The Road

Sep 18, 2011 Keely rated it 1 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Recommended to Keely by: Mother

Shelves: novel, fiction, reviewed, post-apocalyptic, american

The Road is unsteady and repetitive—now aping Melville, now Hemingway—but it is less a seamless blend than a reanimated corpse: sewn together from dead parts into a lumbering, incongruous whole, then jolted to ignoble half-life by McCarthy’s grand reputation with Hollywood Filmmakers and incestuous award committees.

In 1996, NYU Physics Professor Alan Sokal submitted a paper for publication to several scientific journals. He made sure it was so complex and full of the latest jargon terms that the...more

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Mar 07, 2013 Richard rated it 2 of 5 stars · review of another edition

This review can now be seen at Expendable Mudge Muses Aloud.

McCarthyites strongly cautioned.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.

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Dec 03, 2011 Joshua Nomen-Mutatio rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: fiction, survivally, within-the-dark-there-is-a-spark, dystopic

The main point I want to deal with is how I managed to walk away from this book with a trenchant sense of gratitude at the forefront of my mind. I certainly won’t mislead and paint this story as one that directly radiates things to be happy about, but I do think it does so indirectly (and the term "happy" is far too facile for my purposes here).

This is an extremely dark tale of a world passed through a proverbial dissolvent. A world stripped of its major ecological systems. Small pockets of hom...more

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Mar 24, 2010 Ceridwen rated it 3 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Recommended to Ceridwen by: Rachel

Shelves: america-and-environs, daddy-drinks-because-you-cry, omg-were-all-going-to-die

I'm not sure there's much I can say about The Road that hasn't already been said, given that I'm the last person on earth to finally read this book. (Thankfully, I'm not the last person on earth.) I gave it a try two years ago, but got something like 10 pages in before I flipped out. I was still nursing a babe at the time, and the ash, the dread, the Child made me physically hurt. I am not being metaphorical. I'm alternately gobsmacked by and resentful of how masterfully McCarthy played this on...more I'm not sure there's much I can say about The Road that hasn't already been said, given that I'm the last person on earth to finally read this book. (Thankfully, I'm not the last person on earth.) I gave it a try two years ago, but got something like 10 pages in before I flipped out. I was still nursing a babe at the time, and the ash, the dread, the Child made me physically hurt. I am not being metaphorical. I'm alternately gobsmacked by and resentful of how masterfully McCarthy played this one: gobsmacked because lord, this man can write and resentful because I don't like being played.

This reads like an inverted landscape picture. You know, the kind of film that is about sweeping aerial shots and slowly panning vistas, the ones where the human drama plays out in grand tension with the callous beauty of Nature and her almost casual marriage to that old Greek grumpus, Fate? “Brokeback Mountain” is a landscape picture, and it has a similar claustrophobic sense despite the unpeopled grandiosity of the titular mountain. Here we don't have all the bleating savagery of nature as our landscape, but its opposite: a gray sun, everything still and inexplicably dead but not fecund in rottenness, even the microbes that inevitably break us down gone still and cold. The night that the man and his boy spend in a wood that succumbs to its fragility and falls down, crashing almost without an echo; the years-old apples hidden in the straw-like grass, still edible; the soft slosh of an iodine-scented sea stripped of its sea-like glory: these visions I found incredibly, page-turningly effective.

While I admit that much of this feels intentional, I found the relationship between the father and son seriously problematic. Maybe this is my own hang-up. I bitch not about the stripped down punctuation and the almost childish and-then-and-then of the description; this was something akin to poetry. However, the simplicity of the world-view espoused by the father: the bad guys and good guys, this rankled a bit. I find it...improbable that a boy raised in this kind of environment would be so trusting, so willing to part with precious resources. Something about the scene from the past where the clocks all stop at 1:27 and the man begins to fill the bath with water, not because he needs a bath, but because he knows, instinctively, that this is the end of the world makes me wonder. The way his wife spits out her tiredness with living, vanishing into the ash almost without comment, is this all in his mind? Is this world a sick vision he's foisted upon his son? Does that make this vision better or worse?

