Stephen King - Danse Macabre

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STEPHEN

KING’S

——

Danse

Macabre

It’s easy enough—perhaps too easy— to memorialize

the dead. This book is for six great writers

of the macabre who are still alive.

ROBERT BLOCH

JORGE LUIS BORGES

RAY BRADBURY

FRANK BELKNAP LONG

DONALD WANDREI

MANLY WADE WELLMAN

———

Enter, Stranger, at your Riske: Here there be Tygers.

CONTENTS

——

FORENOTE 4

October 4, 1957, and an Invitation to Dance 8

Tales of the Hook 17

III

Tales of the Tarot 36

An Annoying Autobiographical Pause 54

Radio and the Set of Reality 68

The Modern American Horror Movie—

Text and Subtext 80

VII

The Horror Movie as Junk Food 122

VIII

The Glass Teat, or, This Monster Was

Brought to You by Gainesburgers 132

Horror Fiction 151

The Last Waltz—Horror and Morality,

Horror and Magic 227

AFTERWORD 240

APPENDIX 1. THE FILMS 242

APPENDIX 2. THE BOOKS 245

Forenote

THIS BOOK is in your hands as the result of a telephone call made to me in November of 1978. I was

at that time teaching creative writing and a couple of literature courses at the University of Maine at

Orono and working, in whatever spare time I could find, on the final draft of a novel, Firestarter, which

will have been published by now. The call was from Bill Thompson, who had edited my first five books

(Carrie, 'Salem's Lot, The Shining, Night Shift, and The Stand) in the years 1974-1978. More

important than that, Bill Thompson, then an editor at Doubleday, was the first person connected with

the New York publishing establishment to read my earlier, unpublished work with sympathetic

interest. He was that all-important first contact that new writers wait and wish for . . . and so seldom

find.

Doubleday and I came to a parting of the ways following The Stand, and Bill also moved on—he

became the senior editor at Everest House, whose imprint you will find on the volume you now hold.

Because we had become friends as well as colleagues over the years of our association, we stayed

in touch, had the occasional lunch together . . . and the occasional drinking bout as well. The best

one was maybe during the All-Star baseball game in July of 1978, which we watched on a bigscreen

TV over innumerable beers in an Irish pub somewhere in New York. There was a sign over the

backbar which advertised an EARLY BIRD HAPPY HOUR, 8-10 A.M. with all drinks priced at fifty

cents. When I asked the barkeep what sort of clientele wandered in at 8:15 A.M. for a rum collins or a

gin rickey, he fixed me with a baleful smile, wiped his hands on his apron, and said: "College boys . . .

like you."

But on this November night not long after Halloween, Bill called me and said, "Why don't you do a

book about the entire horror phenomenon as you see it? Books, movies, radio, TV, the whole thing.

We'll do it together, if you want."

The concept intrigued and frightened me at the same time. Intrigued because I've been asked time

and time again why I write that stuff, why people want to read it or go to the flicks to see it—the

paradox seeming to be, why are people willing to pay good money to be made extremely

uncomfortable? I had spoken to enough groups on the subject and written enough words on the

subject (including a rather lengthy foreword to my collection of short stories, Night Shift) to make the

idea of a Final Statement on the subject an attractive one. Forever after, I thought, I could choke off

the subject by saying: if you want to know what I think about horror, there's this book I wrote on the

subject. Read that. It's my Final Statement on the clockwork of the horror tale.

It frightened me because I could see the work stretching out over years, decades, centuries. If one

were to begin with Grendel and Grendel's mum and work up from there, even the Reader's Digest

Condensed Book version would encompass four volumes.

Bill's counter was that I should restrict myself to the last thirty years or so, with a few side trips to

explore the roots of the genre. I told him I would think about it, and I did. I thought about it hard and

long. I had never attempted a book-length nonfiction project, and the idea was intimidating. The

thought of having to tell the truth was intimidating. Fiction, after all, is lies and more lies . . . which is

why the Puritans could never really get behind it and go with the flow. In a work of fiction, if you get

stuck you can always just make something up or back up a few pages and change something around.

