Just finished The Green Mile, by Stephen King. It left me extremely disturbed, was shaking and crying through the last 3 chapters. Yes, could hardly hold the book up, and difficulty typing even now. Had to blog about it, lest the memory of this episode fades away forever.

The first half was already bad, in a different sort of way. It brought back very vivid memories of the dream I had several weeks ago, the one where I was put on the death row. Somehow, the surreality of it just came back in full-force, and there came a connection with the characters in the book. Perhaps, it was this connection that led to the second part affecting me so deeply. Once again, being on the death row was not a pleasant experience at all. It was the dumbness while waiting in the cell, the tossing around of ideas and useless appeals, the small glimmer of hope in the dream that somehow, from then till the day for the gallows, the sentence will be overturned. Honestly, it was this small hope that really crushed. It was desperation more than anything else. Yet the worst was having the rope round the neck ... how can I even describe the despair? I still don't know why I had that dream ... I don't recall whether it was a food-related nightmare, or trauma-related one, but I don't think so. Then again, that was the period of time where I had nightmares every single damn time I fell asleep. It doesn't matter whether if I slept once or twice or a few times a day - even if it was a 15 min nap, the dreams came. Stress-related I'm guessing?

The second half of the book ... it really just tore at me. It was mostly the complexity of the man's personality that did it, he was an enigma in itself. I don't know if the author had intended it, and somehow I do although it then becomes so totally amazing how some writers simply have this gift of the pen and philosophy, but there seemed to be a message out of all 536 pages. It's not just an insight into life in a death row prison, or some wispy little supernatural story ... somehow, it was the appearance of a very similar jerk later in the main character's life, and the guy's behavior. This time, he wasn't a workplace jerk, just a neighbour, but totally similar enough.

All in all, it was so skillfully written I'm actually amazed by how young this author is/looks. How in the world can anyone contrive such stories? I'm guessing he might be a depressed man - there's really no way .. NO WAY anyone can muse over things like these and not get depressed. Technique was amazing, the repetition of the end of a chapter, but with very minor differences. In part 3, the end : "He turned and walked back up the Green Mile, not hurrying, leaving Mr. Jingles lying on the linoleum in a spreading pool of his own blood". This was followed by part 4: "The Bad Death of Eduard Delacroix", which was really the only part in the whole book that spooked me really badly. The beginning of this part was intercepted by a commentary written in real-time, about what this main character was doing years and years down the road, writing this story. Then followed by going back to the story, which repeated this time but differently, "He turned and walked back up the Green Mile, not hurrying, leaving Mr. Jingles lying on the linoleum, his spreading blood red over green." Now I wonder why.

OK, I'd better stop thinking about the story if I want to get to sleep tonight, which I highly doubt I can. Hopefully will wait till Aaron gets on, at least there'll be some company around.

Maybe it would have been better if I never saw that book lying on the shelf; maybe it's really not such a bad idea to live life just skin-deep. Musing = Misery.

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