Now a major motion picture starring Matthew McConaughey and Idris Elba
The second volume in Stephen King’s #1 bestselling Dark Tower Series, The Drawing of the Three is an “epic in the making” (Kirkus Reviews) about a savage struggle against underworld evil and otherworldly enemies.
“Stephen King is a master at creating living, breathing, believable characters,” hails The Baltimore Sun. Beginning just less than seven hours after The Gunslinger ends, in the second installment to the thrilling Dark Tower Series, Roland encounters three mysterious doorways on a deserted beach along the Western Sea. Each one enters into a different person’s life in New York—here, he joins forces with the defiant young Eddie Dean, and with the beautiful, brilliant, and brave Odetta Holmes, to save the Dark Tower.
“This quest is one of King’s best…it communicates on a genuine, human level…but is rich in symbolism and allegory” (Columbus Sunday Dispatch). It is a science fiction odyssey that is unlike any tale that Stephen King has ever written.
About the Author
Stephen King is the author of more than sixty books, all of them worldwide bestsellers. His recent work includes The Institute, Elevation, The Outsider, Sleeping Beauties (cowritten with his son Owen King) and the Bill Hodges trilogy, End of Watch, Finders Keepers, and Mr. Mercedes (an Edgar Award winner for Best Novel and an AT&T Audience Network original television series). His novel 11/22/63 was named a top ten book of 2011 by The New York Times Book Review and won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Mystery/Thriller. His epic works The Dark Tower and It are the basis for major motion pictures, with It now the highest grossing horror film of all time. He is the recipient of the 2018 PEN America Literary Service Award, the 2014 National Medal of Arts, and the 2003 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. He lives in Bangor, Maine, with his wife, novelist Tabitha King.
Date of Birth:September 21, 1947
Place of Birth:Portland, Maine
Education:B.S., University of Maine at Orono, 1970
Read an Excerpt
Three. This is the number of your fate.
Yes, three is mystic. Three stands at the heart of the mantra.
The first is dark-haired. He stands on the brink of robbery and murder. A demon has infested him. The name of the demon is HEROIN.
Which demon is that? I know it not, even from nursery stories.
He tried to speak but his voice was gone, the voice of the oracle, Star-Slut, Whore of the Winds, both were gone; he saw a card fluttering down from nowhere to nowhere, turning and turning in the lazy dark. On it a baboon grinned from over the shoulder of a young man with dark hair; its disturbingly human fingers were buried so deeply in the young man's neck that their tips had disappeared in flesh. Looking more closely, the gunslinger saw the baboon held a whip in one of those clutching, strangling hands. The face of the ridden man seemed to writhe in wordless terror.
The Prisoner, the man in black (who had once been a man the gunslinger trusted, a man named Walter) whispered chummily. A trifle upsetting, isn't he? A trifle upsetting ... a trifle upsetting ... a trifle-
The gunslinger snapped awake, waving at something with his mutilated hand, sure that in a moment one of the monstrous shelled things from the Western Sea would drop on him, desperately enquiring in its foreign tongue as it pulled his face off his skull.
Instead a sea-bird, attracted by the glister of the morning sun on the buttons of his shirt, wheeled away with a frightened squawk.
Roland sat up.
His hand throbbed wretchedly, endlessly. His right foot did the same. Both fingers and toe continued to insist they were there. The bottom half of his shirt was gone; what was left resembled a ragged vest. He had used one piece to bind his hand, the other to bind his foot.
Go away, he told the absent parts of his body. You are ghosts now. Go away.
It helped a little. Not much, but a little. They were ghosts, all right, but lively ghosts.
The gunslinger ate jerky. His mouth wanted it little, his stomach less, but he insisted. When it was inside him, he felt a little stronger. There was not much left, though; he was nearly up against it.
Yet things needed to be done.
He rose unsteadily to his feet and looked about. Birds swooped and dived, but the world seemed to belong to only him and them. The monstrosities were gone. Perhaps they were nocturnal; perhaps tidal. At the moment it seemed to make no difference.
The sea was enormous, meeting the horizon at a misty blue point that was impossible to determine. For a long moment the gunslinger forgot his agony in its contemplation. He had never seen such a body of water. Had heard of it in children's stories, of course, had even been assured by his teachers-some, at least-that it existed-but to actually see it, this immensity, this amazement of water after years of arid land, was difficult to accept ... difficult to even see.
He looked at it for a long time, enrapt, making himself see it, temporarily forgetting his pain in wonder.
