Escape Characters

Childhood Heroes

I couldn't sleep last night, so I finished Stephen King's "It." It only took me three and a half months to read. That puts me at roughly 10 pages a day. I don't know if that's a lot, but it sure doesn't seem like it. I used to read a book every couple of weeks (granted, probably shorter, crappier science fiction novels, but still). I guess I can't feel too bad about it, as this is actually my second time trying to read it. The first attempt ended when I got lost somewhere between the ridiculous detailed Derry, Maine fictional history, and not getting creeped out at balloons. Crept out? Oh dear.

This time, though lengthy, was much better spent. I had plenty of folks telling me how great it was when they read it, and how great a writer King is, and how scary and disturbing it was. It's always more fun to read a book when you have folks cheering you on, telling you that "it gets better" and such.

Before I pass any judgment, let me just say that "finishing a book" is not a great way to fall asleep. First, it will always, always, always take you longer than you expect. I started around 11:30. I didn't turn the last page until around 1:30. And then, my brain, my freaking brain, wouldn't stop think-think-thinking (coherently or not) about it for at least an hour more. Add to that the bonus points of having the tendency to be nostalgic and sleepless on Sunday nights, and I don't know when I actually got to bed. I do know that I had a headache all today, which my body usually saves for hangovers and extreme sleep deprivation.

Despite the suffering endured to get this book finished, I felt it was worth the pain. I felt that it was incredibly artful and intricate, but was still able to remain earnest and straightforward. I can see why King is often cited as one of the better writers of our time, horror or otherwise. I've been consistently surprised at what stories I've found King has written, and now having read what I'm pretty sure is my first novel of his, I can't help but be interested in reading his other works. I hear good things about "The Dark Tower" series.

Maybe I'm a monster, or just desensitized towards horror and violence, but I didn't find the book that terribly frightening. Being that it was written 20 years ago, I can't help but feel that the standards King set with this book have been somewhat surpassed, and if not, then certainly integrated into our collective unconscious. At every turn I knew the the antagonist, Pennywise the Clown, was supposed to be horrifying and sinister. But it wasn't because I was reading it, it's because I've been told for the last 20 years that clowns are frightening, and mostly because King made everybody afraid of them.

What was wrenching, however, and what I think kept me up for so long last night, was what I felt King was trying to say about childhood. In the story, two timelines are depicted: one based in 1958 when the main characters were pre-teens, and one in 1985 where the characters are middle-aged. It is hinted, more than subtly, that the character's adult selves, despite having half a lifetime of experience, have lost the power, supernatural or otherwise, that allowed their survival and ultimate triumph when they were children. That somehow, their innocence, or their ignorance, or their ability to believe and accept the world for what it is, or their ability for creativity and imagination, gives them a power. And with age, those things are ultimately forgotten, such that they are just abstract ideas and ideals losing their place in the back of the adult mind.

I've written a lot about memory. About losing it, about keeping it, kinda whatever. I think about it a lot. I worry about it a lot. Especially as I get older. I said that "It," itself, wasn't frightening. But that doesn't speak towards what types of thinking it inspired. And nothing is more frightening than sleepless, alone, in the dark, in your bed, wondering what you've lost just by living longer. Thanks for the reminder, Stephen King. Thanks a lot.

Eventually I got up an walked around. Got a glass of water. Looked out the window towards our expansive parking lot vista. And then got to thinking some more, trying to lose myself in analysis. I asked myself, "Who were the heroes in the book?" And whatever I'd gained by getting a glass of water was forfeit, as this just brought me right back around again.

I realized that the heroes of the story were not the adults. The adults were the ones who were weak, who faltered, who feared and failed and succumbed. It was only when they channeled their inner child, their inner-most simplistic selves, that they were able to overcome. And I realized that, for all I could reckon, this was the entire point of the story: we cannot help but cherish and idolize our lost and forgotten childhoods, as our child selves are our real heroes. They were the ones that held beliefs, established them, endured growth and trial and learning. They were the people that made us into what we are today, strange as it is to say. And yet as we grow older, we forget them. They become these abstract, these out of focus and out of reach pieces of our mind. The ones we can't explain, but are constantly led to every time we question our own actions.

That I find frightening.

So it's 10:08pm the night after, and I still can't get the thought out of my head. Maybe it's because the idea just plays well with my normal pessimistic ideas about my world and the world at large. Maybe it's because I don't remember a whole lot about my childhood. And maybe it's because I'm about to spend a week and a half in a foreign country. But the thought sits heavy, nonetheless.

I'm going to Japan late tomorrow night. Just in case you wanted to know, dear reader(s).