Acute family dog turns into a vicious family killer in King's canine classic.
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To lump King into the limiting paradigm of "horror writer" is like blasphemy, and if you're going to read Cujo, you might as well toss it if you're going to think of it that way. King is not a horror writer, any more than Fitzgerald is a cheap, 10-cent paperback romance writer.
What King writes about is life--in all its bloody and dank, beautiful and mysterious glory. When I read Cujo I was terrified, and my hands even shook as I put the book down, finally finished at the end of the long night. But what terrified me the most is not the actual carnage, but the fact that this story is so real that the location might as well be Anytown, USA, and You, the Anonymous Reader Reading This Review, as the lead character.
King said himself that, like in Ripley's Believe it or Not, reality and the bizzare (read:horror) coexist at all times, and that the juxtaposition of the two is where terror originates. REAL horror is here in the real world, not in Nasfaratu, not in Freddy Kreuger or Jason, but in your own home, or worse--in your own mind. The story on its own is almost boring: a lovable 200-pound St. Bernard catches rabies. So why was I shaking, and why did I burst into tears after reading the ending? Better yet, why was I so moved that I took the time to write this review to convince you to read it for yourself?
Trust me. Read the book. I don't care if you've never met me. From one terrified reader with her head detached after reading Cujo to another reader contemplating buying it (that's why you're here, isn't it?), take my advice and get it. You won't regret it.
"The entire spectrum of the aural world was his. He heard the chimes of heaven and the hoarse screams which uprose from hell. In his madness he heard the real and the unreal." (from Cujo)