But some, bloodied and often bowed, have chosen to subside, if not thrive, in the ill-boding badlands that stretch on seemingly ceaselessly. With his keenly-focused study of resolve in the face of such desolation, McCarthy follows the travels and travails of a father and young son, "each the other's world entire." The pair — determined to survive after the suicide of the family's wife and mother — slowly plod on, scavenging with cart in tow and revolver in hand, heading south to the sea to escape in aimless flight the increasingly cold climes and bleak setting of an ashen-skied wasteland.
Destroyed cities and burned-out countryside are devoid of all wildlife and virtually uninhabited, and many of the befallen few who’ve lived to tell a harrowing tale become, if not “creedless shells of men tottering down the causeways like migrants in a fever land,” then too-willingly amenable to a cannibalistic desperado existence as Mad-Max-style marauders and looters.
Beyond the comforting charade that the pessimism-driven but perceptive and understanding father displays for his son — that they are the "good guys" who “carry the fire" as they run from menacing raiders -- there are, even within the truly horrifying events witnessed and among the wretched souls, madmen and prophets they cross paths with, no specific villains to name. And little of value to point to amid many shades of gray merging with the dust and smoke.
And besides an allusion to a corollary devastation constituted in a "long shear of light and then a series of low concussions," the exact cause of the end-times holocaust is never explained. Then again, no too-little-to-late consideration of fire or ice, bang or whimper really needs to be reflected upon when confronted with the ineffability of "the frailty of everything revealed at last,“ and “old and troubling issues resolved into nothingness and night.“
But The Road is not a book you will be plucking from the SciFi/Fantasy shelves in your bookstore. There are no plot-driven devices at play here, and though it is not the chronicle’s destination that matters - neither is it the journey, perilous as it is, fraught with injury and illness, and rarely, relatively, rewarding.
Furthermore, the overriding genre-busting literary recompense of The Road is also not just comprised in the stylistic matter of McCarthy’s multi-layered, commanding and majestically-evoking poetics, broken here and there with spare, circular and at times droll Samuel Beckett-like dialogue. Neither is this the case of McCarthy merely building upon and extending — though there is that facet — the edge-of-the-frontier themes undertaken in his previous Western or Southern works.
Article comments
1 - Natalie Bennett
This article has been selected for syndication to Advance.net, which is affiliated with newspapers around the United States. Nice work!
2 - Gordon Hauptfleisch
Thank you, Natalie--much appreciated.
3 - Mounty5199
I came to Cormac McCarthy when I first heard about the movie version of "All The Pretty Horses" so I am late to the party. Oh, but what a party it is. This man is today's William Shakespeare, or perhaps he is the God of American modern literature. I read his verse and I am chilled to the bone at his description of people, places, concepts, things... I have been, and remain a great fan of Pat Conroy, an author about whom I have always raved, and yet, Mr. McCarthy is now my hero. I love the ebb and flow of his warmth, and I shudder at his mercilous descriptions of man's inhumanity to man. I read his description of what a man is thinking, and then what another is thinking, and I am amazed at his ability to understand what is in the mind of each, so different, and yet so complete in McCarthy's lyrical explanation which teaches, but never preaches. I love your writing and your brilliance, Cormac McCarthy, and i love what you give me in your books. Thank you.
I have spoken to all my friends about you, and beg them to read and to see what I am trying to explain about your magical and mysterious ability to bring the depth of atmosphere and man together in such beautiful prose. I refuse to loan my books except to my son. I want them here with me, and I know he will appreciate you, and he will return my precious books, so that I can read them again. Scott Mount
4 - Christine Chandler
In the classic fairy tale, The King's New Clothes, a vain monarch is tricked by a wily seamstress into riding naked through the streets of his kingdom. She convinces him that she has sewn the costume he is to wear from magic thread only visible to those who are exceptionally wise and good. Unwilling to admit his perceived inadequacy, the King mounts his steed au naturale in order to display his wisdom and grace. Throngs of onlookers, curious to to view such a speckle begin to laugh and call out what is the truth for them, "I think the King is wearing no clothes!" I long since passed through my DaDa-esque period in the 60s. I found no sustenance in this nihilistic tome. Albert Camus said it well enough in 1942. I remained frustrated throughout, and to quote this reviewer out of context, I found the pages "...rarely, relatively, rewarding." After finishing, The Road, by Cormac McCarthy, I felt an odd sense of accomplishment similar to viewing all 3 (6) hours of Warhol's 1966 double screen faux-extravaganza, Chelsea Girls. For me, the characters pooled like stagnant gray runoff. With each turn of a page I longed for some movement, only to feel the frustration of Sisyphus. I am happy for all those who found a treasure in this book. Personally, I felt cheated.
5 - boarderlass
I wept.