My rating: 3 of 5 stars
And this brings me to the end of the 70s, in this chronological reading of Stephen King's body of work.
This was one average monster story. I'm not sure if I'd recommend it to any non-fan. Don't introduce anyone to King with this book, anyway.
Two points escape this generalisation: (1) the exploration of social dynamics in a time of crisis (which he does much more efficiently and with many more impli/complications in The Stand); and (2) the meditations of the protagonist who reflect King's agonies whether they make serious art or they're putting food on their family's plates, as hard working Americans have to.
[Harold Bloom would slap our hero (and King) to get himself together and stop entertaining foolish thoughts.]
In any case, the reader justifies the protagonist, as they justify King's storytelling, because apart from his repetitiveness and his not-that-sharpened-yet tools of his craft ("unreality" keeps "washing over" our protagonists since Salem's Lot), he still has one entertaining, honest (enough) story to say, one that you don't regret spending a few hours in the subway reading...
...even though if the whole thing would have been far more entertaining as the world's most hilariously unbelievable excuse to the missus if she ever confronted you with suspicions of your adultery with an out-of-towner lady. "Monsters! Giant bugs! Of course!"
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