I wanted to start this one by saying that I am no literary critic by any means...bla bla bla, but that would be bullshit, if I am writing the review of not one but a series of seven books, I will treat myself as the critic with the balls of gold. I promise that after reading it to the end (if you manage to do so), the incoherence of this review will either choke the sanity out of you or cause your guts to retch. I promise I won't be quick.
It started on 8th June 2009, when I sat on my bed, pockmarked by chickenpox, picking up dried blisters on my face, or joining those on my chest and torso to see if a constellation appears (as they usually do in S.K.'s novels). Directionlessness was the leitmotif of my life at that time. It still is, but we had our truce. I needed something to anchor my mind. There were three new novels on my bookshelf, new in the sense that I hadn't read them. All my books are second hand. Two were Stephen Kings, and the third was Micheal Crichton. I picked an S.K., just because it was the thinnest.
"The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed." Little did I know that I had embarked myself on a journey with the gunslinger (who goes all alone). The journey that took 2 years and 7 novels to complete(33 for the author and thousands for the gunslinger). I may be tempted to throw in the cliche that the journey is better than the destination, but now I know better. I had followed Roland (the gunslinger) from the desert of Mejis, through the Wastelands of Lud, through the New Yorks of different timelines, the Calla Surgis, the Fedic, the castle Discordia, to the field of Roses with the Beam of the turtle and the Gan overlooking them, finally to find the Dark tower. Or rather find its door being slammed at my face.
When S.K. ended the penpenultimate (sic, that means third last, although not in any dictionary you bought)chapter with the line "Then perhaps a minute later came a great echoing boom, the sound of a door swinging shut forever", a chilling realization dawned upon me, that the only visitor allowed to step inside the Dark Tower was the Gunslinger himeself, not the freeloader reader, who was basking in his ordeals.
Fuck journey, it was the destination I wanted to embrace, to kiss, to make love with. Ever shagged to a novel (well sex stories maybe, but that's not what I am alluding to). Me neither, but when I skimmed through the chapter describing Susannah's fate, voila there it was....The final chapter. Even before reading it, my spirits soared, testosterone surged in my bloodstream, making itself evident with the little boner (those are the only ones I get), and all I wanted to do was to shag till either my hands bled or my dick burnt, or both, in which case blood would have acted as a lube.
The next chapter started with S.K. admonishing his readers to go away while they still had time and senses to spare. He said that the ending won't add years to readers' life. Nor will it improve their sex life (It improved mine at least). There we were, accompanying Roland on the exalting (and excruciating) climb of nineteen stairs every floor, floor after floor, making it to the top of the Dark tower, and opening the last door separating him from his destiny, only to find.....I will stop here. Not that some last shred of altruism is stopping me from spoiling the novel for others, but my selfishness tells me that this pleasure that took two years in making is for mine to keep.
The best journeys in life are often the ones taken alone. But it helps to have a friend to put some sand in your face when you fall in a ditch.(and prevent the novels from becoming a monologue too.)
It started on 8th June 2009, when I sat on my bed, pockmarked by chickenpox, picking up dried blisters on my face, or joining those on my chest and torso to see if a constellation appears (as they usually do in S.K.'s novels). Directionlessness was the leitmotif of my life at that time. It still is, but we had our truce. I needed something to anchor my mind. There were three new novels on my bookshelf, new in the sense that I hadn't read them. All my books are second hand. Two were Stephen Kings, and the third was Micheal Crichton. I picked an S.K., just because it was the thinnest.
"The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed." Little did I know that I had embarked myself on a journey with the gunslinger (who goes all alone). The journey that took 2 years and 7 novels to complete(33 for the author and thousands for the gunslinger). I may be tempted to throw in the cliche that the journey is better than the destination, but now I know better. I had followed Roland (the gunslinger) from the desert of Mejis, through the Wastelands of Lud, through the New Yorks of different timelines, the Calla Surgis, the Fedic, the castle Discordia, to the field of Roses with the Beam of the turtle and the Gan overlooking them, finally to find the Dark tower. Or rather find its door being slammed at my face.
When S.K. ended the penpenultimate (sic, that means third last, although not in any dictionary you bought)chapter with the line "Then perhaps a minute later came a great echoing boom, the sound of a door swinging shut forever", a chilling realization dawned upon me, that the only visitor allowed to step inside the Dark Tower was the Gunslinger himeself, not the freeloader reader, who was basking in his ordeals.
Fuck journey, it was the destination I wanted to embrace, to kiss, to make love with. Ever shagged to a novel (well sex stories maybe, but that's not what I am alluding to). Me neither, but when I skimmed through the chapter describing Susannah's fate, voila there it was....The final chapter. Even before reading it, my spirits soared, testosterone surged in my bloodstream, making itself evident with the little boner (those are the only ones I get), and all I wanted to do was to shag till either my hands bled or my dick burnt, or both, in which case blood would have acted as a lube.
The next chapter started with S.K. admonishing his readers to go away while they still had time and senses to spare. He said that the ending won't add years to readers' life. Nor will it improve their sex life (It improved mine at least). There we were, accompanying Roland on the exalting (and excruciating) climb of nineteen stairs every floor, floor after floor, making it to the top of the Dark tower, and opening the last door separating him from his destiny, only to find.....I will stop here. Not that some last shred of altruism is stopping me from spoiling the novel for others, but my selfishness tells me that this pleasure that took two years in making is for mine to keep.
The best journeys in life are often the ones taken alone. But it helps to have a friend to put some sand in your face when you fall in a ditch.(and prevent the novels from becoming a monologue too.)
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