Blaze: A Novel

published	June 12th 2007 by Scribner
binding	Hardcover
isbn	141655484X (isbn13: 9781416554844)
pages	256
description	The last of the Richard Bachman novels, recently recovered and published for the first time. Stephen King's "dark half" may have saved the best for last.<...more [close] The last of the Richard Bachman novels, recently recovered and published for the first time. Stephen King's "dark half" may have saved the best for last. A fellow named Richard Bachman wrote Blaze in 1973 on an Olivetti typewriter, then turned the machine over to Stephen King, who used it to write Carrie. Bachman died in 1985 ("cancer of the pseudonym"), but in late 2006 King found the original typescript of Blaze among his papers at the University of Maine's Fogler Library ("How did this get here?!"), and decided that with a little revision it ought to be published. Blaze is the story of Clayton Blaisdell, Jr. -- of the crimes committed against him and the crimes he commits, including his last, the kidnapping of a baby heir worth millions. Blaze has been a slow thinker since childhood, when his father threw him down the stairs -- and then threw him down again. After escaping an abusive institution for boys when he was a teenager, Blaze hooks up with George, a seasoned criminal who thinks he has all the answers. But then George is killed, and Blaze, though haunted by his partner, is on his own. He becomes one of the most sympathetic criminals in all of literature. This is a crime story of surprising strength and sadness, with a suspenseful current sustained by the classic workings of fate and character -- as taut and riveting as Stephen King's The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon. [close]
date added	03-15-07 edit book

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Chris rated it:

(review of isbn 1416555048)

02/09/08

Read in February, 2008

recommends it for: kidnappers planning on getting cuffed

It appears that I probably won’t read anything of significance is 2008. I’m about 10 books in after this first week of February, and haven’t some across anything worth a hoot. Did I really suspect the Stephen King was going to break this trend? No, almost without a doubt King would let me down, hell, in taking into account the last 15 years of his career, it was almost certain that this book was going to be total crap. Still, I had to give it a shot; it was a Bachman book after all and...more It appears that I probably won’t read anything of significance is 2008. I’m about 10 books in after this first week of February, and haven’t some across anything worth a hoot. Did I really suspect the Stephen King was going to break this trend? No, almost without a doubt King would let me down, hell, in taking into account the last 15 years of his career, it was almost certain that this book was going to be total crap. Still, I had to give it a shot; it was a Bachman book after all and, for the most part, I prefer the Bachman books to most of his other works.

Barely into the hokey 7-page note to King’s lovable ‘Constant Readers’, I knew there was going to be some trouble. Do I spy footnotes in the introductory letter? Fucking footnotes! You’ve got to be kidding me. Again, the author tries to exorcize his demons over the whole King-as-Bachman affair being outed in the public eye, and again he warns the reader to hold onto their sales receipt, something that I’m sure he thinks is pretty funny stuff, but in reality, I don’t find it clever or reassuring. My man King also shamelessly panders for ‘street cred’ by elaborating on how his revisions were done with a pencil instead of a computer, an homage to the ‘throwback’ aspect of the book. Perhaps the biggest indication of danger ahead is his comment that there were parts of the original manuscript which were illegible and faded; great, a story that might have had potential, but touched up by the King of the New Millennium…..fantastic. This is on par with George Lucas deciding he should go back and improve upon the Star Wars trilogy by adding a bunch of shitty special effects. And with this parallel in mind, I had already decided Blaze was going to blow. Great, the standing manuscript in the trunk was going to be touched up with some wholly unnecessary banthas trolling about, a few more vehicles puttering around Cloud City, and the “awesomeness” of Han Solo firing on Greedo in self-defense, forever putting a black mark on the otherwise untarnished image of my childhood idol. Let’s not forget the additional hundred spacecraft during the first Death Star Battle. It really was an upset/underdog victory when about 30 rebel ships went toe-to-toe with the Death Star and its defensive fleet and came away as ass-kickers; in the revised release of the movie I think the rebel alliance had more ships than the Death Star did, hell, I think they had a Death Star or two of their own in the re-release. That was what I convinced myself to expect with Blaze, a work which may once have been worthy of esteem destroyed by the meddling of the future incarnation of the creator….i was expecting it to be the literary equivalent of the Star Wars Special Edition films…..garbage.

