Weight of darkness teased by scents of light. What was the purpose? To get there. Oh. So there is a reason for the journey? Sure. Okay. I just wondered. Oh. Literary feet wrapped in metaphor. Coughing over the tyranny of the road. Footprints in ashes vanishing with each step. Wondering. Breathing Papa’s protection underneath the evil smelling blanket. Are we going to die? Not today. Maybe soon? Maybe. Okay.
I loved the discussion. I loved the style of the writing. I hated the story. With a structure unlike any I’ve ever experienced, Cormac McCarthy masterfully sequences a compelling tenderness within a wicked journey by a father and his son in an apocalyptic tomorrow. No names, short sentences and plotless, It was grayscale punctuated by explosions of literary grandeur, each one a new siren leaping at you and almost instantly evaporating leaving you breathless, and seducing you into the hunt for the next. Rick, is it one you’d recommend? Of course. Okay.