CHRISTINE was always a book that intrigued me. When I was young a hardback copy sat prominently on the bookshelves of my Grandma’s bedroom. It had a bright, angry looking Plymouth Fury on the cover and I can remember being fascinated by it. Yet, when I started reading Stephen King novels myself it wasn’t one I picked it up. Indeed, it’s the only major novel of his imperial phase that I hadn’t read.
Why was that?
Undoubtedly it’s because I don’t have that big an interest in cars. Yes, I come from the land of ‘Top Gear’ but this fetishizing of big old 1950’s automobiles does seem much more of an American than a British thing. Put it this way, it’s hard to imagine that James Herbert would have got away with an equivalent book about a Morris Minor. So, reading a book centred on a car, even by an…
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