I am posting rather late because I spent a good portion of tonight finishing up The Road by Cormac McCarthy. I tend to think that I won’t like most Oprah Book Club books (please note that this idea of mine is based solely on NO sound reason or logic). And I might not have got around to reading it anytime soon except that I like to read. And if I pick up a book to flip through it I may very well end up hunched awkwardly on the floor in a weird position as I keep reading. Plus there is all this talk about it being a good book, or something. Like critics know what they’re talking about. Pshaw.
What I am leading up to is probably obvious to most well-read types, but the reason I read close to 200 pages tonight is because it was fantastic. A really tragic, overwhelmingly desperate, dismal sort of fantastic. And despite all the grey ash and post-apocalyptic tragedy (or because of it?) it was also warm and heartening deep down underneath the horror of it all. Don’t be misled, this is a harrowing, gloomy read, but it is written in starkness and absolute poetry. And for those of you who claim not to be interested in Sci-Fi, this story is not as much about the future as it is about deep, abiding love and what one will do for those they are devoted to.
The boy is my favorite.