Sometimes the best art is the kind that breaks the forms.
The Road, by Cormac McCarthy, impinges heavily in its every line, each plodding, desolate paragraph reinforcing the shuddering silence of a world lost. A world that has moved on, leaving a wearily desperate few behind.
It does take a few pages to get used to the writing style, a style that emphasizes the numb, foggy world in its lack of quotes and apostrophes, in its lack of exposition and even in the at once jarring and perfectly natural absence of names for the two primary characters.
I can't really say anything more without spoiling anything. I haven't even really decided if it was worth the journey. A lot of people seem to think it was. Personally, I'd rather the sun break through the clouds a little more often.
Although I suppose it says something that of the four books I've read over the past week, this was the only one I was moved to write about.
I decided I liked it. Yeah it was bleak, but not everything can be sunshiney.
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