Pet Sematary' is one of my favorite books of Stephen King and I

When Andy Muschietti confessed, “‘Pet Sematary’ is one of my favorite books of Stephen King and I have a deep love relationship with it,” he was not merely naming a story, but speaking of a bond between artist and creation, between the reader and the dark mirror of life. For in that tale of grief, death, and resurrection lies more than horror; it contains the eternal human struggle with loss, the temptation to defy fate, and the cost of love itself. His words reveal how art can pierce the soul, becoming not just entertainment, but companion, teacher, and haunting presence.

The meaning is clear: to have a “love relationship” with a book is to be shaped by it, to carry its echoes in one’s heart long after the final page is turned. Pet Sematary is no ordinary tale; it forces the reader to confront mortality, to stare at the abyss of sorrow when those we love are taken. Muschietti’s attachment shows that he did not merely read it for fear or thrill, but recognized in it a truth about human existence—our inability to let go, our hunger to undo the finality of death, and the terrible price of resisting nature’s law.

The origin of King’s story itself adds weight to Muschietti’s devotion. Stephen King wrote Pet Sematary after nearly losing his own son to a speeding truck near a busy road. The horror, therefore, did not come from invention alone, but from lived fear and the fragile line between life and death. To read such a tale is to share in King’s deepest anxieties as a father, to feel the pulse of love and dread that inspired it. Muschietti, as a filmmaker drawn to dark and mythic stories, found in this book not only fear, but kinship—a reflection of the creative spirit that wrestles with shadow to reveal truth.

History offers parallels to this kind of bond between artist and work. Consider Dostoevsky and his novel The Brothers Karamazov, a book into which he poured his questions about faith, morality, and suffering. Readers did not merely admire it; many lived with it as Muschietti lives with Pet Sematary—as a dialogue partner in the deepest questions of life. Or recall Mary Shelley, whose Frankenstein grew out of her own confrontation with grief and death, echoing down generations as a meditation on creation and loss. These works are not simply fiction; they are vessels of human struggle, and those who embrace them do so with love and reverence.

The lesson here is that art, when it is born of truth, can become more than a story. It can be a mirror of our fears, a guide to our questions, and even a companion to our pain. To have a love relationship with such a book is to recognize that it has awakened something in us—perhaps courage to face mortality, perhaps empathy for the grieving, perhaps humility before the mysteries of fate. It is no weakness to be attached so deeply to a work of art; it is a sign that our soul has recognized itself in its pages.

So, dear listener, take Muschietti’s confession as a call: do not dismiss the power of stories. Seek out the works that speak to your innermost self. When you find a book, a song, or a painting that feels like a mirror of your being, cherish it, for it is no accident. It may teach you in ways no teacher can, comfort you in hours no friend may reach, and challenge you when your spirit grows complacent.

In practical action, this means: read not only for leisure, but for truth. Ask yourself, which stories change you? Which books have left you restless, awakened, or strangely healed? Hold fast to them, revisit them, let them converse with your soul. For in that dialogue, you will grow wiser, braver, and more fully alive.

Thus Andy Muschietti’s words shine beyond their simplicity: “I have a deep love relationship with it.” He reminds us that true art, like Pet Sematary, can move beyond the page, rooting itself in the heart, teaching us that even in darkness, there is meaning, and in the confrontation with fear, there is growth.