I have to admit, I would not have ever read King’s The Long Walk if it wasn’t for Jason’s consistent recommendation. I should have known better than to wait on a book so loved by one of my favorite fellow bloggers. (You should read Jason’s blog Love Letters and Suicide Notes)
Even as someone who has never been a big fan of King’s fiction, and less even of the Richard Bachman books, I was hesitant, though.
I shouldn’t have been.
The Long Walk
Let me just start off by saying that if you are tired and depressed, The Long Walk might just push you over the edge into the fields of insanity and into the hard embrace of seppuku. I’m not exaggerating. It is a testament to the writing that you can begin reading this book as a perfectly rational, happy, possibly energetic human being and come out the other end completely exhausted and contemplating your own demise.
You can’t help it.
The book is just too well written to allow you to get away from feeling the tiring pull of the Walk.
I don’t want to get into details, because thinking about them brings back that weary tread again, but I will give you this:
Stephen King is a master of his craft. If it is the writer’s job to not only tell you a story but to make you feel and experience it, then damn, he does his job better than any writer I’ve ever read.
It just so happens that the story he’s telling this time is that of young men walking at a steady 4 miles per hour down the east coast highways, starting at the US/Canada Border and ending when only one of them has gone without buying their ticket.
It’s a long, grueling, mentally destroying walk, and the reader feels ever freaking minute of it on the text.
Enjoy at your own risk.