I have put off writing about this book for months. Mostly because it was one of those reads that so profoundly affected me it left me speechless. Cormac McCarthy is not a writer; he is a man who makes love to words. Yes, I said it. And I feel, lacking this natural ability to seduce letters and make them bow to me, fall at my feet, beg me to shape them into something great and beautiful and monumental and MORE than they are on their own, my words just can't measure up.The best I can offer you is this excerpt I found on BookBrowse. I think then you will see what I'm talking about and understand why I wouldn't see this movie if you paid me whatever sum of money seems large to you:
"He woke before dawn and watched the gray day break. Slow and half opaque. He rose while the boy slept and pulled on his shoes and wrapped in his blanket he walked out through the trees. He descended into a gryke in the stone and there he crouched coughing and he coughed for a long time. Then he just knelt in the ashes. He raised his face to the paling day. Are you there? he whispered. Will I see you at the last? Have you a neck by which to throttle you? Have you a heart? Damn you eternally have you a soul? Oh God, he whispered. Oh God."
2 comments:
I can't comment on the book, having not read it, but you don't give yourself enough credit.
You have an amazing way of working with words. I am always left speechless with the things you write, even about mundane things like fighting with the copier at school. You have such an innate sense of humor that comes through in your writing... give yourself a little credit!!
-Shaunna H.
Thanks! That is really nice. :)
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