The Road, Reading Blog #10 - A Lucky Little Gamble

"You always have this hope that, today, I'm going to do something better than I've ever done." - Cormac McCarthy

Cormac McCarthy kind of annoys me, but I don't want to talk about that. No, I want to talk about McCarthy, and how his personality, or the bits I've seen, relates to his books, or the one I've read, anyway. He seems like a reasonably happy, trusting person, who believes the world will help him and he'll do well. He says this outright, later in the interview, commenting that he "always believed that everything would work out, one way or another" and that, by and large, they did. Now some of this can be attributed to his talent, some to his social class, some to luck -- and, interestingly, some of it can be seen in his novel. The father in the story (whom McCarthy sees as similar to himself) shares some of this trust, some of this entitlement. Of course, he doesn't think the world he lives in is safe, anymore, not by any stretch of the imagination. But he certainly has a remarkable ability to find safe places, and to leave them, with the expectation of finding more later. One could argue that his departures are more suicidal than trusting, but I don't think so, as he cares too deeply for his son to ever let him die. The only explanation for his repeated journeys -- against his son's wishes, I might add, as he doesn't seem to share his father's entitlement -- is that he, like McCarthy, believes that his beleaguered world will always provide.
McCarthy believes in this almost supernatural luck not just for himself, but for everyone in the world. Indeed, he goes so far as to speculate that some people -- market analysts, for example -- do their jobs not on the basis of algorithms or extrapolation but on the basis of luck. Now, I think that market analysts are very talented, and that his stories of luck are more confirmation bias than anything else, and that his fiscal insouciance could easily have killed him -- but I said I didn't want to talk about how he annoyed me, and I won't. In the context of The Road, this naive belief in luck and fate is remarkably well placed, especially as there are no organized religions to provide an alternative. In the characters' lifestyle, there is little else to base decisions on, as they have so little knowledge of their surroundings and their possible future. They have no market analysts to analyze the costs and benefits of possible decisions -- they simply go with their instinct. McCarthy, living as he did, with few resources or responsibilities, has ample experience with this lifestyle. He remarks that he tries to appreciate everything, as "life is pretty damn good, even when it looks bad" just as the characters appreciate everything, even just a few sweet pears and some clear water; he's been lucky, he thinks, and wants his characters to see themselves as lucky, too. "You should be thankful for what you have." Are you lucky, reader?

The Road, Reading Blog #9 - Semilethal Semicolons

"If you write properly, you shouldn't have to punctuate." - Cormac McCarthy

 Okay, so setting aside my annoyance at his lack of apostrophes, McCarthy certainly seems to get away with minimal punctuation. No brackets, no parentheses, no slashes, no dashes. Certainly no symbols, asterisks, quotation marks or semicolons. And as Oprah, ever the astute interviewer, points out, only one small colon. However, this does not legitimize him as a proper writer. Far from it.
Writing, to put it simply, is using your tools well. The English language has so many tools, often neglected (ever heard of the interabang? Didn't think so...) for the sake of tone, or register, or simplicity, or some infuriating need to imitate James Joyce. Just as an extensive vocabulary can make writing more concise and forceful, knowledge of punctuation, and the wherewithal to use it, can express different ideas and more complex interactions.
McCarthy still deigns to use the question mark, and the comma, because people speak in questions and pauses, and think that way, too -- they are simply unavoidable. But truthfully, communication is more than that. Human interaction is complex and novels need to convey it accurately.  People can use semicolons and parentheses without ever touching a pen, and simply trust that their subtle inflections will be understood. The characters in The Road are denied any opportunity to do this, which I see as a failure of McCarthy as a writer. Even when one is only trying to convey an idea in an essay or an article, varied punctuation is an asset, provided it's used correctly; punctuation can give essays depth and clarity. There's no need to denounce the semicolon! Punctuation, I say, is crucial to proper writing.

