Imagine you’re in an airport boarding lounge, or the waiting room at virtually any train station or bus terminal in the Western world. Maybe you commute to work or school by subway. It doesn’t matter. Look around. Somewhere in there, among hundreds of fellow travelers, lurks the shade of a tall, lanky man in a Red Sox gimme cap. Maybe they brought him with them, or bought him at a newsstand after swiping through the turnstile. Maybe they downloaded him, seemingly out of thin air, and he’s hiding on an iPad or a Kobo. He may even be lying open in someone’s lap, real words on a real page. However he appears, though, chances are he’s there. Somewhere.
Stephen King.
For more than four decades, in more than sixty novels, ten collections of short stories, and half a dozen nonfiction works, King has been one of popular culture’s most constant and consistent literary companions. His books have sold hundreds of millions of copies and been translated into dozens of languages. Drawn in by his storyworlds, millions of fans avidly await each release, entranced in ways they might not even understand, yet eager to see what the acknowledged master of modern horror has to offer. Whenever a new Stephen King novel hit the shelves, the mother of a friend of mine always bought two copies: a first-edition hardcover “for keeping,” the spine never cracked, the dust jacket kept in mint condition, and a softcover reading copy, carried everywhere and read to tatters. Today, a signed first edition of any of King’s early works easily commands thousands of dollars on the used book market. A matched, signed, and uncut set of The Dark Tower novels can be yours on eBay for a little more than $30,000—about what many people pay for their first new car.
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