A million years ago, when I went to Sunday school and read the bible, I was always puzzled by Cain's going out into the world after the murder of his brother, his mark a brand to let others know of his crime. Where do these other people come from? Whither Seth's wife? There's something of that here. Cain and Abel's story is the first landscape picture, the first small, intense family drama to play out in an empty world. For them, the emptiness was the glory of unrealized potential, potential rendered ironic by the pettiness of human suffering. Cain's story ends in shame, the mark of God's forgiveness doubling as hopelessness.

This zippers that story backwards and insideout: the world has gone hopeless, useless, the end of it all and not the beginning, but with a human love and potential that renders the landscape ironic. The child's last prayers to God the Father, I'm not sure what to think about this. Is this hackneyed or brilliant? There's a lot of fictions that I wished ended 20 minutes before they did, before the problematic epilogue or whatnot: the movie AI, Crime and Punishment, etc. With this, I'm not sure about where my squeamishness is coming from. Do I expect and find comfort in harder lessons, even while the hardness presses indentations in my psyche? Do I hope for hopelessness? Maybe. Depictions of the end of the world are funny things, personal, societal, drawing out our quiet, familial, almost religious expectations of the people around us and writing them large and burning. The Road draws this story in ash, and while I wish this affected me more, it didn't, even while I bow to McCarthy's considerable skill.

Cross-posted on Readerling
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Feb 19, 2008 Scott rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

I really feel compelled to write up a review of McCarthy's The Road as this book really worked for me (for those of you who haven't read it, there are no real spoilers below, only random quotes and thematic commentary). I read it last night in one sitting. Hours of almost nonstop reading. I found it to be an excellent book on so many levels that I am at a loss as to where to begin. It was at once gripping, terrifying, utterly heart-wrenching, and completely beautiful. I have read most of McCarth...more I really feel compelled to write up a review of McCarthy's The Road as this book really worked for me (for those of you who haven't read it, there are no real spoilers below, only random quotes and thematic commentary). I read it last night in one sitting. Hours of almost nonstop reading. I found it to be an excellent book on so many levels that I am at a loss as to where to begin. It was at once gripping, terrifying, utterly heart-wrenching, and completely beautiful. I have read most of McCarthy's other books and am already a big fan, but this one is different, perhaps his best in terms of lean, masterful prose, plot presentation, and flat-out brilliant storytelling.

Take this passage for example: "The blackness he woke to on those nights was sightless and impenetrable. A blackness to hurt your ears with listening. Often he had to get up. No sound but the wind in the bare blackened trees. He rose and stood tottering in that cold autistic dark with his arms outheld for balance while the vestibular calculations in his skull cranked out their reckonings. An old chronicle." Happy times! The word choice and imagery is classic McCarthy yet is leaner and more honed, tighter and in turn more intense. The whole book follows this pattern. No word, not a single one, is extraneous. This is perhaps my favorite single sentence in the book: "By day the banished sun circles the earth like a grieving mother with a lamp." I just love that.

Clearly this book struck a chord with me due to the two protagonists and their predicament, a father and his young son struggling in a post-apocalyptic world. To say I could identify with their interactions would be a huge understatement. McCarthy absolutely nails their dialog, making me marvel at how well he has mastered presenting on a page the way we communicate (it isn't exactly how we talk, of course, it just seems that way. Through some sort of magic, he writes dialog that comes across more realistically than actual dialog. Witchcraft for sure.). The young son was especially well done and was most certainly the most complicated character in the book. McCarthy presents him as a sort of supernatural being (Christ figure?), of only the best sort, full of goodness, a thing not of the world in which he finds himself. He is effortlessly drawn down the path of the righteous throughout the book, as if he is God's right hand man. The reward appears, at least superficially, to be key moments of luck.