The Road, Reading Blog #8 - Illegal Aliens

 Foreign relations. What does that phrase bring to mind? Immigration policy is important to any country, and often hotly contested. Wars are often fought over borders with other countries, or simply ideals. Much of human conflict, in fact, is based on seemingly fundamental differences between those involved. The idea of people, of cultures, being alien is a very simple one, and very easy to believe in. Certainly, as someone who's lived in a few different continents, I personally am familiar with the feeling of being an alien, or interacting with them.
But in The Road, characters never encounter people from other countries -- on the contrary, it is the father who feels like an alien with his own son, "a being from a planet that no longer existed." (153) This seems to be a frightening thought, especially to someone who awakes because he's "been visited in a dream by creatures of a kind he'd never seen before" and remembers the feeling of this long after the dream itself is forgotten. His fear of the unknown is not unreasonable, and it is a very straightforward fear, one he can live with. The true fear he finds in his dream is his inability to comfort his son, to give him happiness and raise him the way he was raised. He ruminates that the tales of his life are suspect, and decides that he "could not construct for the child's pleasure the world he'd lost without constructing the loss as well" (154) and as such, he should not even try. To add insult to injury, he thinks that "perhaps the child had known this better than he", known that "he could not enkindle
in the heart of the child what was ashes in his own" (154). Some part of him is ashes, in dead and desecrated, burned up with this realization. "Some part of him always wished it to be over." (154) For some part of him, it is over.
His only use for his past is to tell his son about it, and he cannot. His only use for stories is to share them, and he cannot. With this realization, his stories are ashes. If he cannot tell his stories, he may as well be an alien, who for all intents and purposes cannot relate to those he encounters. It is more than a mere language barrier, or a separate past -- it is a separate present, as the present is colored by the past. And since he cannot relate his stories to his son, he cannot share his present. Their foreign relations are nonexistent, doomed from the outset.

The Road, Reading Blog #7 - Homecoming

If there is one phrase I can guarantee you'll never see in this book, it's "welcome home!" You might ask how I can be so sure, but if you've read the book, you probably won't, because one of the most obvious characteristics of the small family in the story is their complete homelessness. They have no safe place for more than a few days, no guarantees, nothing indispensable, and certainly nothing permanent. They have no illusions about this, either, as the man constantly reminds the boy that they must go on, and cannot stay in places. Lest you think they are consumed with wanderlust, let me clarify -- this is a requirement for survival in their world. The oldest man they meet states this unequivocally, telling the man, "I was always on the road. You can't stay in one place... I just keep going." (168) Travel, no longer a pleasant precursor to vacation, has become a way of life for everyone, whether they like it or not. The only constant in their lives in the changes they know time will bring.

These characters use travel to find more resources, and more supplies, but that is not their primary motivation. They could easily make a home somewhere if they wished; they have found stationary sources of food and water, and places to live. However, the man has always declared these places "dangerous" (148) even though their alternative is the harrowing life on the road, and they have always moved on. Their commitment to travel is so strong, in fact, that it cannot be motivated by reason -- no, I suspect it is much more than that. Settling down and declaring a home, even only for a year or two, means accepting their situation as it is. Home means no travel, no quest for a better life, no hope for whatever they desire that they do not possess. So they search for comfort, not in a home, but somewhere in the future, somewhere far down the road.

The Road, Reading Blog #6 - The Pursuit of Happiness

There are very few things in this world that could ever be considered perfect, but they do exist. Everyone has something, even if they only imagine it, even if its presence is only a fleeting dream, that they know to be perfect. Not so for the travelers in The Road. No, their very existence is imperfect, and they have no presumptions to the contrary. The very food they eat, the water they drink, the supplies they find -- all is suspect. Even when, by some miracle, those worries are completely assuaged, as they are in an underground shelter they find that contains "everything" (139), there are still other worries to contend with. They worry about the possibility of discovery, about their future, about their death. They worry about their past, about the death they've seen, about the murderers they've escaped and the slowly murdered people they couldn't help -- or at least the son does. Truthfully, there's so much to worry about, so many things that will never be perfect, never be okay, that they have to choose what to worry about. Their anxieties are the very foundation of their identities, as they have no perfect things to marvel at or enjoy, only pain to see and take in.

The man concerns himself only with survival, mainly that of his son. He worries about how to fulfill their needs, and keep their hearts beating and their lungs breathing. Others are plainly of no concern to him, only an irritation to tolerate when the boy takes an interest. And the boy does take interest, in many more people, places, and ideas than his father does. He sees himself, consciously or not, as a person with a place in the world, and his worries reflect this. He wonders about a "little boy" he's seen (110) and the people who built shelter (142) and wants to reach out to them, despite his father's resistance. He is very much concerned with the world around him, with others and with morality, with good and bad. Though he's never known anything to be perfect, he longs for perfection, for goodness, in himself, and in his world. And in such a world as his, I think the longing is as close as he's going to come to perfection.