With nonfiction, there's all that bothersome business of making sure your facts are straight, that the

dates jibe, that the names are spelled right . . . and worst of all, it means being out front. A novelist,

after all, is a hidden creature; unlike the musician or the actor, he may pass on any street

unremarked. His Punch-and-Judy creations strut across the stage while he himself remains unseen.

The writer of nonfiction is all too visible.

Still, the idea had its attractions. I began to understand how the loonies who preach in Hyde Park

("the nutters," as our British cousins call them) must feel as they drag their soapboxes into position

and prepare to mount them. I thought of having pages and pages in which to ride all my

hobbyhorses—"And to be paid for it!' he cried, rubbing his hands together and cackling madly. I

thought of a lit class I would be teaching the following semester titled Themes in Supernatural

Literature. But most of all I thought that here was an opportunity to talk about a genre I love, an

opportunity few plain writers of popular fiction are ever offered.

As for my Themes in Supernatural Literature course: on that November night Bill called, I was

sitting at the kitchen table with a beer, trying to dope out a syllabus for it . . . and musing aloud to my

wife that I was shortly going to be spending a lot of time in front of a lot of people talking about a

subject in which I had previously only felt my way instinctively, like a blind man. Although many of the

books and films discussed in the pages which follow are now taught routinely in colleges, I read the

books, saw the films, and formed my conclusions pretty much on my own, with no texts or scholarly

papers of any type to guide my thoughts. It seemed that very shortly I would get to see the true color

of my thoughts for the first time.

That may seem a strange phrase. Further along in this book I have written my belief that no one is

exactly sure of what they mean on any given subject until they have written their thoughts down; I

similarly believe that we have very little understanding of what we have thought until we have

submitted those thoughts to others who are at least as intelligent as ourselves. So, yeah, I was

nervous at the prospect of stepping into that Barrows Hall classroom, and I spent too much of an

otherwise lovely vacation in St. Thomas that year agonizing over Stoker's use of humor in Dracula

and the paranoia quotient of Jack Finney's Body Snatchers.

In the days following Bill's call, I began to think more and more that if my series of talks (I don't

quite have balls enough to call them lectures) on the horror-supernatural-gothic field seemed well

received—by myself as well as by my students—then perhaps writing a book on the subject would

complete the circle. Finally I called Bill and told him I would try to write the book. And as you can see,

I did.

All this is by way of acknowledging Bill Thompson, who created the concept of this book. The idea

was and is a good one. If you like the book which follows, thank Bill, who thought it up. If you don't,

blame the author, who screwed it up.

It is also an acknowledgment of those one hundred Eh-90 students who listened patiently (and

sometimes forgivingly) as I worked out my ideas. As a result of that class, many of these ideas cannot

even be said to be my own, for they were modified during class discussions, challenged, and, in

many cases, changed.

During that class, an English professor at the University of Maine, Burton Hatlen, came in to lecture

one day on Stoker's Dracula, and you will find that his insightful thoughts on horror as a potent part of

a myth-pool in which we all bathe communally also form a part of this book's spine. So, thanks, Burt.

My agent, Kirby McCauley, a fantasy/horror fan and unregenerate Minnesotan, also deserves

thanks for reading this manuscript, pointing out errors of fact, arguing conclusions . . . and most of all

for sitting up with me one fine drunk night in the U.N. Plaza Hotel in New York and helping me to

make up the list of recommended horror films during the years 1950-1980 which forms Appendix 1 of

this book. I owe Kirby for more than that, much more, but for now that will have to do.

I've also drawn upon a good many outside sources during the course of my work in Danse

Macabre, and have tried as conscientiously as I can to acknowledge these on a pay-as-you-go basis,

but I must mention a few that were invaluable: Carlos Clarens's seminal work on the horror film, An

Illustrated History of the Horror Film; the careful episode-by-episode rundown of The Twilight Zone in

Starlog; The Science Fiction Encyclopedia, edited by Peter Nichols, which was particularly helpful in

making sense (or trying to, anyway) of the works of Harlan Ellison and of the TV program The Outer

Limits; and countless other odd byways that I happened to wander down.

