The Road
I continue to be haunted by Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road,” a book I read last year over the Christmas holiday. It’s a sign of a truly great work that its images still trouble me months after I read it. But just because the book is genius does not mean that I enjoyed it, or even liked it. Honestly, I wish I never read it at all.
Set in a nightmarish post-apocalyptic America, “The Road” follows a father and his young son as they struggle to survive in a canabilistic wasteland, where the majority of survivors, as few as they are, prey on travelers, enslave the weak, and raise human beings as livestock. Most of the book follows their relatively mundane struggle for survivor — scavanging for food in the ruins, wandering through ash-stained snow — but is punctuated by moments of terror as they encounter other survivors.
Cormac McCarthy is renowned for his cynical views on mankind, and “The Road” is perhaps the apotheosis of his world view, offering only glimmers of kindness amidst unspeakable savagery.
I know I’ve written about it before, but it’s interesting how much this book has lingered in my subconscious. It flickers up into my dreams, into my thoughts, even in my day-to-day interactions with strangers. Good art is supposed to leave an impact, but I can’t help feeling violated by “The Road.” There are images in the book I’d rather not remember, yet I see the scenes clearly in my memory as if I’d lived them myself.
I’m struggling to get through Charles Stross’ “Accelerando,” a brilliant book to be sure, but not a work of art on the level of “The Road.” It’s hard to go back to literature for entertainment after being gutted by literature as art. Even if that book, like the fabled Necronomicon of H.P. Lovecraft, should never be read by mortals.
Book Reviews | jeff | 22 February 2007 |
