It is about a group of adults who were once troubled children in the late '50s--"The Losers." One of them is a best selling horror writer much like Stephen King (or his friend and collaborator Peter Straub). In order to defeat the protean "It" that threatens their hometown, they have to go back- -not only to the town itself, but deep into their childhood memories, to regain the talent for magic they once had. King says It is for "the buried child in us, but I'm writing for the grown-up, too. I want grown-ups to look at the child long enough to be able to give him up."
This huge, baggy beast of a novel is a favorite of Stephen King fans--second in popularity only to The Stand. Perhaps longtime fans develop mental filters for King's sloppy storytelling to tune out the repetitions and silliness. King is like the pointillist painter Seurat: if you stand too close to the little dots, the picture falls apart, and it looks meaningless. That's why he makes the storyscape so big--to take you up to that macro-level where you like the book in spite of its flaws. --Fiona Webster...Continua
Sono poche le storie che ti abbracciano. Sono quelle storie che ti fanno male, ti fanno arrabbiare e soffrire, ma che ti accolgono e ti stringono, che ti amano e non ti fanno sentire mai sbagliato, un po’ come gli amici.
Dimenticatevi i film e tutto quello che pensate di sapere su It, questa entità malvagia che uccide i bambini e terrorizza chi si mette sulla sua strada. Aprite questo libro come se fosse la prima volta che sentite parlare di questi ragazzini coraggiosi, uniti contro il diavolo. Dimenticatevi delle etichette: “è una storia che fa paura”. Non è la storia ad essere paurosa, ma siamo noi piuttosto a farle paura. It non fa paura, ma fa soffrire.
E che male quando le storie ti fanno crescere così tanto! Che male quando capisci che si sono presi da sole il loro tempo in modo da comunicarti la loro più grande verità nel momento esatto in cui ne hai piú bisogno.
Ogni dolore è una ricchezza: i sorrisi più belli sono quelli che nascono dopo le lacrime quando, guardandoti dentro, capisci che è arrivato il momento di guarire. E non si puó guarire una cosa sana, giusto? Bisogna prima romperla per rimaginarla.
It mi ha spezzata, totalmente, e adesso mi sta rimettendo in sesto.
It non può essere spiegato o analizzato, vorrebbe dire spiegare e analizzare la vita, perché di questo si tratta: questo romanzo descrive la vita: crescita, formazione, morte, amicizia, amore, ingiustizia, violenza, odio, sesso, vendetta, rabbia, perdono, malattia, fame, sopravvivenza.
Ansia e desiderio.
Si chiude il cerchio.
È tutto qui.
Sii valoroso, sii coraggioso, resisti.
It non può essere spiegato o analizzato, va semplicemente vissuto.
Ho dei ringraziamenti doverosi da fare: il primo più grande di tutti va al solo e unico Re. Subito dopo ringrazio il mio mentore per eccellenza, perché senza di lui non avrei mai iniziato questo viaggio, l’ho fatto penare parecchio: grazie @thorek91, ho finalmente battuto il diavolo anche io. E, ultimo ma non per importanza, grazie agli amici che ho. In It l’amicizia è il riflesso dell’amore, i protagonisti sono uniti sa questo sentimento bellissimo che trascende ogni etichetta o definizione. E io sono estremamente fortuna a poter vivere in questo modo questo sentimento bellissimo. Fa male provare sempre ogni emozione all’ennesima potenza, ma è forse l’unica parte di me che non cambierei mai....Continua
The main characters of the story lived in Derry in 1957. There had been a flood, but it was mostly over, and George was bored. Bill, his brother was sick in bed with the flu. George wanted him to make him a boat out of a sheet of newspaper. He said he was going to sail it down the gutters on Witcham Street and Jackson Street, because they were still full of water. So Bill made him the boat and Georgie thanked him and he went out and that was the last time he ever saw his brother George alive.
'If I hadn't had the flu, maybe I could have saved him.'
It happened right there on Witcham Street, not too far from the intersection with Jackson. Whoever killed him pulled his left arm off the way a second-grader would pull a wing off a fly. Medical examiner said he either died of shock or blood-loss.
Georgie had been murdered in the fall of 1957. He had died right after the flood, one of his arms had been ripped from its socket.
Can an entire city be haunted?
In Derry children disappear unexplained and unfound at the rate of forty to sixty a year. Most were teenagers.
Derry was the wellspring.
The dream was the reality. Derry was the reality.
