Just finished it. The only thing I can say right now is that King is a Master. This is one of the creepiest book I've ever read, a masterpiece in my opinion!
Another masterpiece of the King, another jewel by Stephen King.
It is not only a novel about Pet Samatary and its secret, but there is much more.
Here we know the joy to have a new house in Ludlow. This the joy of Louis Creed a middle aged doctor, and his family.
Rachel was his wife; she was still not entirely sure about this move to Maine from Chicago, where she had lived her whole life.
Eileen and Gage were their children.
When Eileen arrived in Ludlow was six years, Gage was two.
Winston Churchill moved in with them. Church was Eileen’s cat.
Louis Creed had lost his father at three and has never known a grandfather, never expected to find a father as he entered his middle age, but that is exactly what happened . . . although he called that man a friend.
He met this man on the evening he and his wife and his two children moved into the big white frame house in Ludlow.
This man was Jud Crandall.
“My dad built that house across the way. Brought his wife there, and she was taken with child there, and that child was me, born in the very year 1900." Jud Crandall explained.
"Got married to my Norma, put in my time on the railroad, and here we still are. But I’ve seen a lot of life right here in Ludlow. I sure have.”
Norma Crandall, a sweetly pleasant woman who had rheumatoid arthritis which kills so much of what could be good in the old ages of men and women who are otherwise healthy— but her attitude was good. She would not surrender to the pain; there would be no white flags.
Behind their house there was a path; Jud told them about this path leading to Pet Samatary.
"I buried my dog Spot up there when I
was ten. He was chasing a rabbit, and he run on some rusty barbed wire. The wounds infected and it killed him.” He said.
But there was something wrong about that, something that doesn't fit with something Louis has been previously told.
Jud had told him that his dog had died when he was ten—had died of infection after being scraped up in a snarl of rusty barbed wire
But on the late-summer day when all of them had walked up to the Pet Sematary together, Jud said that his dog had died of old age and was buried there—he had even pointed out the marker, although the years had worn the inscription away.
Something else was wrong.
Jud had been born with the century, and that day at the Pet Sematary he had told Louis his
dog had died during the first year of the Great War. That would have been when Jud was fourteen, if he had.
But then he had said that Spot died when he, Jud, was ten. Well, he’s an old man, and old men get confused in their memories, he thought uneasily.
When Ellie comes back from Pet Sematary,
we faced the horror: her horror had been articulated; it was out; she wept because of the human being’s wonderful, deadly ability to translate symbols into conclusions that were either fine and noble or blackly terrifying.
Those animals had died and been buried, then Church could die (any time!) and be- buried; and if that could happen to Church, it could happen to her mother, her father, her baby brother. To herself. Death was a vague idea; the Pet Sematary was real.
“I don’t want Church to be like all those dead pets!” she burst out, suddenly tearful and furious. “I don’t want Church to ever be dead! He’s my cat! He’s not God’s cat! Let God have His own cat! Let God have all the damn old cats He wants, and kill them all! Church is mine!”
It would be easy for Louis to lie at this point, but a lie would be remembered later and perhaps finally totted up on the report card all children hand in to themselves on their parents.
“Honey,” he said, “it happens. It’s a part of life.”
“It’s a bad part!” she cried. “It’s a really bad part!”
“There’s nothing wrong with a child finding out something about death, Rachel! Louis said to his wife. It’s perfectly natural. “
Because, as a doctor, he knew that death
was, except perhaps for childbirth, the most natural thing in the world.
But Rachel considered that place, the Pet Samatary a damned place.
“Do you think it’s just a pet cemetery to her? It’s going to leave a scar, Lou. ! “
At this point of the novel the thought of the death becomes preponderant: that death was a secret, a terror, and it was to be kept from the children.
And moreover we assist to a superb dialogue between father and daughter about life after the death and about the meaning of faith.
Ellie was the daughter of a woman who was a non practicing Jew and a man who was a lapsed Methodist, and he supposed her ideas about the whole spiritus mundi were of the vaguest
sort—not myths, not dreams, but dreams of dreams.
“People believe all sorts of things about what
happens to us when we die,” he said. “Some people think we go to heaven or hell. Some people believe we’re born again as little children—” it’s reincarnation, but I guess you’ve got the idea. The Catholics believe in heaven and hell, but they also believe there’s a place called limbo and one called purgatory. And the Hindus and Buddhists believe in
"Do you know what faith is? Faith is believing a thing will be, or is. Faith is a great thing.
What we know is this: When we die, one of two things happens. Either our souls and thoughts somehow survive the experience of dying or they don’t. If they do, that opens up every possibility you could think of. If we don’t, it’s just blotto. The end.” Louis explained to Ellie.
For most of his adult life—since college days, he supposed—he had believed that death was the end.
