The Ecstasy of Reading "Misery"

 

The book I’ve primarily been focused on reading over the last few weeks is Stephen King’s newest, The Outsider.  More to come on that soon!  But while doing that, a funny thing happened: I also ended up completing a rather quick re-read of Misery.  When I go to the gym (which is basically now just on weekends), I like to take a paperback with me, for those long slogs on the exercise bike or treadmill.  Sometimes I try to read my psych books to enhance my studies, but isn’t it much more rewarding to read something fun?   

At any rate, Misery was the latest book I brought with me, and I burned through it in no time.  I’ve read it once before, as a teenager.  It was a book I’d always intended to revisit at some point, given that it shone in my memory as one of King’s finest novels.  Boy, is it ever!  Misery is compulsively readable, the true definition of a page-turner.  It moves with impressive momentum, and yet in the process King somehow manages not to compromise depth.

In interviews, King sometimes talks about admiring books he characterizes as “emotionally hot.”  That’s how I might describe Misery.  This book is so charged it seems alive.  The emotional experience of Paul Sheldon—the horror and desperation of his plight—is so vividly realized, the book is often hard to read.  Yet it is expressed with such razor-sharp acuity that you find yourself nevertheless compelled to read on, fascinated that King could see so deeply and clearly into this scenario, and genuinely invested in Paul’s welfare.

Annie Wilkes, it turns out, is as magnificently imagined as I remember.  Paul is equally well-written, and in various ways given greater dimension.  Both rank among King’s very best characters.  It’s interesting to realize that for most of the book, they are the only characters.  When you consider that, you grasp just how small-scale Misery is, especially compared to much of King’s other fiction.  This one is small, yes, but not slight.  It is profound, wickedly entertaining, and fiercely dramatic.

I have Misery currently ranked as number four on my top ten list of King novels, and I suppose that’s about the right place for it.  But honestly, reading it again, there were moments when I was so engrossed in the story, so thrilled by it, I found myself thinking: Maybe this is King’s best book!  Ultimately, I don’t think it is, but any time you’re deep into a book and find yourself asking such questions, you know it’s a masterwork. 

On one level, it’s easy to sense the man behind the curtain—Stephen King the author, so successful at the time this book was written, wrestling with his image, popularity, and the expectations of his fans.  Misery is a perfect vehicle to explore all that, and in ways it feels like a darkly satirical play on those themes.  But even if that was the impetus for the book, the final product is genuinely tragic in nature.  There is a point in the novel when I felt sincerely moved, almost to tears, by what Paul has endured (and how it has mangled his will):

“Her face was darkening. Her hands were clenched into shiny fists on the heavy material of her skirt.  Hurricane Annie was back in the room. Everything that went around came around.  Except things no longer had been quite the same, had they?  He was as scared of her as ever, but her hold over him had nonetheless diminished.  His life no longer seemed like such a big deal, gotta or no gotta.  He was only afraid she would hurt him.” (p. 306)

King is operating at a very high level with this novel; maybe even the peak of his authorly powers.  There is no shortage of wit, creativity, or power.  Honestly, you’d be hard pressed to find a passage, or even a sentence, where King seems to be going through the motions.  By the time this book was published, King was of course a skilled, seasoned novelist, yet at no point do I feel he’s on autopilot.  This is an exceptionally well-observed story, and not just that; but one expressed with considerable style, stretching the limits of its theatrical leanings while somehow remaining firmly grounded in realistic horror.

When it comes to the art of story, King is famously known to argue for the value of “situation” over plot, and that is precisely what makes Misery so good.  It does not move from one calculated plot point to another, but rather according to the natures and choices of its characters.  Even after you’ve put it down, various moments and situations from the book, so tense and sad and frightful, linger in your mind.  Of all of King’s novels, Misery is the one that seems the most fully realized, layered, dreadfully plausible—almost real.  I can see it all so vividly in my mind.  That is a testament to the true depth and complexity of the novel.  Misery is classic, essential King.