'I'm Matthew . . . I'm Betty . . . I'm Veronica . . . we're down here . . . down here with the clown . . . and the creature . . . and the mummy . . . and the werewolf . . . and you, Beverly, we're down here with you, and we float, we change . . . '
'The dead ones, Stanley. We're the dead ones. We sank, but now we float . . . and you'll float, too.' 'We're dead, but sometimes we clown around a little, Stanley. Sometimes we - 'Everything down here floats'.
There was a clown in the storm drain.
It was a clown, like in the circus or on TV. The face of the clown in the storm drain was white, there were funny tufts of red hair on either side of his bald head, and there was a big clown-smile painted over his mouth.
The clown held a bunch of balloons, all colors, like gorgeous ripe fruit in one hand.
In the other he held George's newspaper boat.
'It isn't just George that's been in that black hole. I haven't thought of Derry itself in twenty years. Not the people I chummed with - Eddie Kaspbrak and Richie the Mouth, Stan Uris, Bev Marsh . . . and Mike Hanlon ' Bill said.
'Mike Hanlon,another kid that we chummed with - that I chummed with after Georgie died. Of course he's no kid anymore. None of us are. That was Mike on the phone, transatlantic cable. He said, "Hello - have I reached the Denbrough residence?" and I said yes, and he said, "Bill? Is that you?" and I said yes, and he said, "This is Mike Hanlon." It meant nothing to me. He might as well have been selling encyclopedias or Burl Ives records. Then he said, "From Derry." And when he said that it was like a door opened inside me and some horrible light shined out, and I remembered who he was. I remembered Georgie. I remembered all the others. All this happened - '
And Bill knew he was going to ask him to come.
back to Derry.
Back to Derry. Because they promised, and they did. They did. All of them. Them kids. They stood in the creek that ran through the Barrens, and they held hands in a circle, and they had cut their palms with a piece of glass so it was like a bunch of kids playing blood brothers, only it was real.
And after twenty seven years they could sense those memories waiting to be born. They were like clouds filled with rain. Only that rain would have been very dirty. The plants that grew after a rain like that would have been monsters. Maybe they could face that with altogether.
Bill felt like a bird must feel when fall comes and it knows, somehow it just knows it has to fly home. It was instinct and he guessed he believed instinct's the iron skeleton under all our ideas of free will. He had to go. That promise.
Derry was cold, that Derry was hard, that Derry didn't much give a shit if any of them lived or died, and certainly not if they triumphed over Pennywise the Clown. Derry folk had lived with Pennywise in all his guises for a long time and maybe, in some mad way, they had even come to understand him. To like him, need him. Love him? Maybe. Yes, maybe that too.
The murders had started again.
Derry was a violent place to live in an ordinary year. But every twenty-seven years - although the cycle had never been perfectly exact - that violence had escalated to a furious peak and it has never been national news.
Derry was simply a fairly prosperous small city in a relatively unpopulous state where bad things happen too often and where ferocious things happened every quarter of a century or so.
Things were out of order with their own lives, too. None of them left Derry untouched , without Its mark on them . And then there was the curious fact that they were all rich.
Bill Denbrough, a successful novelist, Beverly Rogan, the most sought-after designer in the middle third of the country, Rich, the most successful disc jockey in the United States, with two syndicated programs, Eddie got a healthy limousine service, Ben, the most successful young architect in the world.
Mike was the only one who remained in Derry.
He shook his head patiently and said: 'You have nothing to feel guilty about, any of you. Do you think it was my choice to stay here, any more than it was your choice - any of you - to leave? Hell, we were kids. For one reason or another your parents moved away, and you guys were part of the baggage they took along. My parents stayed. How was it decided who would go and who would stay? Was it luck? Fate? It? Some Other? I don't know. But it wasn't us guys. So quit it.'
Mike had been too busy to be bitter, he had spent a long time watching and waiting. He was watching and waiting even before he knew it, he thought, but for the last five years or so he had been on what you might call red alert. Since the turn of the year he had been keeping a journal. And when a man writes, he thinks harder, or maybe just more specifically. And one of the things he had spent time writing and thinking about is the nature of It, the clown. It changes; they knew that. It also manipulates, and leaves Its marks on people just by the nature of what It is.
It kills, kills children, and that's wrong.
'I remember that I wanted to kill It,' Bill said, I just wanted to kill It because It killed George.'
It left Its mark on them. It worked Its will on them, just as It has worked Its will on that whole town, day in and day out, even during those long periods when It was asleep or hibernating or whatever It did between Its more lively periods.
But if It worked Its will on them, at some point, in some way, they worked our will on It. They stopped It before It was done . Did they weaken It? Hurt It? Did they, in fact, almost kill It? They came so close to killing It that they went away thinking they had.
