A Review: Stephen King’s “It”

Ah yes, Pennywise. The reason you’re afraid of clowns; the reason folks might consider circuses with a more precise, fearful eye; the reason you might have gaped at your shower drain as a kid, and heard gurgled whispers in your head. And also, admittedly, the most likely reason this past October was over populated with weirdos riding the wave of the #clownsighting phenomenon. But, believe it or not, this character comes from a good place, and from an even better heart–that of master storyteller, “master of horror,” my personal favorite writer, Stephen King.

Trust me, you’ve heard of the dude. Many consider Stephen King to be this all-encompassing connoisseur of all the things that make you afraid, of all the things that go bump in the night and make you shudder under your covers. But King, as a man, isn’t all that scary, really (you can either take my word for it or look up one of his interviews on Youtube). And neither are some of his stories. Many folks turn a blind eye on his work, since a good lot of it is filled with blood and guts and death and ghosts. But Stephen King has churned up a number of stories that have either warmed or have broken your heart in the best possible way. The three that immediately come to mind are The Green Mile, Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption, and “The Body,” the novella that inspired my personal favorite movie, Stand by Me. Also, believe it or not, his novel, It. 

The fact is, It is so big it’s even scary to review.

Big in pages, yes–my copy clocking in at 1153 pages, to be exact–but also big, utterly huge, in heart. Truth to tell, it’s scary to review something written with such tenacity, such tenderness, such palpable horror, all of it laying down the ground rules for what it means to grow up and grow old. It reminds us of what it was like to be a kid, with the whole wide world in front of you, your only limit your imagination. A time when fairies and goblins and Santa Claus were incontrovertibly real; a time when you could talk to your friends with unabashed, often unfiltered honesty; a time when you just might believe something strange lurked in the woods you now drive past without a second glance. A time when life moved slowly, strictly because it tripped you up with all its wonder, and brutality, and dreams, and subsequent nightmares, and of course, magic, raw in all its dappled, convivial reality. The book also touches on a number of topics that remain all too relevant and real today: racism, hatred, fear, mental illness, domestic and sexual abuse, violence, madness, alcoholism, love, desire, and belief. Oh, and in addition to the murderous clown you’re more than likely already acquainted with, there’s a feast of horror, both classical and modern, a motley presentation that includes, among other things, a vampire, a werewolf, a swamp creature, several dead children that haunt a tower, a giant bird, swarming leeches, and all sorts of horrid, vile people. Some of those people, in my opinion, are scariest of all. People, after all, as I’m sure you’d agree, are the real monsters.

On your odyssey through this book, a journey that will inevitably take you to your childhood and all the way back, you will encounter a sprawling cast of what I believe to be some of Stephen King’s most intricately drawn characters. These include the Loser’s Club: Bill Denbrough (the writer with the dead little brother, quasi-protagonist), Ben Hancsom (the lovable fat kid turned stud in his later years), Eddie Kasprak (the physical weakling, the brain, often smothered by his zealously overprotective mother), Mike Hanlon (the black kid, who keeps them all together throughout the test of time), Richie Tozier (the wise-cracking jokester, the comic relief, at least amongst the Loser’s Club), and Beverly Marsh (the pretty girl, the apple of all their prepubescent eyes, the waking symbol of their shared, consummate love). You will also encounter demons in the shape of people, including Henry Bowers (the bully who takes things much too far) and his racist father, Al Marsh (Beverly’s alcoholic, abusive father), and; scariest of all–at least for me–Patrick Hockstetter (a Henry Bowers follower with extreme psychological…err, issues). And of course, hovering over all (or rather, beneath them all), in the sewer system of Stephen King’s fictional haven of horror, Derry, Maine, lurks Pennywise the Dancing Clown, the shapeshifter, the magical creature, the vile thing…IT.

You will journey alongside the Loser’s Club both in 1958 and 1985. The novel is broken up into five parts, spanning across their childhoods and subsequent adulthoods, going back and forth between both time periods. Between each part lies an Interlude that details not only the vast history of Pennywise, but also the admittedly dark history of our own humanity. These Interludes explore the very nature of evil, and feature some of the novel’s creepiest, bloodiest sections.

When you read about the Loser’s Club as kids, you will become these kids. When you read about the Barrens–their place of play, a lush zone of nature ripe for all sorts of squiffy adventure and exploration–you will see the place you grew up playing with your own best friends, if you are fortunate enough to have had such a place, and to have likewise had such friends. When you read about their encounters with Pennywise, you will remember all those scary tales your older siblings told you in the dark; or perhaps those stories your cousin shared before he or she joined the Army or got addicted to drugs or maybe got famous–stories like the Witch in the Woods, the Beast in the Alley, the Ghost Man on the Cul-de-sac–and all at once you will be delighted while simultaneously filled with a nostalgic punch of sadness.

