If writing a novel in multiple perspectives were like
sculpting, Stephen King would definitely be called its Michelangelo. The
pattern, as I noticed, is like this: a character starts in a fairly neutral
environment; either the environment or the character’s perspective of the
environment changes; the tension heightens; a new character comes in. The cycle
is repeated. By the time the first character reappears, he is in muck, waist-deep.
The tension piles up. You feel like John “Scottie” Ferguson climbing a fire
service ladder to twelfth floor. But Cujo is not as simple as vertigo.
It’s a complex scare that chews off your sense of security. But that’s what Stephen
King’s all about, right?
The animal that lurks in the closet in Tad’s room, Vic’s
deal with Sharp Cereals; his wife Donna’s affair with Steve Kemp; aggressive
Joe Cambers; his gloomy, drunkard friend Gary; the five thousand bucks Charity
wins in lottery – they all roll down a dark, narrow tunnel, and smash against
the same ruin – Cujo. Bret Cambers’ Saint Bernard, that was once a harmless
playmate to small kids like Tad, is now baying for human blood. The throat of the
dead body that was once Gary Pervier, is torn open. In his kitchen, next to the
phone lies bloody, lifeless Joe. Outside Joe’s garage Cujo is laying siege to a
Ford Pinto. Its occupants, Tad and his mommy, are dehydrated and scared to
death.
How did Cujo come into being? King had a brief encounter
with a St. Bernard that tried to attack him in a garage in Maine. There was
also this incident of a St. Bernard killing a child. It came in the newspaper.
Though it may sound strange, Cujo is the book Stephen King barely remembers writing at all. He was under
the influence of cocaine. Good for him. The slobbery, marauding muzzle of Cujo
- once you see it through the eyes of its victims - is not something you can
easily unsee. It’s the perfect recipe for a nightmare.
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