The Adaptable Educator’s Book Review – Christine by Stephen King

Stephen King’s Christine (1983) occupies a fascinating nexus between technological fetishism and supernatural horror, reanimating the automobile—an icon of mid-century American modernity—into a predator stalking the streets of small-town New England. More than a straightforward ghost story, Christine interrogates the boundaries between human agency and the seductive autonomy of machines, framing the novel as both a period piece and an enduring parable of obsession.

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Possession and the Machine as Other

At its core, Christine is a tale of possession: not merely the demonic inhabitation of the 1958 Plymouth Fury, but the gradual usurpation of human will by the car’s malevolent spirit. Arnie Cunningham’s transformation—from a gawky, bullied teenager into a surly, self-assured (even cruel) devotee of Christine—mirrors the classic Faustian bargain. Here, Christine acts as a surrogate for the destructive promises of technology: she grants Arnie power, swagger, and social status at the expense of his moral center and his humanity.

King’s prose stages this metamorphosis with uncanny precision. Early descriptions of Christine’s corroded exterior and peeling paint evoke a corpse awaiting resurrection, while the car’s gradual restoration parallels Arnie’s physical and psychological rebirth. Yet the novel never soft-pedals the cost: his relationship with girlfriend Leigh Cabot fractures under Christine’s jealous influence, and his friendships with Dennis and Buddy strain as Christine demands ever more sacrifices.

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Nostalgia, Americana, and the Gothic

Christine is situated squarely within the “Mid-Century American Gothic.” The quaint small-town setting—complete with drive-in diners, penny-authorized movie theaters, and cruising culture—imbues the narrative with a sense of nostalgia even as King subverts it. The 1950s Fury represents the apex of postwar consumer confidence: chrome-laden, flame-red, an emblem of freedom. Yet by investing Christine with a sentience that preys upon youthful vulnerability, King reveals how the same objects that once symbolized promise can harbor latent violence.

Moreover, Christine’s resurrection of 1958 into 1978 (the novel’s present) suggests the persistence—and danger—of unexamined cultural myths. Just as Christine’s engine roars to life with a vengeance, King implies that American myths of progress and power can animate forces that resist human control.

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The Dynamics of Fear and Sympathy

One of the novel’s remarkable achievements is the ambivalent reader response it engenders. Christine occasionally evokes genuine pity—her rusted frame yearning for renewal—alongside revulsion at her murderous acts. King uses this tension to probe how attachment to objects can blur moral boundaries: Arnie’s love for Christine mirrors real-world attachments to technology, collectibles, even brands, asking us to consider where admiration ends and enslavement begins.

King’s narrative perspective shifts subtly between sympathetic description of Christine’s “character” and clinical depictions of her atrocities—the slammed brake pedal, the snapped necks, the spilled gasoline. This oscillation forces readers into complicity: we thrill at Christine’s unstoppable power even as we recoil from her cruelty. Such moral ambivalence is a hallmark of King’s best work, reflecting the ways in which technology and desire often intertwine.

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Structural and Stylistic Considerations

Unlike the sprawling, multi-stranded epic of It (1986) or the labyrinthine King’s Dark Tower cycle, Christine is taut and economical. The novel unfolds in just over 300 pages, its pace driven by the ticking restoration of the Fury. King’s background in rock-and-roll fandom surfaces in brief interludes—DJ Howard “Cubby” Hubble’s radio show, the soundtrack of cars rumbling down quiet roads—lending authenticity to the milieu and underscoring the car’s role as a cultural artifact.

Dialogue is rendered with verisimilitude: teenage banter tinged with insecurity, older characters’ nostalgic reminiscences, gleeful jabs at the era’s fashion and norms. This attention to speech registers not only the passage of time but also the shifting power dynamics between characters as Christine’s influence grows.

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A Modern Folktale

More than a horror novel about a haunted car, Christine functions as a modern folktale, warning of the perils of unbridled fascination with technology and the ease with which power can corrupt. Its resonance persists in an age defined by rapid technological change—social media algorithms, autonomous vehicles, ever-smarter devices—each promising liberation even as they reshape our identities and desires.

In the final reckoning, King offers no easy exorcism: Christine must be destroyed by her erstwhile master’s friends, but the novel ends on a note of uneasy suspense, suggesting that the spirit of Christine—or what she symbolizes—may lie dormant, waiting for the next unwitting devotee. That haunting ambiguity, that reminder of technology’s dark underside, is what secures Christine’s place in the pantheon of literary horror.