Lastly, thanks are due to the writers—Ray Bradbury, Harlan Ellison, Richard Matheson, Jack

Finney, Peter Straub, and Anne Rivers Siddons among them—who were kind enough to answer my

letters of enquiry and to provide information about the genesis of the works discussed here. Their

voices provide a dimension to this work which would otherwise be sadly lacking.

I guess that's about it . . . except I wouldn't want to leave you with any idea whatsoever that I

believe what follows even approaches perfection. I suspect plenty of errors still remain in spite of

careful combing; I can only hope that they are not too serious or too many. If you find such errors, I

hope you'll write to me and point them out, so I can make corrections in any future editions. And, you

know, I hope you have some fun with this book. Nosh and nibble at the corners or read the mother

straight through, but enjoy. That's what it's for, as much as any of the novels. Maybe there will be

something here to make you think or make you laugh or just make you mad. Any of those reactions

would please me. Boredom, however, would be a bummer.

For me, writing this book has been both an exasperation and a deep pleasure, a duty on some

days and a labor of .love on others. As a result, I suppose you will find the course you are about to

follow bumpy and uneven. I can only hope that you will also find, as I have, that the trip has not been

without its compensations. STEPHEN KING

Center Lovell, Maine

"What was the worst thing you've ever done?"

"I won't tell you that, but I'll tell you the worst thing that ever

happened to me . . . the most dreadful thing . . .

PETER STRAUB, Ghost Story

"Well we'll really have a party but we gotta post a guard

outside . . .

EDDIE COCHRAN, "Come On Everybody"

CHAPTER I

October 4, 1957, and an

Invitation to Dance

FOR ME, the terror—the real terror, as opposed to whatever demons and boogeys which might have

been living in my own mind—began on an afternoon in October of 1957. I had just turned ten. And, as

was only fitting, I was in a movie theater: the Stratford Theater in downtown Stratford, Connecticut.

The movie that day was and is one of my all-time favorites, and the fact that it—rather than a

Randolph Scott western or a John Wayne war movie—was playing was also only fitting. The

Saturday matinee on that day when the real terror began was Earth vs. the Flying Saucers, starring

Hugh Marlowe, who at the time was perhaps best known for his role as Patricia Neal's jilted and

rabidly xenophobic boyfriend in The Day the Earth Stood Still—a slightly older and altogether more

rational science fiction movie.

In The Day the Earth Stood Still, an alien named Klaatu (Michael Rennie in a bright white

intergalactic leisure suit) lands on The Mall in Washington, D.C., in a flying saucer (which, when

under power, glows like one of those plastic Jesuses they used to give out at Vacation Bible School

for memorizing Bible verses). Klaatu strides down the gangway and pauses there at the foot, the

focus of every horrified eye and the muzzles of several hundred Army guns. It is a moment of

memorable tension, a moment that is sweet in retrospect—the sort of moment that makes people like

me simple movie fans for life. Klaatu begins fooling with some sort of gadget—it looked kind of like a

Weed-Eater, as I recall—and a trigger-happy soldier-boy promptly shoots him in the arm. It turns out,

of course, that the gadget was a gift for the President. No death ray here; just a simple star-to-star

communicator.

That was in 1951. On that Saturday afternoon in Connecticut some

six years later, the folks in the flying saucers looked and acted a good deal less friendly. Far from the

noble and rather sad good looks of Michael Rennie as Klaatu, the space people in Earth vs. the

Flying Saucers looked like old and extremely evil living trees, with their gnarled, shriveled bodies and

their snarling old men's faces.