Well, it wasn’t as bad as all that. It certainly wasn’t much better, but as least Blaze isn’t a complete travesty. This is one of those books where you sit there reading on the train and occasionally espy some degenerate shitbag with his iPod on, lazily resting his head against the window prior to putting in another substandard 8 hours at the office, just another illiterate cretin: the suddenly realization that this guy’s existence must be bliss hits you in the face like a wet towel….. he’ll never be subjected to a long run of crappy books, he’ll get his paycheck no matter how much he stinks it up at the office today, he’s probably got a hotass girlfriend and claims he has cirrhosis from partying like a (indie)rockstar. You’ve got no clue that you’ve already subconsciously decided to step on the back of this guy’s shoe in the hopes of knocking it off while exiting the train, hoping to throw a small curveball into his otherwise sweet existence, and when you do, you’re not apologizing or even recognizing what you’ve done.

Once again, King decides to have a lead character named Clayton, just like in his last piece of crap, Cell. Sure this book was allegedly written back in the Iron Age, so the fact Clayton has been popping up frequently isn’t a relevant claim, and I’m sure he’s also put out other utter piddle since Cell, so he probably isn’t using this goofy name twice in a row, but it’s still annoying. Clayton Blaisdell, Jr. is a huge-ass dude, something like 6-foot-8 and almost 300 pounds, who also has a deformed forehead from a childhood thrashing by Clayton Sr. which resulted in the once-gifted boy going from what may have been a prodigy to a borderline imbecile who could lose a battle of wits to an onion. After this debilitating beating, the considerate folks at Maine’s ‘child services’ organization shuttle him off to a place called Hetton House, where he’s mistreated by the man in charge (Martin Coslaw, lovingly called ‘The Law’) between being loaned as labor to a bunch of hick families they try in vain to place him with. His time at Hetton House is filled with its ups and downs as ‘Blaze’ gains and loses his first friend, loses his virginity, gets beaten by authority, and misses a once in a lifetime opportunity to do something productive in life when a local entrepreneur who befriends him but dies suddenly. Overall, nothing very interesting.

These uninspiring scenes from Blaze’s childhood are interspersed throughout the actual story at hand; years after getting out of Hetton House, Blaze becomes a small time crook, hooking up here and there with groups of schlubs pulling con-jobs. He does some time in the clink ce or twice and eventually partners with George Rackley, a thorough con-man who uses the mildly-retarded Blaze for his own unspeakable ends. While George may be a little rough with our man Blaze, it’s obviously for both their benefit, preventing Blaze from doing some damn-fool thing that will lead to their capture. After a few years in lockdown of his own, George comes out with a new plan, one-big-score-and-done. Enough till-tapping, enough rolling homos, enough conning pensioners. Having done time made him realize that the only surefire way to come out ahead is to commit one crime for the big payoff; and the crime that he’s intent on is kidnapping the infant child of some nearby millionaires. George, however, crosses the wrong guy during a craps game in an alley, and Blaze has again lost his only friend in the world, and then he starts hearing George, urging him on to commit the crime solo and get out of the life on top. Whether the voice of George is supposed to be some hallucination in Blaze’s marginally-functioning brain, or whether it is the voice of his suppressed intellect which has been dormant since his life-changing ass-whooping is unknown, but the voice beckons and Blaze obeys.

As expected, our hero goes through with the kidnapping, and being a ridiculously large dude prone to bungling, with his low IQ and also extremely conspicuous with a malformed forehead, it’s not long before the heat is on his tail. The voice of George dutifully reminds him from time to time when he does something dunderheaded, and often alerts him to oncoming danger, and it basically plods along just like that until the rather disappointing and somewhat absurd ending. ++ SPOILER++ I consider the ending only absurd because the police resort to firing about ten shots at a guy running with a child pretty far out there. Oh wait, King emphasizes that they are aiming ‘low’. Yeah, that’s going to make a huge impact on their decision when the fleeing perp is half a football field away. Maybe you’ll only take out his legs and let his 300-pound frame squish the kid, or have him fling it headfirst into a tree while stumbling, or heaven forbid you do shoot high and the bullt goes through him into the child. Right. King also uses this book to assert, once again, that someone with limited gifts upstairs (in some way) is generously endowed below the belt.... I believe this is the third time he's used that little gag. It gets old.

One final note, which isn’t worth squat, since nobody will read this, much less the intended recipients at Pocket Books: quit making your damn paperbacks about an inch and a half longer than the standard size. Seriously. It’s annoying as hell, and much less, the thing ceases to fit into your gosh-darn pocket. Grow the hell up, you clowns.
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Blaze: A Novel

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