There are other reasons. One is that this novel’s narrative journey
of brutality doesn’t have a conventional storyline where character and plot
development become enticing. The other, and obviously related, is that this
very brutality cannot be enticing either – unless you are a psychopath – but
that isn’t to say such grotesquery alienates. And it isn’t that one becomes
dulled to the violence. Rather McCarthy is so relentless in conveying the
horror, but also does so with such beautiful language and/or language that is
compelling in its vividness, that the horrors are not so horrible [but they
are: the paradox that is also compelling so that you do keep coming back whatever the gaps in between] and so we return to the fact there
isn’t the conventional narrative sequencing that makes one want and need to
read for the next development. We know what the next development will be, and
it will be as appalling as the one before and after and there is no variation
in the sustained zenith of this.
There is no judgement in the description either. And because
there is no authorial view there is no conventional sense that there will be
retribution for those committing such evil, or redemption for the same. This
should be utterly nihilistic then, and I guess it is, but it is also just how
it is. And that is why one can take so long to read – whatever the reasons –
because nothing changes although there is always the dreadfulness.
I didn’t think it would be possible to trump, so to speak,
the violence described in the Apache raid [exemplified in a previous post
here, though the extract quoted is more about style than content], but Chapter 13’s account of the spontaneous, indiscriminate, kneejerk,
calculating and inexorable slaughter of the Mexican villages passed through is
a kind of writing, both in content and style, that is entirely new to me. I
read fascinated but I don’t read on because I want to find out how things
progress/develop. I know what will come. I read on because of the language McCarthy
uses to describe such butchery and mayhem that in its descriptive beauty and
evocation manages to counterbalance the depravity of what it is describing with
the elevation of poetry. I know Shakespeare mastered this so it is hardly
original in that literary historical sense, but McCarthy’s prose presents a modern
equivalent, distinctly American, if you’ll excuse the platitude:
An old woman knelt at
the blackened stones before her door and poked brush into the coals and blew
back a flame from the ashes and began to right the overturned pots. All about
her the dead lay with their peeled skulls like polyps bluely wet or luminescent
melons cooling on some mesa of the moon. In the days to come the frail black
rebuses of blood in those sands would crack and break and drift away so that in
the circuit of few suns all trace of the destruction of these people would be
erased. The desert wind would salt their ruins and there would be nothing, nor
ghost nor scribe, to tell to any pilgrim in his passing how it was that people
had lived in this place and in this place died.
A rare talent, indeed. So vile and yet so utterly compelling at the same time. I particularly like its 'American-ness'.
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