The Auctioneer by Joan Samson

 

Reviewed by Christy

In Paperbacks from Hell, Grady Hendrix covers the history of the horror paperback boom of the 1970s and 1980s. Some of these novels had a lasting impact on the horror genre but were still lost to time. Thanks to the small printing press Valancourt Books, several of these titles were re-released with their original cover art. The Auctioneer, published in 1976, was one such title. In it, author Joan Samson tells the story of a hardscrabble New England town helplessly taken over by a smooth talking auctioneer who comes once a week to ask for donations for his auction. But what if you've given up everything you're willing to part with? Well, the auctioneer has ways to be very convincing.

            Admittedly, this was a very slow read for me. It is meandering and repetitive and because of that, I was never in a big hurry to get back to it. John, one of the protagonists, is an obnoxious character. Seemingly always simmering with rage over his family's plight, he constantly hesitates to do anything about it. Even when his wife pleads for them to leave. I understand that's one of the themes of the story: why does an entire TOWN go along with this? But it still makes for a frustrating read.

            Despite this, I'm glad I read it. I think it's worth checking out, especially if you're interested in the history of the horror genre as a whole. Unfortunately, the topic of gentrification is one that still resonates to this day. Some negative reviews suggest "others have done it better" (specifically Stephen King with Needful Things), and maybe that's true but I still think there's value in reading the origins of inspiration. Particularly if a forgotten female writer gets her day in the sun.

          

The Shining by Stephen King

Reviewed by Ambrea

Jack Torrance has moved to Colorado to make a fresh start as the caretaker for the Overlook Hotel.  A former teacher (and alcoholic), Jack is looking to reconnect with his writing and his family during the winter off-season.  He thinks the Overlook just might be the salvation he needs—but young Danny Torrance knows better.

A five-year-old gifted with the unique ability to read people, Danny knows that the Overlook isn’t what it pretends to be.  He can see the history the hotel is trying to hide, and he has a sinking suspicion he knows what’s going to happen to his dad and his mom.  Because Danny has what Dick Hallornan calls “a shining,” which means he’s the only one who can see the terrible things gathering in the old hotel.

Let me say, first thing, that Stephen King is an excellent writer.  His characters are fleshed out and full-bodied (and, more importantly, interesting), his writing is clear and precise (if a little heavy on wasp imagery), and his story is well formed and intricate.  And The Shining is a triumph of the horror genre.

Like any number of his books, The Shining is a gravely unsettling novel.  It preys upon one’s innate fears of isolation, darkness, doubt and despair—and the unnatural things which creep into the hallways, entirely unseen.   It shows one man’s digression into madness, and one young boy’s desperate fight to survive against a place that’s intent on swallowing him whole.

I found The Shining to be one of the scariest, one of the most unusual books I’ve ever read.  I was frightened by King’s novel, but I was also disturbed and disgusted by the gruesome things lurking in the halls of the Overlook.  Danny has a truly frightening gift, which would have made The Shining eerie no matter the circumstances; however, King takes it a step further and introduces a cast of malevolent spirits, throws in some wasps and a grisly history for a sinister (and sentient) hotel—and a particularly fiendish ghoul in Room 217.

In reading The Shining, I realized that King has a way of making me feel emotions, making me feel what his characters felt in certain situations, and he has a way of unsettling me with his writing.  I often felt squeamish and nervous, a lingering sense of disquiet, as I read The Shining—and it never really went away.  Not even after I finished the novel.

Which, I suppose, is the real point of horror:  it stays with you.