by Cormac McCarthy
OMG............. I couldn't put this book down and doubt that I shall ever forget it.
This is an apocalypse novel as we've never seen one before, a black book of wondrous paragraphs that reads as though Samuel Beckett had dared himself to outdo Harlan Ellison. A haunting, hypnotic and grim novel about civilization's slow death after the power goes out. He uses metaphors the way some writers use punctuation, sprinkling them about with an artist's eye, showing us that literature from the heart still exists.
The Road would be pure misery if not for its stunning, savage beauty... offering nothing in the way of escape or comfort. But its fearless wisdom is more indelible than reassurance could ever be. The Road is a frightening, profound tale that drags us into places we don't want to go, forces us to think about questions we don't want to ask.
But even with its flaws, there's just no getting around it: The Road's impressionistic power, adds to its rhythm, as if the book were not composed of sections but stanzas in a poem, the metaphysical footsteps of his characters, beat by beat in a terrible dream.
Ultimately, my cynicism was overwhelmed by the visceral power of McCarthy's prose and the simple beauty of this hero's love for his son. Anyone who has ever read McCarthy knows that sons and fathers are central to his novels. So much so you could say most of his books are about what it means to be a man - and if, in becoming one, tenderness can survive. The Road unloads the tale of a man and his son stumbling through this post-apocalyptic landscape that might once have been America: "The clocks stopped at 1:17. A long shear of light and then a series of low concussions." Soon after, a woman gives birth to a son before she goes blind from radioactive poisoning and walks off to commit suicide. These events and others are glimpsed in truncated flashbacks, startling images that play on the mind.
McCarthy maintains the pace by keeping each scene barely more than a paragraph long. This accentuates The Road's impressionistic power, adding to its rhythm, as if the book were not composed of sections but stanzas in a poem, the metaphysical footsteps of his characters, beat by beat in a terrible dream.
Every time father or son moves more than a few feet away from the other, a panic intrudes as you read. It is the tense chord of the lost child suspended in your heart, the worst thing about to happen, and McCarthy strums it again and again. Few will read The Road without running to their own children and holding them close. I certainly did in my own mind, and my grands as well.
Most of The Road is the father's story. An end-of-the-world misery causes him to reflect that "each memory recalled must do some violence to its origins". We follow father and son as they head for the coast on foot, pushing a cart, scavenging through empty houses and gutted cities, eluding gangs reduced to cannibalism and sub-human madness. Everywhere is burnt and grey, marked with ash. "The soft black talc blew through the streets like squid ink uncoiling along a sea floor and the cold crept down and the dark came early and the scavengers passing down the steep canyons with their torches trod silky holes in the drifted ash that closed behind them silentlyas eyes."
Neither the man nor the boy is given a name. But their fretful tenderness and constant fear gives animal urgency to their long march. It is soon established what the father must do if they are in danger of being captured. "He watched the boy sleeping. Can you do it? When the time comes? Can you?"
I'm not certain that the conclusion which the author proposed is the same as mine but perhaps the text has a truth of its own in the statement: "He could not construct for the child's pleasure the world he'd lost without constructing the loss and he thought perhaps the child had known this better than he."
One of the saddest, most desolate, most horrifying books I've read in years...It's so good that it will devour you, in parts. It is incandescent. For all its grim imaginings, The Road's divine language carries its two entwined souls above the darkness. McCarthy continues to "carry the fire". (When you read it, you will understand this sentence.)
OUTSTANDING!!... and a "Must Read" for any thinking person.
This is an apocalypse novel as we've never seen one before, a black book of wondrous paragraphs that reads as though Samuel Beckett had dared himself to outdo Harlan Ellison. A haunting, hypnotic and grim novel about civilization's slow death after the power goes out. He uses metaphors the way some writers use punctuation, sprinkling them about with an artist's eye, showing us that literature from the heart still exists.
The Road would be pure misery if not for its stunning, savage beauty... offering nothing in the way of escape or comfort. But its fearless wisdom is more indelible than reassurance could ever be. The Road is a frightening, profound tale that drags us into places we don't want to go, forces us to think about questions we don't want to ask.
But even with its flaws, there's just no getting around it: The Road's impressionistic power, adds to its rhythm, as if the book were not composed of sections but stanzas in a poem, the metaphysical footsteps of his characters, beat by beat in a terrible dream.
Ultimately, my cynicism was overwhelmed by the visceral power of McCarthy's prose and the simple beauty of this hero's love for his son. Anyone who has ever read McCarthy knows that sons and fathers are central to his novels. So much so you could say most of his books are about what it means to be a man - and if, in becoming one, tenderness can survive. The Road unloads the tale of a man and his son stumbling through this post-apocalyptic landscape that might once have been America: "The clocks stopped at 1:17. A long shear of light and then a series of low concussions." Soon after, a woman gives birth to a son before she goes blind from radioactive poisoning and walks off to commit suicide. These events and others are glimpsed in truncated flashbacks, startling images that play on the mind.
McCarthy maintains the pace by keeping each scene barely more than a paragraph long. This accentuates The Road's impressionistic power, adding to its rhythm, as if the book were not composed of sections but stanzas in a poem, the metaphysical footsteps of his characters, beat by beat in a terrible dream.
Every time father or son moves more than a few feet away from the other, a panic intrudes as you read. It is the tense chord of the lost child suspended in your heart, the worst thing about to happen, and McCarthy strums it again and again. Few will read The Road without running to their own children and holding them close. I certainly did in my own mind, and my grands as well.
Most of The Road is the father's story. An end-of-the-world misery causes him to reflect that "each memory recalled must do some violence to its origins". We follow father and son as they head for the coast on foot, pushing a cart, scavenging through empty houses and gutted cities, eluding gangs reduced to cannibalism and sub-human madness. Everywhere is burnt and grey, marked with ash. "The soft black talc blew through the streets like squid ink uncoiling along a sea floor and the cold crept down and the dark came early and the scavengers passing down the steep canyons with their torches trod silky holes in the drifted ash that closed behind them silentlyas eyes."
Neither the man nor the boy is given a name. But their fretful tenderness and constant fear gives animal urgency to their long march. It is soon established what the father must do if they are in danger of being captured. "He watched the boy sleeping. Can you do it? When the time comes? Can you?"
I'm not certain that the conclusion which the author proposed is the same as mine but perhaps the text has a truth of its own in the statement: "He could not construct for the child's pleasure the world he'd lost without constructing the loss and he thought perhaps the child had known this better than he."
One of the saddest, most desolate, most horrifying books I've read in years...It's so good that it will devour you, in parts. It is incandescent. For all its grim imaginings, The Road's divine language carries its two entwined souls above the darkness. McCarthy continues to "carry the fire". (When you read it, you will understand this sentence.)
OUTSTANDING!!... and a "Must Read" for any thinking person.
Reviewed by Nan Sevic
No comments:
Post a Comment