What I Did on My Summer Holiday: Book Report

I have been having some technical difficulties. WARNING CONTAINS SPOILERS!!

By technical difficulties I mean A) that I have slept historically badly; B) for some days I wasn’t able to open up the word processor program, and C) had I not been deep into reading It one more time, this will mark I think my fifth time all in all, before the first new film adaptation hits the cinemas in September, I think I probably would have had some kind of a nervous collapse.

See, I am not a computer wiz. In fact, as my friends can testify, no description could be further from the truth. Well, perhaps “avid carpet tamper”, or “hates reading”. In fact, before I started writing this blog, I could have sworn on The Bible I would not know how to start a blog if my life depended on it. In fact, I was, and still am, so clumsy and ignorant computer-wise, that when my year-long subscription for the license to use the processor program ran out, I had to pack my huge ancient laptop and call my computer-inclined friend, MacGyver, to meet me at a cafe because I had no idea how to go about reordering such a thing.

Turns out, however, that if you need for something to happen badly enough, the info will come to you, and by some magic, it will read as actual language instead of gibberish. But for me, it takes time, and patience, another feature I unfortunately cannot boast having lots and lots of.

I am in my last hundred-and-fifties in the book, so apart from the compulsory quality time I have spent with my man, the making and having dinners, and watching a movie or two at home, the last week has been all about Derry, and the troubled septet facing their own childhood demons, as well as the town’s eldest living force, the insurmountable, the unfathomable, the evil as can be, deadly father of all nemeses.

As stated above, and in fact, all over these texts, this is hardly the first time I have read It. But between now, and the last time I read it, perhaps fifteen years have passed, perhaps even more. All the other times have taken place in my teens, and maybe once in my very early twenties. As also stated elsewhere in these texts, and all over the place where one can read about the reading of books, while the text itself may remain the same, the story, and what one gets out of it, can differ greatly, depending on one’s own circumstances, one’s age, what is going on in the world, et cetera, when one is doing the reading.

This is the first time I am reading It as an adult, as a woman in her late thirties, almost the same age as the protagonists as grownups. This is the first time ever I have been more inclined to identify with the older versions of the children and not the kids. And, while you’d think that after that many reads, no new stuff could possibly emerge anymore, it does. Given just the length of the novel, and the writing style, King’s signature style that invites one to read by devouring huge chunks at a time instead of the couple of pages a day approach I have always felt is necessary when dealing with the likes of Virginia Woolf, or Marcel Proust, of course one’s concentration is strained, and some details are bound to go unnoticed.

Because I was always a kid myself, or just coming into my own, when those last reads took place, I never before dwelled in the stories of the grownups any longer than was necessary, but was eager for the parts with the children to resume. I always felt it was first and foremost the kids’ story, and while I always appreciated the way the timelines are intertwined, it was the Summer of ‘58 that always held the biggest and most lasting enthrallment for me.

I still think it is mainly a book about the kids versus the monster, what happens when we lose the kid inside us, how we can, if at all, tap into that kid that once was, to believe in magic once more, to take that leap of faith that was, as Carly Simon agrees, so easy then. But because I am, using the term used throughout the novel, a grownup now, myself, I read the tales of the adults, the stories of their successes and failures, with about a hundred percent more interest than any of the other times, and was stunned to realize I had forgotten so much about what was left out of Tommy Lee Wallace’s TV movie adaptation.

And not just about the grownups, although what I had forgotten was mainly about them, but the kids, too. The passage where they go back to the Neibolt Street house, all seven of them, with the Bullseye? Totally forgotten. The Smoke-Hole Ritual? Ditto. Eddie’s broken arm, and his confrontation with his mother? I had no recollection whatsoever of this passage existing in the book.

There are some scenes I remember always, and not just the big stuff, either. I have written before about the animal abuse passages, and how I was never able to read my way through them dry-eyed. What the librarian thinks when we first see Ben, at the very beginning, signing up for the summer reading program. The fact that in the first hundred pages, the adults tell the people they are leaving behind to go fight once more the ancient evil of Derry, that “You bet your fur” was something they always used to say as kids, and then a thousand pages follow, where none of the kids ever uses that phrase, in any situation.