When you read about the Loser’s Club as adults, you will come to understand what it means to dream and find wonder again. When you read about the awkwardness that has bubbled amongst them when they reunite for the first time in thirty years, you will remember all the friends you no longer speak with, and you will wonder why you don’t care all that much about it. When you read about the horror of what it truly means to forget where you came from; to forget that world of imagination and wonder and magic, you might laugh, you might cry, you might feel suddenly sick, or you might feel suddenly happy. It really depends on your mood at the time you read the words, I think.

You will laugh when you read this book. You will cry when you read this book. You will remember and reflect on your life when you read this book, and whether that brings you tears of joy or of sadness, I cannot be the one to say. However, I will say that this book is all about nostalgia; it’s got all the goods of the hit netflix show “Stranger Things,” and much, much more. It will inspire you in places, cripple you in others, break you down, shake you up; and by the time you reach the end, you will be better for it. You will have learned all about what only the best of stories can teach (loss of innocence, becoming an adult, etc.), and you will be renewed with a sense of wonder. You might; however, become disgusted, and think Stephen King is some kind of pervert. Which brings me to the ending.

The ending is the among the most controversial sections of fiction ever written. Personally, I think it’s brilliant. Tackling themes such as love and desire, the ending will reveal to you the true meaning behind the novel’s title, It, not so much about a clown, but about the horror of growing up and growing older and facing the inevitability of your mortality. It is Death; It is Life; It is Sex, the formation of life itself; It is the Universe, and the endless possibilities and magic and wonder it holds in this life, and perhaps even the next.

This book, in this aspiring novelist’s humble opinion, is the best horror book ever written. It is so worth your time; especially since time itself is so woefully fleeting and fragile. You’d do well to read the book before the new movie comes out later this year; although I have the highest hopes for the film, I’m always sure to keep in mind the famous words of Stephen King himself, “Never judge a book by its movie.”  I read It for the first time when I was thirteen, then I reread it this year at twenty-three, and I will be revisiting Derry and the Barrens and the Loser’s Club and Pennywise and even Patrick Hockstetter again, barring anything happens to me, when I am thirty-three. I know I’ll find something new when I do.

After all, the damn thing is almost bigger than the Bible or the Torah or the Koran or whatever huge book compliments your religious affiliation. Both in size, and, arguably–at least when comparing it to all other works of fiction–its heart.

The Stats

Prose/readability: 10/10

Dialogue: 10/10

Description: 10/10

Characters: 10/10

Plot: 10/10

Reread value: 10/10

Ending: 10/10

Overall Score: 10/10

First sentence: “The terror, which would not end for another twenty-eight years–if it ever did end–began, so far as I know or can tell, with a boat made from a sheet of newspaper floating down a gutter swollen with rain.”

Have you read It? Feel free to share your opinions on anything I have discussed, and of course, anything else I might have left out. Are you as stoked for the movie as I am? Do you think the book’s ending is a bit too much? Are there any other books by Stephen King, or by any author, you’d be interested to see me review without spoilers? Leave a comment below and let me know! Thanks for reading.

-Keith Enterante, author of two novels-in-progress, Aaron Ares: the Padder’s Timepiece, and Scarlett, and a collection of short stories, Hell and Suburbia

Why the Blog? (Also, my first story, “The Top Hat Man”)

I’m a twenty-one year old writer but not yet a Writer, but it is my dream to become one. More accurately, it is what I was born to do. I’ve been writing like a mad man since I was ten years old, when my dad was sick with Leukemia at City of Hope Hospital. Back then, a nurse presented me with one of the greatest gifts I have ever received to date: paper and crayons. WIth them, I would write stories, draw pictures, write lyrical (and pretty bad) poetry, anything to express myself on a creative platform. What I was really doing was escaping. It was my way to channel my grief and make sense of a sometimes nonsensical world. When I was ten, I’d share those stories with my classmates, and my fourth grade teacher would always tell me to keep writing– she even went as far saying that she looked forward to reading my novels in the “future.” At the time, I wanted to be a professional baseball player (like so many other whimsical ten year olds), and so writing was never the plan. It was something that called me; it was something that chose me.

When my dad passed away, I was forced to transition into a new way of life. Naturally, I stopped writing for two years. To me, I thought writing was pointless… It possessed no power. I know now that I just wasn’t yet ready to face the demons of my reality. I was selfish, self-centered, spoiled, and I felt sorry for myself. I had no knowledge of the pains of what it means to be human. Shit happens to everyone, and the pain that results is relative. I know now that I am one of the lucky ones. I am so incredibly fortunate. I have a loving, supportive family and I share an unbreakable bond with so many lifelong friends. I can also eat food whenever I want, and that’s something to be noted. I know that I cannot rid the world of its problems, and that I cannot be there for everyone who struggles in some way… Not even the world’s greatest therapist can do that. However, I can write… a therapeutic process if there ever was one. But more importantly, I can provide others with a world of escape. The same escape I used to cope, the same escape that brought me to where I am today. In the small time readers spend with my characters, they can forget their problems. They can be entertained. Most importantly, they can learn, and hopefully come away with a little bit more empathy than when they first arrived.

