Friday, October 19, 2018
I tried reading The Road. I really did. It's wonderful and awful in its grim depiction of a father and son journeying across a scorched post-apocalypse America toward the sea. Technology, gone. Government, gone. Civilization, gone. And the intricacy of nature, all gone, too.
Cormac McCarthy makes every word count, somehow drawing the destroyed landscape and his characters in clear detail with just a few spare lines. I trusted him not to sensationalize his story, which is affecting enough without it.
And almost immediately, it began haunting me. I thought about it all the time. I kept getting image flashes (a few good, many more horrific, all masterfully created) at odd times throughout the day. I couldn't stop thinking about it at night while waiting to fall asleep -- not in a good way -- and it was the first thing I thought about when waking up.
I cannot imagine how McCarthy faced these pages every day while he was writing it.
So I'm not going to finish it.
I'll have to abandon my quest to read all the Pulitzers, and I'll have to select yet another book to substitute into the "black" category of the Color Coded Reading Challenge.
It's still the right decision for me.