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A Dark, Lyrical Meditation on Love's Dedication *****
"The nights were blinding cold and casket black and the long reach of
the morning had a terrible silence to it."
"...Creedless shells of men tottering down the causeways like migrants in
a feverland."
I neither buy nor read collections of poetry. I can count the poems I
know, at least the non-limerick ones, on a single hand. I'm not a fan of
poetry, and I truly see much of it as overblown, a good thing taken to a
ridiculously inflated extreme. This book isn't poetry, but it's also not
pure narrative. It's somewhere in the gray between, and I enjoyed every
single page of it.
McCarthy had me on the 14th line when I read "granitic beast." No, I
didn't have to be told this was a reference to stone. Its use here, early
in the work, deliberate, familiar yet uncommon, communicated to me exactly
what this book would be about, and more importantly how it would be told,
and I couldn't wait to ingest it. The contemplated and intentional use of
this word in this place told me of texture and color and temperature, and
its context told me of fear, uncertainty, cruelty, and the close specter
of menace. I was hooked before the first page was done.
I enjoyed this book's writing style immensely, its story simple and told
in a manner that came to me clearly, instantly creating depth with a
minimum of prose. Words like "envaccuuming," and phrases like "isocline of
death" were absolutely brilliant--I bite my hand melodramatically wishing
I'd written them. This highly evocative austerity was mirrored in the
father's and the son's conversations, in which so little was said, but in
which I was seeing absolutely clearly the cant of a head, a look in the
eyes, the faintest curl of smile. I was reminded very happily of the
magnificent work of James Dickey, especially To the White Sea.
And the wonderfully lyrical story unfolded. No, I didn't need quotation
marks or crucial apostrophes. There was never any question what was
happening, who was saying what or where the story was headed. Honestly, do
they care about proper punctuation in the wasteland? I didn't miss a
thing, and the modestly different narrative presentation didn't faze me in
the least. In fact, it reminded me instantly of e e cummings. Ah,
reluctantly back to poetry. Later on when the pair made it to the sea, and
the prose touched on "...shuttling..," instantly T. S. Eliot's classic
came to mind.
I very much enjoyed the father, an object lesson in survival and just what
that takes. He not only was educated, but also remembered it and knew how
and when to apply it. He was inventive, attentive and observant, and
deliberately learned from every experience. He anticipated, adapted and
showed the courage to take immediate action, having thought through
consequences beforehand. He was no MacGyver, but from the opening minutes
of the crisis he knew what was at hand; his survival, and his son's, were
due to his seriousness and intelligence and his application of them.
This book is not about the end of the world. It's not about nuclear
winter, man's inevitable murder of the planet, the inherent barbarity of
man, none of that. This book is about the only thing that matters, a
parent's love for a child, and what at the absolutely basic level of
survival you can and cannot do for those whom you treasure most, what you
will go through and what you must decide upon for them to have all they
need and deserve. This book is about the rapture and the agony of
parenthood. It took me two nights to read this book, and both nights after
midnight when I reluctantly put it down, I went upstairs to re-tuck-in my
daughter and my son, and to kiss them in their sleep, through the silent
tears of adoration this book brought forth.
This unpleasantly dark, ominous book reminded me of a few crucial things:
My daughter and my son are the most incredible and important things I have
ever done or will ever do. Their well-being is never assured, and I can
never, ever stop looking out for them and teaching them what I know of
their world. One day I will move on, and they must be ready when that
happens.
Bottom line: This is not a cheery, happy, frothy and light read. It is
cold and hard and painful. But there is joy in it. Be ecstatic it is only
a story, that tonight you sleep in a bed in a house, with food, water, and
your dog on the hearth. Be aware of and happy that you are reading this
expertly rendered, a magnificently crafted work of highly evocative prose,
and look forward to the next one, whatever the subject.
Sir Charles Panther
"Life is hard. It's harder when you're stupid"
(from amazon.com) |
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A Layered Grey Snow Story *****
The story is set in a post-catastrophe world. It is a story of a nameless man &
his young boy traveling through a dark chaotic society. There is a bit of the TV
series "Dark Angel" without any angels & the feel of "A Farewell To Arms" that
permeates the scenes. Here nothing grows, people turn to cannibalism, & the boys
mom kills herself. The man & his son are each others whole world; every day is a
brutal trial for survival. This is a desolate "Lord Of The Flies" world, where
the strong enslave the meek.
In their southern journey to the coast {we are not told why}, there are times
when the bitter father refuses to help others in need while his son is a
selfless, giving soul. The father becomes consumed with the devastation around
him while his son holds onto whatever humanity he can. "This is the heart of the
story."
Down deep in his soul the man knows there is little hope for the future, he
lives solely to keep his son alive. The formers parental angst is well crafted
by the authors detailed prose. However, between the eternal bleakness of the
story & lack of dialogue I can't give it more than 3 stars. I do recommend it as
a fairly fast read despite the picture it paints of hopelessness.
Steve Guardala
(from amazon.com)
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