Through everything, I have learned that writing is bleeding (hence my featured image at the top of my page). It is a sacrifice I try to make in order to not only express myself, but also to connect with people that I no longer have the time to connect with. Old friends, family, and if my dream is to become reality, strangers altogether. If it means something to you, you can get to know me through my stories, because MY story weaves through everything I write. If you do not wish to know me, then it is my hope that my stories somehow allow you to know and understand yourself just a little more. I admit that it’s hard. It’s not something I do every day. It’s hard to face my own demons, yes, but it’s harder to face the demons of others (or, my characters). My stories force me to conjure a new kind of empathy, a sort of “made-up” empathy. Writing is bleeding, the stories are scabs, and the things I express through my stories are scars.

It is not necessarily my wish to become famous. However, in the world we live in, it’d be nice to make money for the only thing that keeps me sane. Not only would an office job drive me INSANE (and I’m not trying to knock the 9-5ers who exist, I admire your work, my brother happens to be one too), but it just wouldn’t feel right for me– it would be a denial of my self-actualization.

This blog is a new beginning; it’s a tangible way to begin my dream of becoming a Writer. It is a way to speak to my old friends, who I have become separated from due to distance and passing time. And if you just kind of know me, and you have any curiosity to get to know me, or if you just want to read a short story and escape, then I hope you check out my page from time to time. There may be something for you here.

I’ve jabbered long enough, and I will not post much more jabbering through this page. We can jabber over drinks any time you want, just let me know. For this reason, the first story I am posting is a short one. It’s called “The Top Hat Man,” I wrote it for class a couple years ago. I got the idea for it in watching a beer commercial on TV, and I mused for a month or two about Curtis Shackney, the story’s narrator. I wrote the story in about an hour, and it reminds me about the haunting realities of alcoholism. In college, kids are drinking all the time and its (rightfully) socially acceptable. But when does the line get drawn? When does one realize they have a problem? I see people all the time damaging themselves, but I don’t do much about it. So, in a way, I guess this story is me saying, “be careful.” You never know when time will sneak up on you and you find yourself in the bowels of a terrible addiction, or perhaps just an unhealthy escape. I hope you guys enjoy it.

“The Top Hat Man,” by Keith Enterante

         He didn’t know that it hurt me. Sure, it was my mother who took the beatings— my graceful, God-fearing mother—but it was my heart that bled. Them memories are old ones for sure, but just ‘cause they old don’t mean they disappeared. You, my friend, are unfortunate enough to hear ‘em, so give me a sec to gather myself. Get your chin up, chest up, perk them ears, and have yourself a good listen, and I’ll have myself another round. It started with that teevee commercial, the one with the beer and all them ladies…

***

I liked watching the teevee commercial, but it confused me some. I mean, it all seemed so happy. Everyone laughed and danced, dressed in all sorts of colorful clothes. I sure didn’t have no clothes like that. Though one time, I did dress up as a superhero for Halloweeny… Daddy wrapped a red blanket round my neck for a cape and I had this bootyful yellow long-sleeve that kept me warm the whole night. I haven’t seen that shirt since that night, though. I think Daddy might’ve sold it or something. Anyways, in the commercial with all them colorful dancing people, there was a man in the middle wearing a big ole top hat, a blue one. He grinned at you like big Sammy Hanch grinned at me before he would grab my head and shove it down a flushing toilet. Somehow, though, I trusted the top hat man. He had all them ladies prancing and twirling around him.

Daddy was behind me. He was sprawled across our raggy couch, his left leg straightened across the whole thing, and his right hung off with his foot planted on the floor. His balding head brimmed with sunspots, and what hair he had left was sweaty and greasy from the days hot, hot heat. He wore nothing but that grimy white tank top and his dark blue undergarments. His face was fulla hate as he watched the teevee. I saw his eyes narrow like one of them crows I used to shoot in the backyard with my slingshot. His nostrils flared up in opposite directions and his mouth curled in a vicious snarl.

I hated when Daddy got like this. It meant he was gonna give it to Momma. And she didn’t deserve nothing! But Daddy always had a reason for everything, even for beating her up a bit. One time, I tried to be brave, like that superhero I was on Halloweeny, and stood up to Daddy. His face become like that Devil I heard about when I used to be in Bible school, and Momma jumped in front of me hooting and hollering. I remember Daddy grabbed her by the hair and hurled her against one of our mirrors. It became all cracked-like, and I remember Daddy cried and covered his face like when I counted to ten during a game of hide-and-seek with Freddy Bowers. Momma cried too, but in the end they hugged each other. Jesus always did teach one to forgive. In a lot of ways, Momma was like our lord and savior.