But it was morning, and there were still things to be done.
He felt for the jawbone in his back pocket, careful to lead with the palm of his right hand, not wanting the stubs of his fingers to encounter it if it was still there, changing that hand's ceaseless sobbing to screams.
He clumsily unbuckled his gunbelts and laid them on a sunny rock. He removed the guns, swung the chambers out, and removed the useless shells. He threw them away. A bird settled on the bright gleam tossed back by one of them, picked it up in its beak, then dropped it and flew away.
The guns themselves must be tended to, should have been tended to before this, but since no gun in this world or any other was more than a club without ammunition, he laid the gunbelts themselves over his lap before doing anything else and carefully ran his left hand over the leather.
Each of them was damp from buckle and clasp to the point where the belts would cross his hips; from that point they seemed dry. He carefully removed each shell from the dry portions of the belts. His right hand kept trying to do this job, insisted on forgetting its reduction in spite of the pain, and he found himself returning it to his knee again and again, like a dog too stupid or fractious to heel. In his distracted pain he came close to swatting it once or twice.
I see serious problems ahead, he thought again.
He put these shells, hopefully still good, in a pile that was dishearteningly small. Twenty. Of those, a few would almost certainly misfire. He could depend on none of them. He removed the rest and put them in another pile. Thirty-seven.
Well, you weren't heavy loaded, anyway, he thought, but he recognized the difference between fifty-seven live rounds and what might be twenty. Or ten. Or five. Or one. Or none.
He put the dubious shells in a second pile.
He still had his purse. That was one thing. He put it in his lap and then slowly disassembled his guns and performed the ritual of cleaning. By the time he was finished, two hours had passed and his pain was so intense his head reeled with it; conscious thought had become difficult. He wanted to sleep. He had never wanted that more in his life. But in the service of duty there was never any acceptable reason for denial.
"Cort," he said in a voice that he couldn't recognize, and laughed dryly.
Slowly, slowly, he reassembled his revolvers and loaded them with the shells he presumed to be dry. When the job was done, he held the one made for his left hand, cocked it ... and then slowly lowered the hammer again. He wanted to know, yes. Wanted to know if there would be a satisfying report when he squeezed the trigger or only another of those useless clicks. But a click would mean nothing, and a report would only reduce twenty to nineteen ... or nine ... or three ... or none.
He tore away another piece of his shirt, put the other shells-the ones which had been wetted-in it, and tied it, using his left hand and his teeth. He put them in his purse.
Sleep, his body demanded. Sleep, you must sleep, now, before dark, there's nothing left, you're used up- He tottered to his feet and looked up and down the deserted strand. It was the color of an undergarment which has gone a long time without washing, littered with sea-shells which had no color. Here and there large rocks protruded from the gross-grained sand, and these were covered with guano, the older layers the yellow of ancient teeth, the fresher splotches white.
The high-tide line was marked with drying kelp. He could see pieces of his right boot and his waterskins lying near that line. He thought it almost a miracle that the skins hadn't been washed out to sea by high-surging waves. Walking slowly, limping exquisitely, the gunslinger made his way to where they were. He picked up one of them and shook it by his ear. The other was empty. This one still had a little water left in it. Most would not have been able to tell the difference between the two, but the gunslinger knew each just as well as a mother knows which of her identical twins is which. He had been travelling with these waterskins for a long, long time. Water sloshed inside. That was good-a gift. Either the creature which had attacked him or any of the others could have torn this or the other open with one casual bite or slice of claw, but none had and the tide had spared it. Of the creature itself there was no sign, although the two of them had finished far above the tide-line. Perhaps other predators had taken it; perhaps its own kind had given it a burial at sea, as the elaphaunts, giant creatures of whom he had heard in childhood stories, were reputed to bury their own dead.
He lifted the waterskin with his left elbow, drank deeply, and felt some strength come back into him. The right boot was of course ruined ... but then he felt a spark of hope. The foot itself was intact-scarred but intact-and it might be possible to cut the other down to match it, to make something which would last at least awhile.... Faintness stole over him. He fought it but his knees unhinged and he sat down, stupidly biting his tongue.
You won't fall unconscious, he told himself grimly. Not here, not where another of those things can come back tonight and finish the job.
