No... remy wears an adventure condom. It's words on a page... never real. Until you touch the book to make sure that it's just words. When you try and reach through the pages, because you know that something's wrong!
But our hero's made it, and perhaps they dragged remy in, perhaps he was a voyueristic observer, or what have you...
But it is over. The battle has been won.
Why is it, I can't just read fiction anymore? Everytime I do, it becomes an experience. As of late, there hasn't been a book that hasn't dragged me in, put me through the plight of the characters, like in the Neverending Story. Some books have done a better job than others, but if you flip back to my summer journal, you'll read of my experiences with John Steakly, and his two books, Armor and Vampire$.
Since then, books... assault me with thier reality. I've always harbored a belief that King tapped other worlds... that what he wrote was true in any important sense of the word. I don't mean this as idol worship, or idle worship, but as an honest fact. Some of us, when we create, we tap into the Otherness, we experience the otherness.
And as I close the cover of It and replace the dust jacket, with which I find reading any hardcover impossible (blasted thing slides right off the book), I ask myself...
How much of this was fiction?