. Not that that should stop King fans from grabbing a copy and getting their fix, but don't be expecting another one of the timeless tales he spins during those times when he's on his game.

What's it about? Well, take Christine, add a dash of The Dark Tower (to the point where I kept wondering when he'd reveal that there was a portal to mid-world to be found somewhere in this book), a whole heaping tablespoon of Dreamcatcher, shake, chill, and serve. Those who liked Chrstine and Dreamcatcher more than I did will probably have a differing opinion; I found it enjoyable, but ultimately unsatisfying, like a lemon meringue pie from which the layer of lemon has been eviscerated.