So he got to his feet and tied the empty skin about his waist, but he had only gone twenty yards back toward the place where he had left his guns and purse when he fell down again, half-fainting. He lay there awhile, one cheek pressed against the sand, the edge of a seashell biting against the edge of his jaw almost deep enough to draw blood. He managed to drink from the waterskin, and then he crawled back to the place where he had awakened. There was a Joshua tree twenty yards up the slope-it was stunted, but it would offer at least some shade.
To Roland the twenty yards looked like twenty miles.
Nonetheless, he laboriously pushed what remained of his possessions into that little puddle of shade. He lay there with his head in the grass, already fading toward what could be sleep or unconsciousness or death. He looked into the sky and tried to judge the time. Not noon, but the size of the puddle of shade in which he rested said noon was close. He held on a moment longer, turning his right arm over and bringing it close to his eyes, looking for the telltale red lines of infection, of some poison seeping steadily toward the middle of him.
The palm of his hand was a dull red. Not a good sign.
I jerk off left-handed, he thought, at least that's something.
Then darkness took him, and he slept for the next sixteen hours with the sound of the Western Sea pounding ceaselessly in his dreaming ears.
When the gunslinger awoke again the sea was dark but there was faint light in the sky to the east. Morning was on its way. He sat up and waves of dizziness almost overcame him.
He bent his head and waited.
When the faintness had passed, he looked at his hand. It was infected, all right-a tell-tale red swelling that spread up the palm and to the wrist. It stopped there, but already he could see the faint beginnings of other red lines, which would lead eventually to his heart and kill him. He felt hot, feverish.
I need medicine, he thought. But there is no medicine here.
Had he come this far just to die, then? He would not. And if he were to die in spite of his determination, he would die on his way to the Tower.
How remarkable you are, gunslinger! the man in black tittered inside his head. How indomitable! How romantic in your stupid obsession!
"Fuck you," he croaked, and drank. Not much water left, either. There was a whole sea in front of him, for all the good it could do him; water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink. Never mind.
He buckled on his gunbelts, tied them-this was a process which took so long that before he was done the first faint light of dawn had brightened to the day's actual prologue-and then tried to stand up. He was not convinced he could do it until it was done.
Holding to the Joshua tree with his left hand, he scooped up the not-quite-empty waterskin with his right arm and slung it over his shoulder. Then his purse. When he straightened, the faintness washed over him again and he put his head down, waiting, willing.
The faintness passed.
Walking with the weaving, wavering steps of a man in the last stages of ambulatory drunkenness, the gunslinger made his way back down to the strand. He stood, looking at an ocean as dark as mulberry wine, and then took the last of his jerky from his purse. He ate half, and this time both mouth and stomach accepted a little more willingly. He turned and ate the other half as he watched the sun come up over the mountains where Jake had died-first seeming to catch on the cruel and treeless teeth of those peaks, then rising above them.
Roland held his face to the sun, closed his eyes, and smiled. He ate the rest of his jerky.
He thought: Very well. I am now a man with no food, with two less fingers and one less toe than I was born with; I am a gunslinger with shells which may not fire; I am sickening from a monster's bite and have no medicine; I have a day's water if I'm lucky; I may be able to walk perhaps a dozen miles if I press myself to the last extremity. I am, in short, a man on the edge of everything.
Which way should he walk? He had come from the east; he could not walk west without the powers of a saint or a savior. That left north and south.
That was the answer his heart told. There was no question in it.
The gunslinger began to walk.
He walked for three hours. He fell twice, and the second time he did not believe he would be able to get up again. Then a wave came toward him, close enough to make him remember his guns, and he was up before he knew it, standing on legs that quivered like stilts.
He thought he had managed about four miles in those three hours. Now the sun was growing hot, but not hot enough to explain the way his head pounded or the sweat pouring down his face; nor was the breeze from the sea strong enough to explain the sudden fits of shuddering which sometimes gripped him, making his body lump into gooseflesh and his teeth chatter.
Fever, gunslinger, the man in black tittered. What's left inside you has been touched afire.
The red lines of infection were more pronounced now; they had marched upward from his right wrist halfway to his elbow.
He made another mile and drained his waterbag dry. He tied it around his waist with the other. The landscape was monotonous and unpleasing. The sea to his right, the mountains to his left, the gray, shell-littered sand under the feet of his cut-down boots. The waves came and went. He looked for the lobstrosities and saw none. He walked out of nowhere toward nowhere, a man from another time who, it seemed, had reached a point of pointless ending.
Shortly before noon he fell again and knew he could not get up. This was the place, then. Here. This was the end, after all.
