What’s this, literature? Must be Christmas booty. And indeed it is. I remember reading that Harold Bloom freaking loved McCarthy, and this book is ostensibly science fiction, regarding a father and son making their way across a post-apocalyptic wasteland, so it has to be sort of good right? Not really. What this book is is bleak. Really bleak. Occasionally horrific, always beautifully written, but monotonously, droningly bleak. I didn’t go in hoping for Mad Max or something, or even a plot. I just wanted a little more than constant, unending suffering. Maybe some hint at a thought, a message, beyond, “You can suffer more than you think . . . and canned peaches are actually kinda good.” Anyway, probably well above my head. Last McCarthy for me, thanks.
Agh, been bad again. Another dry spell. I have had things to write about in the past month, but now they’re gone. Instead, I present you with a map my brother and I presented to my sister to guide her through her future haunts.