The Road, Reading Blog #5 - The Ultimate Failure

What would you do if your father wanted you to die? If he wanted you to be able to kill yourself? Could you obey him? Would you?
What would you do if your son was going to die? If you needed him to commit suicide to spare himself unimaginable pain? Could you hand him a gun and tell him exactly how? Would you tell him he had to?
For the family in the story, these questions are all answered in a few short minutes. McCarthy describes it all in one tense paragraph.
"He took the boy's hand and pushed the revolver into it. Take it, he whispered. Take it. The boy was terrified. He put his arm around him and held him. His body so thin. Dont be afraid, he said. If they find you you are going to have to do it. Do you understand? Shh. No crying. Do you hear me? You know how to do it. You put it in your mouth and point it up. Do it quick and hard. Do you understand? Stop crying. Do you understand?
I think so.
No. Do you understand?
Yes.
Say yes I do Papa.
Yes I do Papa.
He looked down at him. All he saw was terror. He took the gun from him. No you
dont [sic], he said." (103)
In this scene, the father once again demonstrates his willingness -- his driving desire -- to be a martyr for his son, to sacrifice himself so his son can live or die a little better. And his son rejects his sacrifice. He proves himself unworthy of his father's aid, and unwilling to allow his mindless suicide, by stopping him from leaving him. He quickly proves that, regardless of his father's wishes, he is as unable to live alone as his father -- at least at this point. He would rather them both be captured than his father leave him alone. His father would rather die than be left without his son. They're both unable to die happily, and know that they must die eventually. So they are doomed not only to die, but to die thinking they've failed the one person they loved.

The Road, Reading Blog #4 - Never Say Always

So there aren't any words in The Road, so far, that I've needed to define -- but there are many words that I think should be carefully defined, both in terms of the story and outside of it.

"Always" is one of those words. It doesn't come up often, because for the characters there are so few things that they can take for granted. They are going south -- they are always going south. And they are the good guys -- they "always will be" the good guys (77). But what does that mean? Nothing in their world is always there. They are mortal, and the man frequently plans for death, so they will not always be anything. And certainly, they cannot always be "good", whatever that means (but let's set aside that definition for another time). In their world, always, for all its lasting connotations, is firmly temporary. But they use it, and the boy uses it, nevertheless. Perhaps they are simply used to saying it, accustomed to the idea of forever. But I think they know how empty this statement is. I think they know that forever is a thing of the past, but cannot bring themselves to say it out loud. Because we, as people, want the assurance that things can last, and nowhere is this more important than in a world of transience.

Still, the characters in this story are not the first to use always without meaning it. We use it all the time, whether promising eternal love, or eternal faith, or simply eternal existence. We are such liars.

The Road, Reading Blog #3 - The Dead Identity

In our present world, dead people are buried. They are mourned. They are acknowledged, and remembered. In our world, at least in the parts of it where people would read this book, death is feared, death is exalted, and above all, death is remarkable. Why is death so unremarkable in this story?

Humans, in The Road, die like animals -- with no fuss, no funeral, no tears. Dead bodies, too, have lost all of their sacredness, as far as I can tell. At one point, the man finds a trailer, and looks inside only to see "human bodies. Sprawled in every attitude. Dried and shrunken in their rotten clothes." (47) He sees them, but he does not react, except to leave. He experiences no repulsion, no fear, no anger, no curiosity -- no typical human reactions. He has, essentially, lost his human response to death. He has no reaction, because there is nothing to provoke one -- nothing out of the ordinary to comment on. His one concession to his humanity is to keep his discovery from his son. This seems hugely significant, that in the face of massacres, he is largely psychopathic, but expects the opposite from his son.

The man, like the cannibals he encounters, sees dead humans the way most people (today) see dead meat, without emotion. But he prevents his son from seeing them at all, from gaining any of the perspective his father has effortlessly acquired. This is his sole goal in life, to help his son. He protects his son, as best he can, against everything he can. This is his answer to the question he asks, almost rhetorically, on page 49 -- "Who is anybody?" While he has his son, he is the protector. Who else could he ever be?