It almost wouldn't work from a literary standpoint if it didn't serve so well as a vehicle to reinforce the central theme of the book: the undeniable power of love over all else. The theme of love, mostly presented through the bond of the father and son, is so well done as to evoke strong emotions, even now, as I consider how to present its keen development throughout the novel. To be so desperate, in every way and at all times, and yet to survive and at times thrive, to persevere through terrible events of unbelievable horror (think Steven King's The Stand on steroids) would strike feelings of great, sad compassion in even the most tempered soul. But it is much more than that of course. Consider this passage, a speaking passage from father to son, spoken during one of the most tense and horrifying scenes in the book: "You wanted to know what the bad guys looked like. Now you know. It may happen again. My job is to take care of you. I was appointed to do that by God. I will kill anyone who touches you. Do you understand?" In this one passage, McCarthy shows the great contradiction in this theme of love, the idea that violence and beauty can spring fourth from the same well, can come from the same fountainhead. Interestingly, the father often resorts to violence in his role as a servant of love (he sees it as his duty, in a religious sense, as stated in the quote). Yet the boy never does and appears better for it, in so many ways, even in that terrible place. He is the embodiment of pure goodness, and sets up the other, better side of love, the side that is unsullied by the world, that never resorts to baseness and violence, that finds beauty in even to most unlikely of places. Like seeing a picture better when you hold it up to the light, the contrasts between these two sides is masterfully provided, page after page, in only the most well written and considered prose.

The often repeated promethean phrase "carrying the fire," agreed upon by the two protagonists as pretty much the whole point of their continuing, embodies this central theme. The boy is carrying the fire for us all, and is perhaps the most important survivor in that shattered world, bearing the torch of love for humanity to share when it is again ready. Not to belabor the point, but the way McCarthy handles this, all the way until the end, is nothing short of genius. Can you tell I liked the book yet? I am amazed that I missed this book for so long, me being a huge McCarthy fan and placing him squarely at the top of the "big four" (with DeLillo, Roth, and Pynchon). The book is so "it's own" that as soon as I felt myself feeling an influence (for example, I swore I smelled Hemmingway's Old Man and the Sea in terms of prose/theme, and the more terrifyingly cruel parts at times rang so much like Kosinski's The Painted Bird ), McCarthy would insert the perfect McCarthyism, solidly planting the flag (so to speak) of a phrase or sentence into the passage to claim it forever for himself, like a prosaic explorer figuratively pushing out into the unknown through deft assemblages of words and phases impossible to all but him (ok, that metaphor was way too much….time to wrap it up). Of course I have more to say but am beginning to risk (actually have already thoroughly risked) repeating myself and sounding like some deranged, McCarthy stalker-type. Check this one out. It is superior literature. (less)

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Nov 20, 2012 Evan rated it 2 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: pulitzer-prize, 2009-reads, none-too-good, scifi-utopia-dystopia, oprah, parody-review