Of course, as a young kid, I never knew what Paterson was, the long poem by William Carlos Williams, where King draws inspiration at the start of each larger chapter, and now I do. This, also, is something I had no idea about when I started a little over a week ago. All through the book a thought is presented, that when we reach adulthood, our horizon becomes narrower and narrower instead of widening, and we start seeing things in a very slanted and colored way, according to our adopted worldview. While that may be true apropos what is demanded of the six grownups who manage to arrive at the scene of their adolescent horrors, I feel that such an unmagical way of thinking isn’t always granted.

I don’t know about all the people of the world, but I feel I have been very lucky to have been able to maintain at least some of my naivete and childishness, all the way to my thirties. Yes, it does make me the most difficult person in the world, as my man likes to point out when he is angry with me, it does make me hysterical at times, superstitious, and an insomniac, apparently, given that lots of times I wake up from a case of a nightmare so bad I can’t even open my eyes for a while because I am sure, man, that the monster is real and lurking at the foot of the bed, and if I make it known that I know it’s there, well, that will be the end of me.

The night terrors and nightmares come and go. And I know that is not what the narrator is saying, really. While remaining a kid inside, I, too, have had to face the harsh realities of doing laundry and having a job and having to converse with people I’d rather not converse with at all, because that is what being a grownup is all about.

But when I was having the problem with the word processor program earlier this week, and realized if something was really wrong, I’d have no idea what to do, since it is summer, and everyone is on his or her summer holidays, doing their summer holiday things, and I can’t really barge in on people, demanding they take a look at my huge, ancient laptop, to see what’s wrong, now can I? That’s when I just closed my eyes, shut down the computer and resumed reading my book. If I don’t acknowledge the problem, maybe it will go away on its own, was my incredibly smart and mature idea of handling the situation. I’ll just shut it down, and read a couple of hundred pages, and try again tomorrow. Maybe it is just a glitch. Maybe it is the spirit of the laptop, telling me to slow the fuck down, no need to go a mile a minute all the time. It’s okay, just don’t let it get to you. Shut it down, and maybe it will go away on its own.

And you know what? It did.

Kind of like the silver slugs that have power only if one believes in it.

Now, I know at least a few of my friends are doing what I’m doing right now, reading the book, or rereading it, before It hits the theaters, and I’m sorry if I spoiled any of it for you guys who are making your first acquaintance with the vast story, although I really don’t think I did. The story, in the end, is age-old, and the references relating to it in popular culture myriad. The imagery is so strong, in fact, that, as also stated elsewhere in these texts, I myself am having trouble with the thought that anyone other than Tim Curry could successfully pull off a frightening Pennywise.

As a rule, I don’t watch trailers of the movies I am determined to see. I’d like the experience be as fresh as possible, but I haven’t been able to help stumbling on some images of Bill Skarsgård’s clown getup, and so far so good. But that is all I know for now. When I was in the movies the last time, and the trailer began, the second I realized what it was, I closed my eyes and held my ears for as long as my man tapped me on the shoulder to indicate that it was safe to open. So, no, I have no opinion on the trailer. I will have one, though, on the movie, when the time comes.

I read somewhere, that the Duffer Brothers, who created the amazing Stranger Things on Netflix, had originally wanted to remake It, but were turned down. Hence, Stranger Things. Sometimes I have wondered if it was the right decision at all. I mean, just look at Stranger Things! Whether Andy Muschietti can rise to the challenge of It, remains to be seen. Given that after being said no way to what they had intended, the Duffer Brothers created an original piece that stands second to none in the eerie vintage-y horror department, with a second season on its way, maybe it was for the best, really. Now Muschietti can show us how loud and bright his guns are blazing, too.

But, while we wait, back to my book. See you in a few days on the other side, folks!

I’ll leave you today with a fabulous quote:

                                                

“And don’t hang around out front”, Kitchener said. “You both need haircuts.”

Outside Bill said: “Y-Y-You ever notice, Ruh-Ritchie, how guh-guh-grownups w-won’t sell you a-a-anything except c-candy or cuh-cuh-comic books or m-maybe movie t-t-tickets without first they w-want to know what y-you want it f-for?”

“Sure”, Richie said.

“W-Why? Why ih-is that?”

“Because they think we are dangerous.”

“Y-Yeah? You thuh-thuh-think s-so?”

“Yeah”, Richie said, and then giggled. “Let’s hang around front, want to? We’ll put up our collars and sneer at people and let our hair grow.”

It, by Stephen King, 1986.