In concerns more geared toward present-day political and military issues, whatever allusions to specific global-power saber-rattling and its potential consequences may be read into the novel — and perhaps justified to an extent — there is indeed a limit to such forced speculation. McCarthy’s at-times cryptically under-wraps economy in word and meaning belies any clear-cut conjecture here, though it may be presumed that he is addressing such topics obliquely, with universality and timelessness in mind.
That's not the case when it comes to characterizations, especially when each emanation of analysis, appreciation and gut-instinct authority lies in conveyances directly derived from the actions and reactions of the father and son, whose personalities are indelibly marked by contrasting natures.
The father’s emptiness and ever-guarded suspicions extend even to his dreams, whether unsettling or comforting - because “the right dreams for a man in peril were dreams of peril and all else was the call of languor and of death.” The child, probably no more than ten years old, is too ready to trust and empathize with others in such times, in such “Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.”
Both fundamentally fragile and vulnerable in such dire circumstances, they may be able to survive, “Slumping along, Filthy, ragged hopeless,” but only one will endure the “sweeping waste, hydroptic and coldly secular.” That such a grim and undaunted a rumination on ruination and depravity may possibly allow a glimmer of redeeming affirmation and love speaks to McCarthy’s masterful command and precision in this profoundly moving story.
And that someone, anyone, in such formidable conditions could “raise his weeping eyes and see him standing there in the road looking back at him from some unimaginable future, glowing in that waste like a tabernacle,” speaks volumes about McCarthy's capacity for humanity, heart, and ultimate hope.
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.
6 - The man who once was
I liked the eggs.
7 - sheena
i hate even talkin bout this stuff so i hated the book