On his hands and knees, he raised his head like a groggy fighter ... and some distance ahead, perhaps a mile, perhaps three (it was difficult to judge distances along the unchanging reach of the strand with the fever working inside him, making his eyeballs pulse in and out), he saw something new. Something which stood upright on the beach.
What was it?
(three is the number of your fate)
The gunslinger managed to get to his feet again. He croaked something, some plea which only the circling seabirds heard (and how happy they would be to gobble my eyes from my head, he thought, how happy to have such a tasty bit!), and walked on, weaving more seriously now, leaving tracks behind him that were weird loops and swoops.
He kept his eyes on whatever it was that stood on the strand ahead. When his hair fell in his eyes he brushed it aside. It seemed to grow no closer. The sun reached the roof of the sky, where it seemed to remain far too long. Roland imagined he was in the desert again, somewhere between the last outlander's hut (the musical fruit the more you eat the more you toot) and the way-station where the boy (your Isaac) had awaited his coming.
His knees buckled, straightened, buckled, straightened again. When his hair fell in his eyes once more he did not bother to push it back; did not have the strength to push it back. He looked at the object, which now cast a narrow shadow back toward the upland, and kept walking.
He could make it out now, fever or no fever.
It was a door.
Less than a quarter of a mile from it, Roland's knees buckled again and this time he could not stiffen their hinges. He fell, his right hand dragged across gritty sand and shells, the stumps of his fingers screamed as fresh scabs were scored away. The stumps began to bleed again.
So he crawled. Crawled with the steady rush, roar, and retreat of the Western Sea in his ears. He used his elbows and his knees, digging grooves in the sand above the twist of dirty green kelp which marked the high-tide line. He supposed the wind was still blowing-it must be, for the chills continued to whip through his body-but the only wind he could hear was the harsh gale which gusted in and out of his own lungs.
The door grew closer.
At last, around three o'clock of that long delirious day, with his shadow beginning to grow long on his left, he reached it. He sat back on his haunches and regarded it wearily.
It stood six and a half feet high and appeared to be made of solid ironwood, although the nearest ironwood tree must grow seven hundred miles or more from here. The doorknob looked as if it were made of gold, and it was filigreed with a design which the gunslinger finally recognized: it was the grinning face of the baboon.
There was no keyhole in the knob, above it, or below it.
The door had hinges, but they were fastened to nothing-or so it seems, the gunslinger thought. This is a mystery, a most marvellous mystery, but does it really matter? You are dying. Your own mystery-the only one that really matters to any man or woman in the end- approaches.
All the same, it did seem to matter.
This door. This door where no door should be. It simply stood there on the gray strand twenty feet above the high-tide line, seemingly as eternal as the sea itself, now casting the slanted shadow of its thickness toward the east as the sun westered.
Written upon it in black letters two-thirds of the way up, written in the high speech, were two words:
THE PRISONER A demon has infested him. The name of the demon is HEROIN.
The gunslinger could hear a low droning noise. At first he thought it must be the wind or a sound in his own feverish head, but he became more and more convinced that the sound was the sound of motors ... and that it was coming from behind the door.
Open it then. It's not locked. You know it's not locked.
Instead he tottered gracelessly to his feet and walked above the door and around to the other side.
There was no other side.
from The Drawing of the Three: The Dark Tower II by Stephen King, copyright © 1987, 2003 Stephen King, published by Viking Press, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., all rights reserved, reprinted with permission from the publisher.
Table of Contents
|Prologue: The Sailor||3|
|III.||Contact and Landing||49|
|V.||Showdown and Shoot-Out||118|
|The Lady of Shadows||179|
|I.||Detta and Odetta||181|
|II.||Ringing the Changes||207|
|III.||Odetta on the Other Side||221|
|IV.||Detta on the Other Side||243|
|III.||Roland Takes His Medicine||341|
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
This is when the series hits its stride. Great action, amazing character development as it introduces interesting characters. Suspenseful story that grips your attention, almost like being gripped in lobster claws.
First off let me state, I am writing this from my Nook. I am not a fan of Stephen King. Many times I have sat down with a popular novel of his only to stop reading midway. However, with the Dark Tower series, I have read the first two novels and am going to purchase the third as soon as this review is written. The Drawing of The Three, for me, was not quite as engrossing. The addition of the three new characters was a mixed bag. Detta more specifically, had me skipping large chunks of words as her performance was over the top. This made the book drag and I found myself counting how many pages were left every time she spoke. The overall quality of the story shines through despite Detta. There is just enough action to conflict to keep you in suspense, wondering what will come next. Even if you are not generally a Stephen King fan I recommend giving this series a try. You will be glad, like I, that you did.
