Hey /lit/ what's your opinion on Cormac McCarthy? I just started The Road and it seems like what might happen if some good literature fucked an airport novel.
The language in The Road is subpar compared to most of his other novels. If you enjoy it, I'd recommend moving on to Suttree when you've finished, it's arguably his best novel aside from Blood Meridian, and probably the best way to start with serious McCarthy.
He's good but you'll never convince me he doesn't write a simple novel then go back and go over word by word with a thesaurus. I like reading them but I wouldn't call them difficult other than having to look up words every now and then.
i fail to understand how he's so great he's exempt from basic grammatical rules.
just use the fucking quotation marks, you pretentious cunt.
I've heard declamatory voices on here shout both how amazing and how shit his prose is, so either there's a huge variation in the quality of his writings or he's so stylistically unique that people can't make comparisons and either love or hate him (comparable to someone like say, gertrude stein or ben lerner)
Including quotation marks gives their omission meaning. Refusing them is only good insofar as it is novel. Defending their complete removal from the grammatical structure of the english language is myopic and pretentious.
>He just said that he thinks most punctuation is superfluous and ugly.
so? just because he doesn't like it doesn't make him a special little snowflake. it's pretension for the sake of pretension, and i have no respect for him for it.
>valuing "muh proper English" over readability and aesthetics
That night they rode through a region electric and wild where strange shapes of soft blue fire ran over the metal of the horses' trappings and the wagonwheels rolled in hoops of fire and little shapes of pale blue light came to perch in the ears of the horses and in the beards of the men. All night sheetlightning quaked sourceless to the west beyond the midnight thunder-heads, making a bluish day of the distant desert, the mountains on the sudden skyline stark and black and livid like a land of some other order out there whose true geology was not stone but fear. The thunder moved up from the southwest and lightning lit the desert all about them, blue and barren, great clanging reaches ordered out of the absolute night like some demon kingdom summoned up or changeling land that come the day would leave them neither trace nor smoke nor ruin more than any troubling dream.
If I had a go to prose spankbank BM would be it.
>so? just because he doesn't like it doesn't make him a special little snowflake. it's pretension for the sake of pretension, and i have no respect for him for it.
imo it works brilliantly in the whole mythological vibe of blood meridian. like, the whole book is written as if it's just stating self-evident facts about the world, and the dialogue's style feels like a similar systematic atmospheric description.
But also Pinecone though.
I am the twentieth century. I am the ragtime and the tango; sans-serif, clean geometry. I am the virgin's-hair whip and the cunningly detailed shackles of decadent passion. I am every lonely railway station in every capital of Europe. I am the Street, the fanciless buildings of government. the cafe-dansant, the clockwork figure, the jazz saxophone, the tourist-lady's hairpiece, the fairy's rubber breasts, the travelling clock which always tells the wrong time and chimes in different keys. I am the dead palm tree, the Negro's dancing pumps, the dried fountain after tourist season. I am all the appurtenances of night.
cool interpretation anon. i see how that could be very evocative of that. thanks for giving me a legitimate answer and not just
his fans are really lame
any [people who get mad at others for not liking him as the bestestestest writer in the whole world tells you more about the type of readers his work attracts and what that says about his quality
tl;dr: plebs galore
i always thought, in blood meridian especially, that the writing style (devoid of most grammar rules and quotations) lend the prose, and the look of a page itself, a very archaic aesthetic. Almost like a legend, from a time before language was sophisticated enough for grammar, carved into stone tablets and transferred into a book. It also evokes the King James bible (in its lack of quotation marks) which i think certainly fit, McCarthy and Blood Meridian.
"A legion of horribles, hundreds in number, half naked or clad in costumes attic or biblical or wardrobed out of a fevered dream with the skins of animals and silk finery and pieces of uniform still tracked with the blood of prior owners, coats of slain dragoons, frogged and braided cavalry jackets, one in a stovepipe hat and one with an umbrella and one in white stockings and a bloodstained wedding veil and some in headgear or cranefeathers or rawhide helmets that bore the horns of bull or buffalo and one in a pigeontailed coat worn backwards and otherwise naked and one in the armor of a Spanish conquistador, the breastplate and pauldrons deeply dented with old blows of mace or sabre done in another country by men whose very bones were dust and many with their braids spliced up with the hair of other beasts until they trailed upon the ground and their horses' ears and tails worked with bits of brightly colored cloth and one whose horse's whole head was painted crimson red and all the horsemen's faces gaudy and grotesque with daubings like a company of mounted clowns, death hilarious, all howling in a barbarous tongue and riding down upon them like a horde from a hell more horrible yet than the brimstone land of Christian reckoning, screeching and yammering and clothed in smoke like those vaporous beings in regions beyond right knowing where the eye wanders and the lip jerks and drools."
The man is a painter.
My personal favourite:
"It was a lone tree burning on the desert. A herladic tree that the passing storm had left afire. The solitary pilgrim drawn up before it had traveled far to be here and he knelt in the hot sand and held his numbed hands out while all about in that circle attended companies of lesser auxiliaries routed forth into the inordinate day, small owls that crouched silently and stood from foot to foot and tarantulas and solpugas and vinegarroons and the vicious mygale spiders and beaded lizards with mouths black as a chowdog’s, deadly to man, and the little desert basilisks that jet blood from their eyes and the small sandvipers like seemly gods, silent and the same, in Jedda, in Babylon. A constellation of ignited eyes that edged the ring of light all bound in a precarious truce before the torch whose brightness had set back the stars in their sockets."