Rather than bringing a communicator to the President like any new ambassador bringing a token of

his country's esteem, the saucer people in Earth vs. the Flying Saucers bring death rays, destruction,

and, ultimately, all-out war. All of this—most particularly the destruction of Washington, D.C.—was

rendered with marvelous reality by the special effects work of Ray Harryhausen, a fellow who used to

go to the movies with a chum named Ray Bradbury when he was a kid.

Klaatu comes to extend the hand of friendship and brotherhood. He offers the people of Earth

membership in a kind of interstellar United Nations—always provided we can put our unfortunate

habit of killing each other by the millions behind us. The saucerians of Earth vs. the Flying Saucers

come only to conquer, the last armada of a dying planet, old and greedy, seeking not peace but

plunder.

The Day the Earth Stood Still is one of a select handful—the real science fiction movies. The

ancient saucerians of Earth vs, the Flying Saucers are emissaries of a much more common breed of

film—the horror-show. No nonsense about "It was to be a gift for your President" here; these folks

simply descend upon Hugh Marlowe's Project Skyhook at Cape Canaveral and begin kicking ass.

It is in the space between these two philosophies that the terror was seeded, I think. If there is a

line of force between such neatly opposing ideas, then the terror almost certainly grew there.

Because, just as the saucers were mounting their attack on Our Nation's Capital in the movie's final

reel, everything just stopped. The screen went black. The theater was full of kids, but there was

remarkably little disturbance. If you think back to the Saturday matinees of your misspent youth, you

may recall that a bunch of kids at the movies has any number of ways of expressing its pique at the

interruption of the film or its overdue commencement—rhythmic clapping; that great childhood tribal

chant of "We-want-the-show! We-want-the-show! We-want-the-show!"; candy boxes that fly at the

screen; popcorn boxes that become bugles. If some kid has had a Black Cat firecracker in his pocket

since the last Fourth of July, he will take this opportunity to remove it, pass it around to his friends for

their approval and admiration, and then light it and toss it over the balcony.

None of these things happened on that October day. The film hadn't broken; the projector had

simply been turned off. And then the houselights began to come up, a totally unheard-of occurrence.

We sat there looking around, blinking in the light like moles.

The manager walked out into the middle of the stage and held his hands up—quite

unnecessarily—for quiet. Six years later, in 1963, I flashed on that moment when, one Friday

afternoon in November, the guy who drove us home from school told us that the President had been

shot in Dallas.

If there is any truth or worth to the danse macabre, it is simply that novels, movies, TV and radio

programs—even the comic books—dealing with horror always do their work on two levels.

On top is the "gross-out" level—when Regan vomits in the priest's face or masturbates with a

crucifix in The Exorcist, or when the rawlooking, terribly inside-out monster in John Frankenheimer's

Prophecy crunches off the helicopter pilot's head like a Tootsie-Pop. The gross-out can be done with

varying degrees of artistic finesse, but it's always there.

But on another, more potent level, the work of horror really is a dance—a moving, rhythmic search.

And what it's looking for is the place where you, the viewer or the reader, live at your most primitive

level. The work of horror is not interested in the civilized furniture of our lives. Such a work dances

through these rooms which we have fitted out one piece at a time, each piece expressing—we

hope!—our socially acceptable and pleasantly enlightened character. It is in search of another place,

a room which may sometimes resemble the secret den of a Victorian gentleman, sometimes the

torture chamber of the Spanish Inquisition . . . but perhaps most frequently and most successfully, the

simple and brutally plain hole of a Stone Age cave-dweller.

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摘要：

STEPHENKING’S——DanseMacabreIt’seasyenough—perhapstooeasy—tomemorializethedead.Thisbookisforsixgreatwritersofthemacabrewhoarestillalive.ROBERTBLOCHJORGELUISBORGESRAYBRADBURYFRANKBELKNAPLONGDONALDWANDREIMANLYWADEWELLMAN———Enter,Stranger,atyourRiske:HeretherebeTygers.CONTENTS——FORENOTE4IOctober4,1957,a...

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Stephen King - Danse Macabre

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