This book opens.the eyes of the reader to what jake ment at the gorge in the last gunslinger. There are more worlds than just the one. The new caractors each have their role to play in rolands quest.
The Dark Tower II is about Roland, the last gunslinger, assembling his ka-tet, or ka chosen band of people to help him on his quest for the Tower. He draws Eddie, the Prisoner, Odetta Holmes (Detta Walker), the Lady of Shadows, and death itself to show Odetta and Detta the truth. The book is fantastic, and I couldn't put it down. I recommend the book to anyone (not including children, mind you) who likes an origional series.
After reading The Dark Tower Book I: The Gunslinger, which I very much enjoyed, I wasn't sure I wanted to immerse myself into a seven book series. After reading The Dark Tower Book II: The Drawing of the Three, I can't imagine not reading the entire series and then wanting more. Fantastic book. It can only get better from here. I am so looking forward to The Dark Tower: The Waste Lands Book III
This, along with The Waste Land is my favorite of the Dark Tower series. This is where Roland's journey to the tower stops being a loner's quest- here is where he fills his ka-tet (Don't know what that means? It's like a spiritual circle, linked by fate toward a common goal. Arthur and his knights would be ka-tet.) Strange doors on a lonely beach connect Roland with our world, and the companions foretold on the Man in Black's tarot deck: The Prisoner, the Lady of Shadows, and Death.A haunting book, beautiful and fantastic.
This is one of my favorites of the "Dark Tower" series. I just love how he gets to meet his new companions and their background stories on the road to the dark tower.
What a difference some years can make. The poor ending of the first Dark Tower novel and the somewhat ham-handededness of the book as a whole had been almost enough to make me not go on to the second novel. I'm glad I did. The second novel shows what years and years of writing taught King in the interim and I enjoyed it a lot. Also I was switching back and forth between the audio book and the paper version and I can say that the reader for the audio book is very good indeed. A mark of that is that Frank Muller seems to be the one they had read all of the later books in the series as well.
"The Drawing of the Three" is the second book in Stephen King's "Dark Tower" series. The story continues following Roland, the last Gunslinger, on his quest towards the Dark Tower in Stephen King's vision of an epic fantasy.As Roland continues his journey he must leave his world - a different world known from the first book, "The Gunslinger" - into our world. This is one of the different aspects from the first; the story does not take place in the fantasy world as much as it takes place in a world all too familiar for many readers.The different worlds provide a sense of connection for the reader, as well as feelings of humor. Roland struggles to grasp many aspects of our life - for example Roland is familiar with apothecaries in his world, who are more like mystics and run a dimly lit potion shop. In one of his adventures, he enters a drugstore expecting "a dim, candle-lit room full of bitter fumes, jars of unknown powers and liquids and philters," and is taken aback when he sees the brightly lit drugstore familiar in our world.Different, yes. Interesting? Very. As Roland "draws the Three," King introduces new characters and an intriguing, elaborate story that will surely leave the reader gripping the pages tightly. Where "The Gunslinger" was slower paced in some areas, "The Drawing of the Three" keeps the reader rapidly turning the pages with very little downtime. However, the Plume publication of 2003 leaves a little to be desired in the formatting of the illustrations and the text. The text and illustrations do not match up - being at least several pages off, resulting in more of a hindrance than anything.For those who read "The Gunslinger", this is obviously the next step in the story. If "The Gunslinger" was enjoyed, this will only further pique interest in the story. For those that read "The Gunslinger" and are unsure if the story is worth going on - this book will quickly change that feeling of unsureness and bring the reader further into King's epic fantasy world.
Fantastic series. This book was by far the better of the entire series. The later books go too much over the top.
I was pleasantly surprised by this book. I was not a big fan of the first one in the series, and was a bit apprehensive in continuing the series. The Drawing of the Three is better written and contains a great deal more substance than its predecessor. I am now looking forward to reading the rest of the series.
This was a tough one to rate. I liked it better than Dark Tower I. However, it gets the same number of stars. Book one was Roland hiking across his world to get to this book. This book was a few short stories getting the players together. I am not a fan of short stories.
