Forgot to mention last entry, but I read about 90-percent of Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" on the flight out here and during layovers. I bought the book at the airport in Nashville ($16) after forgetting to remove the Don DeLillo book I'd brought along from the car. I'd like to say that I've enjoyed the Pulitzer Prize winner thus far. I like to say that, but it would be a lie. I keep turning the pages, yeah. But sometimes you do that because you have nothing else to read. And, there's always the hope that it will get better.
Not to say that it's horrible; obviously, lots of lettered folks don't believe that. I'm not exactly sure what McCarthy's intent was with this book, other than to see how dark a tome he could concoct, how slight he could hold dialogue, how minimal he could be in every aspect except the portrayal of dark misery.
He succeeds in the latter; one is not going to read this thing and come away with some joyous feeling of enlightenment or hope for the future of humanity. Perhaps the largest thought grasped out of this morass of bleakness is the faint hope that humanity will never come to such ends, though it seems destined at some point. If not by the machinations of mad men and the power crazy, then by the chaotic clockwork of the universe, forever spinning out streams of mountainous stones and smoking bolides in all directions. Physics, my dear Watson. The piper will be paid at some point.
Of course, we don't know the nature of the apocalypse through which the man and his son forever slog south on The Road. Civilization has been devastated by some disaster and the land is a barren wilderness coated in ash so prevalent that makeshift masks are necessary. There are survivors here and there, lone stragglers struggling against the harsh elements, and brutal cold -- the latter seems to suggest some form of nuclear winter, a clouding of the skies whether by nuclear explosion or an asteroid strike. As defined by McCarthy, this cold is colder than a well-digger's ass in Anchorage. And there are gangs of brutal men plying the roads and rounding up survivors for food. Cannibalism is in vogue in this brave new world.
Certainly, such post-apocalyptic fiction is nothing new. "Lucifer's Hammer" by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle, addressed such end time madness and organized cannibalism and in a much more entertaining fashion back in '77. In that instance civilization ceased because of a huge comet strike. "On The Beach" by Nevil Shute came out in the late 50s and I read it in the early 60s. Nuclear war ended civilization in that one, immediately for most above the equator and slowly for those like the Australian characters depicted in the tale. Again, a more entertaining book that The Road.
But hell, "entertaining" books or pop fiction don't win prizes. Literary books do. Except maybe for "The Shipping News," which won the Pulitzer and was entertaining as hell, too. But you gotta have gimmicks to do it. McCarthy does it with a lack of apostrophes and some of the most moronic dialogue I've ever read. And what might be considered almost vignettes instead of paragraphs in places, with about four spaces on the page between every one of them. Apparently, people who judge such things are easily swayed by anybody willing to break the rules far enough.
One thing is for certain: after you hear "the man" and "the boy" exchange "okay, okay" for about the five-hundredth time, you'll be hoping a pack of cannibals come swarming out of the woods and eats the both of them. That may happen in the 40 pages of so unread to this point.
I can hope, can't I?
Not to say that it's horrible; obviously, lots of lettered folks don't believe that. I'm not exactly sure what McCarthy's intent was with this book, other than to see how dark a tome he could concoct, how slight he could hold dialogue, how minimal he could be in every aspect except the portrayal of dark misery.
He succeeds in the latter; one is not going to read this thing and come away with some joyous feeling of enlightenment or hope for the future of humanity. Perhaps the largest thought grasped out of this morass of bleakness is the faint hope that humanity will never come to such ends, though it seems destined at some point. If not by the machinations of mad men and the power crazy, then by the chaotic clockwork of the universe, forever spinning out streams of mountainous stones and smoking bolides in all directions. Physics, my dear Watson. The piper will be paid at some point.
Of course, we don't know the nature of the apocalypse through which the man and his son forever slog south on The Road. Civilization has been devastated by some disaster and the land is a barren wilderness coated in ash so prevalent that makeshift masks are necessary. There are survivors here and there, lone stragglers struggling against the harsh elements, and brutal cold -- the latter seems to suggest some form of nuclear winter, a clouding of the skies whether by nuclear explosion or an asteroid strike. As defined by McCarthy, this cold is colder than a well-digger's ass in Anchorage. And there are gangs of brutal men plying the roads and rounding up survivors for food. Cannibalism is in vogue in this brave new world.
Certainly, such post-apocalyptic fiction is nothing new. "Lucifer's Hammer" by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle, addressed such end time madness and organized cannibalism and in a much more entertaining fashion back in '77. In that instance civilization ceased because of a huge comet strike. "On The Beach" by Nevil Shute came out in the late 50s and I read it in the early 60s. Nuclear war ended civilization in that one, immediately for most above the equator and slowly for those like the Australian characters depicted in the tale. Again, a more entertaining book that The Road.
But hell, "entertaining" books or pop fiction don't win prizes. Literary books do. Except maybe for "The Shipping News," which won the Pulitzer and was entertaining as hell, too. But you gotta have gimmicks to do it. McCarthy does it with a lack of apostrophes and some of the most moronic dialogue I've ever read. And what might be considered almost vignettes instead of paragraphs in places, with about four spaces on the page between every one of them. Apparently, people who judge such things are easily swayed by anybody willing to break the rules far enough.
One thing is for certain: after you hear "the man" and "the boy" exchange "okay, okay" for about the five-hundredth time, you'll be hoping a pack of cannibals come swarming out of the woods and eats the both of them. That may happen in the 40 pages of so unread to this point.
I can hope, can't I?
2 comments:
Yup. I read The Road this summer. Never read any of his work before, but heard some things. I was not very impressed either. McCarthy has a hell vocabulary, I'll give him that. And it works as a prose poem type thing (I'm sure some poets & "lit types" appreciate the hell out of that), but it's all in the same mood. It just slogs on and on. You think maybe there will be some surprise, something unexpected, but no.
I picked up Blood Meridian as some told me that was his masterpiece. Dropped it halfway through.
Maybe I'm too unsophisticated to recognize Art.
BTW, that's a cool photo above. Hope yr enjoying your trip.
Yeah, I've heard of him for years but this was my first time reading one of his books. No doubt it will be my last. I liked the film of "No Country for Old Men" a lot, but I'd venture to say the movie is better (for me) than the book would be.
We were having a big time the day that picture was made. I'd had way more than a big time in several respects.
Enjoying the trip fine. But for the rotten summers, this would be one hell of a place to roost for the duration.
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