The Shining by Stephen King
Doubleday | January 28, 1977
I bought my first copy of The Shining at a sidewalk sale my favorite (then and now) used bookstore was having. It was the paperback edition with the metallic silver cover that has the faceless head of a child front and center. The top right corner of the cover had been clipped off, and the bookstore’s name – Trade ‘n Books – was stamped on the side opposite the spine. I was in the early stages of discovering King, those heady days when I had lots of books of his to catch up on, and this was one of a batch of paperbacks I bought that day – I think it also included Different Seasons and maybe Firestarter – for something like fifty cents apiece.
Did I read it before seeing the movie? I honestly don’t remember. Those days are a blur of discovery now, some 30 years later, and the order of things has been irrevocably shuffled about. But I know I blazed through it at the same rate I blazed through King’s other works, and that while it left certain indelible images behind (the hornets in Danny’s room, the thing that Jack became smashing its face in with the roque mallet), I didn’t feel the full force of its impact until the readings that came much later.
Reading it again over the past couple of weeks, I’m struck at just how much tension King was able to work in from page one. Jack is a man very much on edge, and he’s already teetering when we meet him. At first, he seemed to me like the kind of guy that I should feel bad for, except that I couldn’t get over how many of his unlucky breaks have come because of his own terrible decision making. But King’s gentle touch with characters rescues Jack, forcing you to see that, although this is the kind of guy who could very easily be the author of his own undoing, he’s really fighting hard against those destructive impulses.
I firmly believe that if Jack Torrance had gone to work as the winter caretaker for any other isolated hotel, he would have been fine. He would have completed (as much as anyone can) his recovery from alcoholism; he would have repaired and rebuilt his relationship with his wife and son; he would have finished his play; he would have emerged from the Colorado wilderness refreshed, re-energized, creatively motivated and newly confidant. He was so close.
But he went to work at The Overlook. And The Overlook, as the host to something twisted and insidious, went to work on Jack, digging its fingers into the healing cracks of his psyche, widening the schisms he was working so hard to repair. The Overlook won because it picked on a man that was weak, even though he was trying to be strong; The Overlook won because, in Jack’s son, it found a psychic amplifier that boosted its considerable powers to the point where hope was forever lost to Jack.
That, to me, is the saddest part of re-reading The Shining. Every time I go back I find myself identifying with Jack, rooting for Jack, more and more. But now, unlike that first reading all those years ago, I understand that Jack Torrance never stood a chance.
There’s a reason this one stands tall on so many “My Favorite King” lists. The strength of the characterization, combined with the genuine scares King evokes, has not faded with time. Thought-provoking, sad, tense and scary, The Shining would be a crowning achievement for many writers; as it stands, it’s but one of many such accomplishments for King.