Thursday, February 28, 2008

lost patterans (a.k.a. fixation with cormac)

Thursday, February 28, 2008
How can I not be "fixated" with someone who can write like this?

“They began to come upon from time to time small cairns of rock by the roadside. They were signs in gypsy language, lost patterans. The first he’d seen in some while, common in the north, leading out of the looted and exhausted cities, hopeless messages to loved ones lost and dead. By then all stores of food had given out and murder was everywhere upon the land. The world soon to be largely populated by men who would eat your children in front of your eyes and the cities themselves held by cores of blackened looters who tunneled among the ruins and crawled from the rubble white of tooth and eye carrying charred and anonymous tins of food in nylon nets like shoppers in the commissaries of hell. The soft black talc blew through the streets like squid ink uncoiling along a sea floor and the cold crept down and the dark came early and the scavengers passing down the steep canyons with their torches trod silky holes in the drifted ash that closed behind them silently as eyes. Out on the roads the pilgrims sank down and fell over and died and the bleak and shrouded earth went trundling past the sun and returned again as trackless and as unremarked as the path of any nameless sisterworld in the ancient dark beyond.”

- Cormac McCarthy, The Road

5 comments:

Anonymous said...

How shallow, unintelligent and uneducated I must be! This writing is like an abstract painting considered brilliant by some while the most of us thinks it looks an art work of a pre-school kid. :)

Angeli said...

hah!! :)

it's the artwork of a 75-year old man. :)

Anonymous said...

And may I add this 75 year old artwork is bleak and depressing.

It should come with this warning "You might experience depression after reading this, have some prozac ready." :)

Angeli said...

"..poetic brimstone.."

"..pure misery if not for its stunning, savage beauty.."

Anonymous said...

Absolutely stunning--an intimate, vitiated recontextualization of Eliot's Wasteland; the dark words and deep heart of the narrative strung together like black pearls. The Road is gorgeous and sad and inscrutable.

 
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