I don’t get why Daddy got like this. But I didn’t like it. It got me all afeared. And I wasn’t no wimp like Wimpy Willy. No, I was the strong, tough, legendary—

“Curtis, can yuh grab yuh daddy another beer?”

“Yes Daddy,” I said.

That was always me, Curtis Shackney, to the rescue. I got up and walked around the sofa and opened our teeny tiny fridge that held up our big, brown toaster. Sometimes, I wondered why we had that old thing when we never put no toast in it. I grabbed my Daddy a silver can, which looked like one of them huge bullets Daddy shoved into his rifle before hunting. I brung it over to him, and he took it all quick-like.

“Thanks Curt,” Daddy said as he cracked open the top of it. His face still didn’t look too happy.

“Ya got it, Daddy,” I said.

And so I sat down to catch the end of that commercial. The man with the blue top hat and the bootyful women on his arms still had that cheating smile as he took off the hat only to show a beer that rested on his head, the same beer I just got for Daddy.

It confused me some, it really did. How come the beer in the teevee made the top hat man all rich and smiley? How come it got all the ladies flocking toward him, like Henry Thompson’s chickens at feeding time? My daddy drank the same ole stuff, but he weren’t rich. He weren’t smiley. My daddy was grumpy and tired. And he only had one lady, my Momma, the greatest momma in the whole world, but he didn’t always treat her like it.

But that’s why I grabbed him beer. I thought that if he had enough of it, he would become smiley like the top hat man. I remember there was ten crumpled cans scattered around the frayed carpet, cause that’s how old I were at that time. After he drunk ten, though, Daddy still weren’t smiling. No, he looked good and pissed.

That’s when Momma walked in. I saw her take one look at Daddy and let out a yelp like Ginny Crawford’s dog when you yanked on its tail, and she turned around. I know now she didn’t wanna look Daddy in the eye, especially when he were pissed. Anyways, Daddy shot off the couch and went after her. They disappeared into our teeny bathroom. All I heard was screams. I remember then that the teevee shut off. I tried turning it back on- even tried hitting the top of it a bunch— but it seemed all broke. I covered my ears cause I didn’t like it much when Momma and Daddy hollered like that. I still heard their hollering, though. I was tired of it. I wanted to stop it.

It was time for Curtis Shackney, a real life superhero, to come to the rescue. I knew I didn’t need no red blanket round my neck or a yellow long sleeve. I knew all I needed was a brave heart and one of them silver cans that made you all rich and smiley. I ran to the fridge, fetched another one of them silver cans, and I scampered toward our bathroom, where I heard lots of loud and scary thumps. When I knocked on the door three times all slow-like, the yelling—and the thumps— stopped. The door opened and there I saw Daddy and Momma. I did what my heart told, and I held up the silver can for Daddy to take.

I looked at Momma and saw the purple mark on her left cheek as blood gushed from her nose in a snaky trail. I had time to see Daddy’s face twist into a fearful scowl when the left side of my head exploded. I saw whites in the back of my eyes, and couldn’t feel much. When I woke up, I saw Daddy next to me. I was on the couch where Daddy was when we watched that teevee commercial. He was on his knees next to me, holding one of them silver cans. He was crying, crying, crying. I rubbed him on the head, and he looked up at me with all them tears. But he was also smiling. I didn’t see at first, but Momma was behind him, also on her knees. She had her hands folded together, like they used to teach at Bible school, and she was mumbling the Lord’s Prayer.

I pointed at the silver can in Daddy’s hand, and I smiled cause Daddy finally seemed happy. I thought he might’ve had enough. He gave me the can— I didn’t know much why— but I took it anyways. I think he wanted me to rub it on my face. I didn’t do that, though. I don’t really remember what I did do with it. Alls I remember is that when I held it, it made me feel good. Real good. It made me feel like the top hat man.

***

And that was then. Daddy’s been long gone, dead and buried in a ditch somewhere. Momma’s still alive, though. She says she understands what I go through, cause Daddy was the same way. I can’t stop drinking these things. I need em cause they make me feel good. They make me forget Daddy and the beatings he done on my poor momma. They make me forget that I’ve become just like him.

Momma doesn’t understand that, though. And sometimes, to make her understand, I gotta hit her some. Everyday I hit her, she cries and says the same damn thing:

“Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

I says that’s a load of hokey pokey. In hurting Momma, Daddy hurt me, and he didn’t much know it. Momma got no clue what that’s like.