He palmed the spartan book with black cover and set out in the gray morning. Grayness, ashen. Ashen in face. Ashen in the sky.
He set out for the road, the book in hand. Bleakness, grayness. Nothing but gray, always.
He was tired and hungry. Coughing. The coughing had gotten worse. He felt like he might die. But he couldn't die. Not yet.
The boy depended on him.
He walked down the road, awaiting the creaking bus. It trundled from somewhere, through the gray fog. The ashen gray fog.
He stepped aboard,...more He palmed the spartan book with black cover and set out in the gray morning. Grayness, ashen. Ashen in face. Ashen in the sky.
He set out for the road, the book in hand. Bleakness, grayness. Nothing but gray, always.
He was tired and hungry. Coughing. The coughing had gotten worse. He felt like he might die. But he couldn't die. Not yet.
The boy depended on him.
He walked down the road, awaiting the creaking bus. It trundled from somewhere, through the gray fog. The ashen gray fog.
He stepped aboard, spartan book in hand. No one spoke. They were all ghosts. Tired, wrinkled, rumpled, going wherever. Not knowing why. Just going.
He opened the book and read. He began to see a pattern, a monotonous pattern of hopelessness. Chunks of gray hopelessness. Prose set in concrete, gray. Gray blocks of prose. He read.
He recognized images from films long since past, and books from authors of yore. Many science fiction writers, many movie makers. He thought he saw a flash, something familiar. Perhaps it was only one of his nagging dreams. A dream of what once existed, but he did not know. Wasn't there once, he wondered, a story called "A Boy And His Dog," by, who? Ellison, maybe? Was that the name? It seemed right, but his mind was unreliable. It had not been reliable in awhile. People forget. Yes, they forget.
And here, a fragment, "The Last Man on Earth," "The Omega Man," "Dawn of the Dead," "Planet of the Apes," "The Day After," "The Twilight Zone." Yes, that one, the one about the man and the books. The broken glasses. Cannibals, people in rags, charred bodies, emptiness, grayness. "On the Beach" popped into his mind. His gray, dulled mind. "The Andromeda Strain." Dessicated bodies. Dusty, leathered, ashen bodies.
The rain, the snow, the white, the cold, the gray. The endless white. The endless gray. "Escape from New York." The titles seemed endless, but they blended in his wearied mind. Had he not read and seen all this a thousand times before? What was he to make of this book he held, this spartan black book, this cobbling of all that had come before, all set forth again? Was this original, he wondered? He continued to read. But he was tired, flagging. Rain, tin food, wet blankets, shivering, twigs and fire and cold. Always cold, and gray. And walking, slowly. Always walking down the road. And hiding. Hiding and walking. Ceaselessly. And atrocities. Savagery. Road warriors, the bad guys. Did this also not seem familiar? The man wondered, but his mind, like those of most of the masses, often forgot. He thanked an unseen God for this forgetfulness, for it made it easier for him to read, uncritically, unknowingly. The author, McCarthy, no doubt also must have been relieved that no one cared anymore. Plagiarism belonged to the dead past. A quaint notion of a bygone day. Not a concern, in these gray times. The times of sampling. Of plunder.
My concoction is out of a tin can, he might have thought. But he did not. Tin food, prepackaged. Cans waiting to be plucked and plundered.
He opened the literary beenie weenies, and served them to the world. And the world ate, hungrily ate. And believed, that beenie weenies, on their empty stomachs, tasted like the greatest gourmet dish they had ever tasted. For they knew not any better. Their gray matter just did not know.
And they went on down the road.
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Apr 13, 2011 Paquita Maria Sanchez rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: literature, favorites

I finished this novel quite a few days ago. Normally, I would hop right up and start composing my little goodreads ramble, publish whatever nonsense came out, and go about my day. This novel, however, left me feeling like an incubus was on my chest, paralyzing my brain and limiting my mobility. I set it down and stared at the ceiling. I rolled around in bed feeling anxious and nostalgic and terrible and serene. I hid it in my backpack so I wouldn’t continue to be tortured by seeing the spine, an...more I finished this novel quite a few days ago. Normally, I would hop right up and start composing my little goodreads ramble, publish whatever nonsense came out, and go about my day. This novel, however, left me feeling like an incubus was on my chest, paralyzing my brain and limiting my mobility. I set it down and stared at the ceiling. I rolled around in bed feeling anxious and nostalgic and terrible and serene. I hid it in my backpack so I wouldn’t continue to be tortured by seeing the spine, and contemplating how it was defeating me. This loud-mouth, this rambler, this conversational ram-rodder had, in a rare instance of humbling, found herself with nothing to say. So many thoughts, and no words to frame them in. I finally placed the book back on the shelf, acknowledged that I had read it through the meager gesture of rating, and started with something else. After a few days had passed, I decided to try and pin down the numerous specimens that are my thoughts on this “Great American Novel.” I won’t wow you like the story does. I won’t offer any insight that isn’t present elsewhere on goodreads in the many, many fantastic reviews that have already conquered this territory to the extent that it is conquerable. I will get a bit self-indulgent and tell you embarrassing, private things that you may or may not care to read about concerning my life and my family, because this novel is largely about the preciousness of life and the preciousness of family, of the horror and the beauty and everything in between. It is a somber meditation on subtle, enormous things.