This book was so episodic it was ridiculous. But, it worked! It worked very well, and I wholeheartedly enjoyed the story. It ventured away from the dreamscape exploration of the first installment of the Dark Tower Series, the Gunslinger, and focused on what I feel King does best: character development. Essentially, that is exactly what this segment of the series is: a 300-or-so page introduction of two of the four main characters that make up the band of pilgrims. I have never felt like King's characters were flat, and usually they are far more complex than most others I read. They have their moments of weakness, heroics, fear, and joy (and sometimes all on one page). They make the bi-polar populous seem stoic. And this is not because of erratic behavior, it is because King explores all aspects of what goes on in the head of his characters. I believe this is well exhibited and established in The Drawing of the Three. It is an excellent piece of writing.
Excellent 2nd part of the Dark Tower series, fast, exciting read. It flies off the pages, a real page turner. I couldn't put it down.
In this book, things start to pick up for both Roland and the reader. As Roland trudges across the land towards the Dark Tower, he runs across a door that's standing upright and by itself on a beach. One of three doors our "hero" uses it to traverse from his world to ours. His quest requires companions and the doors provide the means for him to get them. He manages to bring back some companions to help with his quest, but they are just as flawed as he is and not so willing to help. Yet, they do have an inner strength and a strong will that's necessary on the hazardous trek to the Dark Tower. Both Eddie Dean and Odetta Holmes are really flawed human beings, one is a heroin addict and the latter has multiple personality disorder. Very untypical people you would think of to be on an epic quest with Roland, the last gunslinger. Yet, the reader can't help but root for and care for these flawed people. Roland is also fleshed out more, he no longer seems to be just a hard-core gunslinger but one who has become hard due to his environment and past. Of course, more unanswered questions arise, and you are no closer as to finding out what the Dark Tower is, or why Roland needs to find it. But now he has help on his quest and it'll be interesting to see what happens in the next volume's in this epic story.
Not nearly as good as the first, but unfortunately, you get sucked into the world of the story. Read it quickly.
My favorite of the Dark Tower books. Roland enters our world to find allies in his quest to find the Dark Tower. Roland's culture clash as he faces things like abundance of paper, pants on women, and tuna fish sandwiches alone makes this book a joy to read.
The Drawing of the three is the second book in the Dark Tower series. King moves from the western genre to a more sci-fi feel as the protagonist Roland moves between his world and different time periods in ours to draw the three people he will need to complete his quest. The crossing of time lines creates paradoxes with the storyline in the previous book, and even Roland momentarily wonders if he has screwed up his own time line (but decides that he doesn't care.) This book feels less cold, and more personal, than the first book did.
The second in the Dark Tower series is less about Roland's world and more about ours. Roland's commentaries of our world are insightful and fun. King is an older in this book in the series and it shows, but I still feel this book is missing an overall message. There's a bunch of interesting stuff, but overall it doesn't sum up to a coherent message. A fun read nonetheless.
I think this book is good, but a little overrated. I, unlike most people, didn't really like the shifting between Roland's world and our world at different time periods. I just think it all kind of fell flat compared to Roland's mystical and fictional world. But on the plus side, this book was very unique and interesting for what it was, and it introduced one of the creepiest creatures I have ever read about, the Lobstrosity. So overall, it was a decent book, just not one of my favorites. I enjoyed the first book much more, and I am currently reading The Waste Lands.
This is the perfect book in my opinion, while not my personal favorate, it is easily the best book in the series. A wonderful follow up the the intro novel of the series, this is where the characters other than Roland enter the story and you get a great background of each one. The concept was wonderful, heck, everything was wonderful, this is what got me hooked on the series
The Drawing of the Three has gotten me hooked. I was planning on taking a break in between books 2 & 3, since after all, it took King years to write the series. But I'm definitely attached to the characters. The Gunslinger doesn't leave you any additional characters besides Roland to follow. But this one leaves you with Eddie and Susannah (who you know as Odetta and Detta in the book). That alone leaves you fascinated and wanting to find out the new dynamics of the three heroes. I am left curious about the other world in which Roland lives, and what the quest for the Tower will lead Roland to and through.
I liked this book much better than the first in the series, maybe because the gunslinger isn't the only main character anymore and those other characters help humanize the gunslinger for me. Bizzare wandering plot that touches on what seem to be intensely personal themes for the author as well as creating some genuine suspense, instead of just blank bafflement. Onward...
The drawing of the three was quite good. My second favorite of the DT series. I liked how each character was pulled into Roland's world and found it quite humorous.
Interesting. Much better than the first book in the series, so glad I actually read this! Some typical Stephen King weirdness though, other than that, great read.