Chopped and disjointed. Stylized punctuation questionable. As dry as ash falling from the sky. Gray and forbidding, Cormac McCarthy’s The Road is a cold and never-ending black and white movie of a novel.
The author has perhaps never met any children. He would know that the boy could only be fictional. Why didnt the man and the boy head south sooner? Walk and sleep and eat and worry.
The copy I got from the library had a dead mosquito pressed into the title page. Withered and dry like a mummified body hanging from the rafters. Like the book. So far.
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P.S. I will admit that it’s getting better as I go along, and that I may have more problems with the style than the story itself. More tomorrow. In my normal voice. 🙂
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