This is Stephen King, the one you didn’t know. This is prose that doesn’t hit for show; at times it’s almost fairy-tale-like, at times almost postmodern. It’s ruthless psychological realism and “a city saga,” “hyperrealism” and “magical realism”—all at once. It’s a story of time and space filtered through the perception of a small American town. It’s us. Our century, our life. Without embellishment—without varnish. Because, according to King, only in a kaleidoscope of little things can a many-colored picture of an era come together…