The Road, Reading Blog #1 - The Colors of the Wind

This novel is one of the most hopeless I've ever read. The setting, the plot, the characters -- all of the color and life in this world has dulled to gray. The tiny hopeful vignettes that pepper the story are surrounded and overcome by the general destruction at every turn. And if you don't believe that anyone would write such a sad and despairing novel, I have ample proof.

Let's begin with the setting, which is mainly centered around the titular road that they walk on, day in and day out. Roads, you know, are black, so this is a very fitting path for travelers in a world where nights are "dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than what had gone before" (3). Indeed, the novel itself seems to follow this pattern, with pages more bleak each one than what had gone before, and with more convoluted syntax, too -- and missing apostrophes! Do you have any idea how insanely aggravating it is to be reading something that boasts of a Pulitzer, and a major motion picture, but lacks basic copy-editing? It's supposed to be a #1 National Bestseller, for Pete's sake! But no, the man "wasnt sure" and he "hadnt kept" (4). It gets better a ways in, when he says things like "Let's go" (17) and "it's too far" (20), but I really -- I really digress. Sorry. Like I was saying, the world is entirely colorless in its present state. It's all "ashen scabland" and "wet gray flakes" of snow with "gray slush" and worst of all, "Black water running from under the sodden drifts of ash" (16). It's entirely pathetic, is my point here. Really, the only bit of color is a ham that's "deep red" with blood, and that still looks "like something fetched from a tomb" (17) so it doesn't do much for the color scheme.

Anyway, I think that's enough evidence on the setting -- all of the descriptions of things becoming raw and black in the rain are too depressing to quote anymore. Let's talk about the man's dreams, instead, because those have whole rainbows in them, and nothing is covered with ash. He has dreams, and flashbacks, about almost everything, from the previous wonders of nature, to his old love life, and family memories from his childhood. And they're full of adjectives, with "yellow leaves" by a lake (13) and "a green and leafy canopy" for a bride (18). Really, these could be downright pleasant, happy memories for the man to share with his son or call up for strength in times of weakness -- but the dreams only serve to deepen his depression, and solidify his feelings of loss in his new reality. After recalling a nice romantic date, he thinks to himself, "freeze this frame. now call down your dark and your cold and be damned" (19). He's not happy to have lived -- he's cursing his damnation, as if he's already died and gone to hell. Maybe he has, because he can't be happy, can't appreciate his dreams, that he knows are "so rich in color" only because, well, "how else would death call you?" (21). I don't think death needs to call him at all. If not for his son, he'd already be there.

The Road, Reading Blog #2 - Obedience School

Now earlier, I tried to establish the despondency of this novel, but a little further in, and the characters turn out to be capable of happiness. Nothing has really changed in their situation, or their companionship (as the only other people are dead or have been struck by lightning, or are mysterious cannibals) but they've traveled more.

I expected the father, at least, to be happy in his old house, but he was just really nostalgic. His only thoughts were memories, and his only words were to the boy -- agreeing that they should leave (26). The boy certainly seemed to dislike it, and though I'm not sure why, that might be why his father didn't allow himself to be happy there. He exhibits some very obedient behaviors towards his son -- or maybe he's just subservient, or something else, I don't know, but he treats him preferentially in almost every way. He gives him the only can of soda he finds in an old supermarket (23) and goes into dangerous places first, always. Maybe this is simple fatherly love, likely augmented by knowledge that he will die first -- he seems to be dying, at least, because healthy people don't cough blood (30) -- but under the circumstances, it's much more intense. He says outright that he'd die if his son did (10), but at this point, the boy would die without his father as well. Maybe he knows this, or simply cares for his father similarly regardless of his survival instinct, but he attempts to stop some of his father's behavior. When his father gives him hot chocolate and drinks hot water,  he objects, saying that his father "promised not to do that" and that he watches him all the time, so he won't break his promises. His father concedes and drinks some hot chocolate -- but even in this attempt to equalize them he is obedient.

