I've begun reading The Stand again after having spotted it at a friend's place and, despite my having strayed from the ideals that made me like it in the first place (by which I refer to my Christianity, which I've long since turned my back on), I find myself pouring every ounce of my into it, unable to put it down unless I absolutely have to.
I've always adored the book, even the 1978 truncated version that I once owned and read out of good humor. The uncut version is truly marvelous, though; even now, for the umpteenth time reading it, I can feel Stu, Nick, Larry, Harold, Frannie, Mother Abigail, and all the other characters that seemed so mysterious and daunting in the enormous volume of my father's I once eyed as a boy. Reading it now brings back the feelings I had when I first read it, the wonder that comes with immersion in any work of fiction combined with a sense of foreboding about the possibilities of a plague decimating the "real" world, and ultimately the desire for it to never end.
I find it funny that I've begun reading the novel concurrent with a bizarre explosion of flu and sinus infections, at least in my part of the world. Riding the bus surrounded by snifflers and coughers and remembering that I was once one of them as early as two weeks ago, I laugh at the idea that the pressure behind my eyes, the yellow mucous that I'm still unexpectedly purging from the caverns in my brain could signify the beginning of an end, or at least an uncomfortable transition.
I blow my nose on my shirt, even now, and pause in spite of myself.
I've always adored the book, even the 1978 truncated version that I once owned and read out of good humor. The uncut version is truly marvelous, though; even now, for the umpteenth time reading it, I can feel Stu, Nick, Larry, Harold, Frannie, Mother Abigail, and all the other characters that seemed so mysterious and daunting in the enormous volume of my father's I once eyed as a boy. Reading it now brings back the feelings I had when I first read it, the wonder that comes with immersion in any work of fiction combined with a sense of foreboding about the possibilities of a plague decimating the "real" world, and ultimately the desire for it to never end.
I find it funny that I've begun reading the novel concurrent with a bizarre explosion of flu and sinus infections, at least in my part of the world. Riding the bus surrounded by snifflers and coughers and remembering that I was once one of them as early as two weeks ago, I laugh at the idea that the pressure behind my eyes, the yellow mucous that I'm still unexpectedly purging from the caverns in my brain could signify the beginning of an end, or at least an uncomfortable transition.
I blow my nose on my shirt, even now, and pause in spite of myself.