Since reading is personal and visceral and very subjective, I cannot say what drew me to Cormac McCarthy’s novels year after year. I liked his plots, his mix of minimalism and lyrical passages, the closeness of the land in his work, his ear for authentic dialogue, and a writing approach that dragged readers kicking and screaming into some of the most beautiful and the most violent tales they ever experienced.
As quoted in Wikipedia, In 2003, literary critic Harold Bloom named McCarthy as one of the four major living American novelists, alongside Don DeLillo, Thomas Pynchon, and Philip Roth. His 1994 book The Western Canon had listed Child of God, Suttree, and Blood Meridian among the works of contemporary literature he predicted would endure and become ‘‘canonical’“. Bloom reserved his highest praise for Blood Meridian, which he called ‘the greatest single book since Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying’“, and though he held less esteem for McCarthy’s other novels he said that ‘to have written even one book so authentically strong and allusive, and capable of the perpetual reverberation that Blood Meridian possesses more than justifies him. … He has attained genius with that book.'”
Oddly enough, his Pulitzer Prize Winning novel The Road is probably my least favorite, though I like journey stories in general. In many ways, I think it got the Pulitzer for the same reason actors sometimes win Academy Awards: the powers that be realize the recipient should have gotten the award for an early book/movie and hand out the honor as a last-ditch chance to even things up. I would have picked Blood Meridian over The Road, but I wasn’t consulted. <g>
There are quite a few McCarthy retrospectives and homages online today. It’s nice to see them because there are times when I think he’s “underread” by people who prefer lesser stuff and don’t think of him when new titles are announced.
I liked the subhead in the story in The Atlantic: “The worlds depicted in his novels are not built for mortal humans like you and me.” CNN said, “Despite accolades, McCarthy remained relatively obscure for much of his career; as recently as 1992, 27 years after his first book was published, the New York Times Book Review said he “may be the best unknown novelist in America.”
Typical of his work are these quotes:
“You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from.”
“War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner.”
“Your heart’s desire is to be told some mystery. The mystery is that there is no mystery.”
“A man’s at odds to know his mind cause his mind is aught he has to know it with. He can know his heart, but he dont want to. Rightly so. Best not to look in there. It aint the heart of a creature that is bound in the way that God has set for it. You can find meanness in the least of creatures, but when God made man the devil was at his elbow. A creature that can do anything. Make a machine. And a machine to make the machine. And evil that can run itself a thousand years, no need to tend it.”
“That night he dreamt of horses in a field on a high plain where the spring rains had brought up the grass and the wildflowers out of the ground and the flowers ran all blue and yellow far as the eye could see and in the dream he was among the horses running and in the dream he himself could run with the horses and they coursed the young mares and fillies over the plain where their rich bay and their rich chestnut colors shone in the sun and the young colts ran with their dams and trampled down the flowers in a haze of pollen that hung in the sun like powdered gold and they ran he and the horses out along the high mesas where the ground resounded under their running hooves and they flowed and changed and ran and their manes and tails blew off of them like spume and there was nothing else at all in that high world and they moved all of them in a resonance that was like a music among them and they were none of them afraid neither horse nor colt nor mare and they ran in that resonance which is the world itself and which cannot be spoken but only praised.”
McCarthy always gave us a story and left us with divine PTSD.
–Malcolm
I’d do what I always do. Read books, spend time with my wife, and probably write a blog post about the number of people running around like chickens with their heads cut off. What would it serve, though, to do anything else than the things that have made one happy up to that point?
caught between the pages of an apocalyptic novel like George R. Stewart’s Earth Abides or, worse yet, Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.
The cat in my novel “Conjure Woman’s Cat” sees reality in the way I’ve described it here. That’s why I have cats.
Malcolm's Round Table 