“I believe that we go on,” but as to what it’s like, I have no opinion. It may be that
it’s different for different people. It may be that you get what you believed all your life. But I believe we go on. ”
“Do you think animals go on?”
“Yes,” he said, without thinking, and for a moment he almost added, Especially cats. The words had actually trembled on his lips for a moment, and his skin felt gray and cold.
Gray and cold like Rachel's sister, Zelda.
"When I was a kid, I thought of it a lot. Lost
a lot of sleep. Dreamed of monsters coming to eat me up in my bed, and all of the monsters looked like my sister Zelda.” Rachel told her husband.
Zelda died. . . spinal meningitis. . .
There were no pictures of her in the house anymore.
“There’s a picture of a young girl in your father’s—” Louis said.
She was two years older than Rachel was. She caught it and she was in the back bedroom like a dirty secret, she was dying in there, her sister died in the back bedroom and that’s what she was, a dirty secret—she was always a dirty secret!
They watched her degenerate day by day, and there was nothing anyone could do. She was in constant pain. When the pain got bad enough, they started giving her drugs.
But of course everyone knew she wasn’t going to live.
Rachel had started to think Zelda hated her because her back was straight, because she didn’t have the constant pain, because she could walk, because she was going to live . . . she started to imagine she wanted to kill her . She thought she hated her.
Zelda was starting to look like a monster, and she was starting to be a monster.
Victims of long illnesses often become demanding, unpleasant monsters. The
idea of the saint like, long-suffering patient is a big romantic fiction.
When she died, Rachel's parents were gone and she was alone with Zelda. She was only eight and it was a tragedy not only for their parents but above all fir Rachel.
She has lost her sister and she had known the horror of the death.
It’s probably wrong to believe there can be any limit to the horror which the human mind can experience. On the contrary, it seems that some exponential effect begins to obtain as deeper and deeper darkness falls—as little as one may like to admit it, human experience tends, in a good many ways, to support the idea that when the nightmare grows black enough, horror spawns horror, one coincidental evil begets other, often more deliberate evils, until finally blackness seems to cover everything. And the most terrifying question of all may be just how much horror the human mind can stand and still maintain a wakeful, staring, unrelenting sanity.
Louis Creed might have harbored such thoughts if he had been thinking rationally following the funeral of his son, Gage William Creed, on the seventeenth of May.
When Jesus came to Bethany, he found that Lazarus had lain in the grave four days already. When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she hurried to meet him.
“Lord,” she said, “if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But now you are here, and I know that whatever you ask of God, God will grant.”
Jesus answered her: “Your brother shall rise again.”
Bello bello bellissimo!! Mi sono portata questo libro in vacanza e me lo sono "mangiato" in pochissimi giorni! Il senso di angoscia, la paura di quello che è destinato ad accadere, sono i punti forti di questo libro.. Un horror vero e proprio!...Continua
Wow. Mi aspettavo una storia completamente diversa perché avevo letto la trama chissà quanti anni fa e non me la ricordavo, anzi ero convinta fosse la storia di questo padre di famiglia che seppellisce il suo gatto morto e si ritrova un'invasione di animali zombie (che tra l'altro detta così sembra una pessima trama). Invece è tutt'altro, è una storia a tratti anche toccante, mi ha un po' ricordato "Mucchio d'ossa" per il fatto di essere una storia d'amore (anche se qui è un tipo diverso di amore) "mascherata" da romanzo horror.
Non credo sia uno dei più spaventosi di King, anche se le ultime venti pagine, lette nel letto, al buio, all'una di notte passata mi hanno fatto inquietare abbastanza. Credo proprio che, una volta che avrò finito di leggere tutti i libri di King (per fortuna ne ho ancora tanti), questo sarà uno dei suoi libri che rileggerò assolutamente. Bellissimo.
Mi sorprendo di come ancora non abbia commentato questo libro che giace da anni nella mia libreria virtuale e non.
Anche se devo ammettere che non è facile parlarne anni dopo averlo terminato. Di certo lo considero, insieme a "Shining" e "It" l'incubo più terrificante che King sia riuscito a mettere su carta. Questo sì che rappresenta il King più autentico, geniale e non gli ultimi romanzi come "Joyland" che sinceramente lasciano molto a pensare.
Qui il "nostro" era davvero in stato di grazia. E mi ricordo adolescente mentre, sdraiata sul mio letto, lo divoravo, girando le pagine con avidità e sgranando gli occhi. Dietro alla storia, il tema della morte improvvisa e del desiderio di riportare in vita chi ci ha lasciato in modo tragico, violento....con tutte le conseguenze del caso.
Quanto vorrei avere ancora dei libri horror di questo livello da poter leggere.
Scrittura calamitosa, storia terrificante.....brividi assicurati!