At some point they were able to exercise some sort of group will. At some point they achieved some special understanding, whether conscious or unconscious.
Although It might be immortal (or almost so), they were not. It had only to wait until the act of faith, which made them potential monster-killers as well as sources of power, had become impossible. Twenty-seven years. Perhaps a period of sleep for It, as short and refreshing as an afternoon nap would be for them. And when It awaked, It was the same, but a third of their lives has gone by. Their perspectives had narrowed; their faith in the magic that made magic possible, has worn off like the shine on a new pair of shoes after a hard day's walking.
'Kill you all!' The clown was laughing and screaming. 'Try to stop me and I'll kill you all! Drive you crazy and then kill you all! You can't stop me! I'm the Gingerbread Man! I'm the Teenage Werewolf!'
'Can't stop me, I'm the leper!'
'Can't stop me, I'm the mummy!'
'Can't stop me, I'm the dead boys!'
Following the pain and that brief bright fear, another new emotion had arisen: anger. It would kill the children because they had, by some amazing accident, hurt It. But It would make them suffer first because for one brief moment they had made It fear them.
'Why call us back? Why not just let us die? Because we nearly killed It, because we frightened It, I think. Because It wants revenge. All I know is that there's another force - at least there was when we were kids - that wanted us to stay alive and to do the job. Maybe it's still there. Maybe that's why God made us kids first and built us close to the ground, because He knows you got to fall down a lot and bleed a lot before you learn that one simple lesson. You pay for what you get, you own what you pay for and sooner or later whatever you own comes back home to you.'
' Mike said.
And he saw them, really saw them, for the last time, because in some way he understood that they would never have all been together again, the seven of them - not that way:
William “Bill” Denbrough, the leader of the self-proclaimed Club of Losers with his stutter when he was a child,
Benjamin “Ben” Hanscom, with his obesity as a child,
Beverly “Bev” Marsh, often abused by her father when she was a child,
Richard “Richie” Tozier, the most restless member of the group, often the protagonist of jokes and jokes , he is described "too witty for his good", in fact he can never hold his tongue,
Edward “Eddie” Kaspbrak, a fragile boy with asthma, he always brings his inhalator with himself. Later he discovered that his inhalator contained only water and camphor, only a placebo given him by a too protective mother,
Stanley “Stan” Uris, a Jew boy persecuted by Henry Bowers, the leader of the Bowers band, a group of seven boys between the ages of twelve and fourteen, thugs and violent.
After having received Mike's call in 1985, Stan killed himself cutting his veins and he wrote It on the wall of the bathroom.
And then Michael “Mike” Hanlon, the narrating voice of the novel. He is the only black boy of the group and he is persecuted by by Henry Bowers, because of his skin color.
So everyone of them had their IT to fight.
They stood there for awhile longer, feeling the power that was in their circle, the closed body that they made. The light painted their faces in pale fading colors; the sun was gone and sunset was dying. They stood together in a circle as the darkness creeped down into the Barrens, filling up the paths they had walked this summer, the clearings where they had played tag and guns, the secret places along the riverbanks where they had sat and discussed childhood's long questions or smoked Beverly's cigarettes or where they had merely been silent, watching the passage of the clouds reflected in the water. The eye of the day was closing.
No one talked.
'. . the ghosts of children standing in the water at sunset, standing in a circle, standing with their hands joined together, their faces young, sure, but tough . . . tough enough, anyway, to give birth to the people they will become, tough enough to understand, maybe, that the people they will become must necessarily birth the people they were before they can get on with trying to understand simple mortality. The circle closes, the wheel rolls, and that's all there is. '
You don't have to look back to see those children; part of your mind will see them forever, live with them forever, love with them forever. They are not necessarily the best part of you, but they were once the repository of all you could become.
The love is what matters, the caring.
All the rest is darkness....Continua
"...But it's nice to think so far awhile in the morning's clean silence, to think that childhood has its own sweet secrets and confirms mortality, and that mortality defines all courage and love. To think that what has looked forward must also look back, and that each life makes it's own imitation of immortality: a wheel.
Or so Bill Denbrough sometimes thinks on those early mornings after dreaming, when he almost remembers his childhood, and the friends with whom he shared it".
This book is far superior to the movie that came out for tv. Reading this book is so much more terrifying. The book is written with a focus on the child experiences that occurred in Derry and how those experiences lead them back to fight the evil that is there. This book literally had me up reading till all hours of the evening saying to myself just a few more pages. It was a gripping book that as a reader had me invested in the characters and secretly rooting for certain things. Also the book did a much better job when it came to character development and understanding certain things that occurred in the movie....Continua