This short story of Mr. King’s “The New York Times…” really needed to be longer, it is better than “Harvey’s Dream,” but that isn’t saying much. It starts off with a mystery, and ends in twilight. He is by far no Bram Stoker in writing short stories; it is goofy, a little gross, plainly written, more satire than drama or whatever: to be honest, when he wrote the book “Just before Sunset,” he should have reviewed some of H.P. Lovecraft’s short stories, and Clark A. Smith’s, and Stokers: you can see he’s out of practice.
It is about a plane crash, and although Mr. King has a great imagination, he unendingly and unnecessarily plants dumb innuendos here and there throughout this ten-page story, although I think he’s having fun doing it. Anyhow, there is not much energy in this story, but a good story line. He cusses, and I can’t guess why, do people really cuss that much around him-do people really get a jolt out of that? It doesn’t do the story any good. His style is like a flat balloon although his dialogue is better than “Harvey’s Dream” and the narration is one step up.
I’m not going to tell you the end of the story, a writer needs to sell books, good or not. If you read it, you’ll have to read it twice to absorb it completely I do believe: or read it slow. Plus, he could have found a better name for the story. He’s lucky he has a following; he’d starve to death if he depended on this book. (8-12-2010)