As I was saying, their happiness is just as codependent as their lives as a whole. The man cannot be happy unless his son is, as illustrated when they find a waterfall, which the boy describes as "a good place" (40). Of course, this wouldn't be remarkable in the modern world, but in their world, good places are hard to come by. The man helps his son swim in the water, and finds mushrooms to eat -- a glimmer of life in the mostly dead world -- and they stay for a bit. But ultimately he can't let go of his worries entirely, and insists that they leave before the boy is ready. Still, he seems to enjoy his son's happiness, almost being happy himself. Almost.


PS You know what's really annoying? Every edit resets the entire post, and its time stamp. Ugh.

Coming Through Slaughter, Close Reading #2 - I've Got Baggage Too

At one point in the story, Bolden is in limbo. He is supposed to board a train, but is unable to go through with it when he realizes how alone he is. At the train station, he understands his situation with sudden, paralyzing clarity, realizing that he "did not have any baggage with him, just the mouthpiece in his pocket. He could step on the train or go back to the Brewitts. He was frozen. He woke to see the train disappearing away from his body like a vein. He continued to stand hiding behind the mail wagon. Help me. He was scared of everybody. He didn't want to meet anybody he knew again, ever in his life." He has no real home anymore, no place he feels is safe, or even safe enough to return to. He's trapped, clearly unable to choose, frozen with fear and completely alone. Hey, what a great place for close reading!

Though he has no physical baggage, he clearly has emotional baggage weighing him down, and making his life difficult. The interest here is not only in his deteriorated mental state, but also in the events that have made him this way, afraid to meet anyone he knows, to see his family or his friends, literally hiding from his past. He would rather spend the night alone, sleeping on the beach, with his mouthpiece. He even hides from the train, which he sees as part of himself, a vein of his blood. Well, Buddy, I have news for you, veins are permanent; they're not kite strings waiting to be cut free, and they don't just disappear. As much as he tries to hide from his past, and his future, he cannot, and eventually returns to his family, and the Brewitts. After all, he's asking for help -- he clearly needs help -- and he knows they will offer help, and comfort, or at least do their best.

Still, despite his obvious distress, he doesn't seek help immediately -- remember, he's afraid to meet people he knows -- he leaves the station, drinks beer, and tries to comfort himself. He meets new people, hears new music, goes new places, and attempts to abandon his baggage and his fear. In the end, he doesn't choose from the choices he's given. He steps outside of the train station's false dichotomy, ignores the past, and the future, and just creates a new present for himself. Why not?

Coming Through Slaughter, Close Reading #1 - How Much Control is Worth

At first glance, my favorite passage so far doesn't seem very interesting -- I mean, Bolden's watching a woman cut carrots, it's not earth-shattering. But his thoughts here reveal a lot about his outlook on life, which impacts, and foreshadows, his later madness.As Bolden watches her cook, he ruminates on the nature of our actions, commenting on her skill that,  "As with all skills he watches for it to fail. If she thinks what she is doing she will lose control. He knows that the only way to catch a fly for instance is to move the hand without the brain telling it to move fast, interfering." Bolden himself is clearly skilled, in playing jazz, in socializing, and at this point, in staying sane (if that can be called a skill). He's holding himself together. All of these skills eventually fail him, as he expects them to, when he loses control of himself and his life later in the story. It's difficult to pinpoint exactly when his descent into madness begins, but this passage certainly casts some light on it. From Bolden's perspective, people lose control when they think about their actions, when they allow rational thought and introspection to -- as Bolden puts it -- interfere.
Is this interference what spells the end for Bolden? Perhaps. He seems happy and sane initially, going about his life without interruption, without any significant choices or thoughts. His happy state is unstable, though, and he knows it is, perhaps even wants it to be, to prove himself right and explore darker parts of his life. In this way, Bolden's perspective is almost a self-fulfilling prophecy; He thinks his life will change, and his acknowledgment of other possibilities makes them certain.

While the author is foreshadowing Bolden's eventual downfall, he may also be commenting on the nature of people and existence. This passage can, of course, be read many ways, and I'm no expert on existentialism, just a student reading about carrot pieces. Maybe all people are doomed to lives of ignorance, or unhappy awareness. Maybe intellectuals are cursed with low productivity. Maybe we should be introspective to process, and by extension, truly live our lives. Or perhaps people need to lose control, to act without thinking, to be truly human. I don't know. What do you think?