I am predisposed toward loving post-apocalyptic novels. In many ways, I blame this on my obsession with the “Boxcar Children” books whenever I was a kid. Though these books are, of course, NOT post-apocalyptic tales, they do depict a world that is about as barren and frightening as a 9 year old lower-middle-class girl can wrap her mind around. The idea that you have no home, no parental figures, no reliable source of food or comfort, and basically nothing save your siblings, is a scary and fascinating thing to think about. With a home life as precarious as my own, it didn’t seem terribly far-fetched to some day find myself destitute, and I found deep comfort in the children’s will to survive. Unfortunately, I eventually did find myself in a comparable situation when, in the midst of my parents’ divorce, my 5 year old sister and I went to live with our father in this giant, shadowy house on a stretch of land in one of Oklahoma’s smaller towns, a place far from the protection of my mother, and far from all of the friends I had grown up around and came to trust and love. In a consuming fit of depression, my father basically isolated himself from the realm of the living, sleeping most hours, and silently and heavily self-medicating in a darkened den when “awake.” I was 11, and was forced to take on the domestic duties of a full-grown woman in order to care for my sister, ensure we both ate, walk her to school and back every day, maintain a moderately clean home, tiny, shoddy Christmas trees out of tree branches, etc etc etc. Though I realize this sounds like a sob story, let me assure you it was short-lived, and that when I finally abandoned my blind loyalty to my father and made with the truth, we were snatched up that very day, and the world was bright and rosy again from then on. Also, I am actually pretty glad that it happened. My brief experience in this alternate reality had some enormous character-building effects, and was actually sort of fun sometimes in this “I’m really living out this whole self-reliance thing that I’ve read so much about” sort of way. I mean, it got old quick. However, the most important effects that it had on me as a person (aside from making me feel capable of handling a whole lot of bullshit, weathering the storms of life, yadda yadda) were a) binding my sister and I in an unbreakable way and b) making me see seemingly obvious bits of the process of living (food, tiny little gifts, things like Christmas lights and Easter eggs and really warm gloves) as the precious objects that we so often forget that they are. But we are discussing The Road, here.

The emphasis on precious little things composes much of the story. There is a lot of what some may call “filler” throughout the novel; descriptions of meals, the process of preparing the meals, of the characters disrobing layer by layer in order to clean themselves in the extremely rare warm bath they manage to take, washing every bit of themselves and every layer of clothing, stitching up a wound, wrapping up the wound, pulling a pant-leg over the wound. Though the form of each sentence, of the entire novel even, could arguably be considered curt, it is a conscious choice. Each sentence is presented like a precious object, a simple little thing which is, in its very simplicity, some exquisite testimonial to the process of living and loving. Even the dialogue is stripped bare, exhibiting the boundless love of the Man and the Boy in the simplest of exchanges more effectively than some sprawling monologue or melodramatic, Shakespearean dialogue would have been able to. They don’t even have to say “I Love You.” It simply is.

It’s so rare to find a voice such as McCarthy’s that can say so much with so very little. I have spent a lot of time reading about Japanese culture, and one of the many immensely interesting things that I have come across is the lack of a direct translation of the phrase “I Love You.” There are, of course, ways to express affection, and adoration, and even obsession. Yet, the notion that we attach so much meaning to, the three words you may hear from a lover and feel anything from overwhelming, butterflies-in-the-brain-like joy to crap in your pants and the early symptoms of a heart attack, the three words that can make or break a human connection, these three words are not translatable in a literal sense. This fascinated me enough to approach one of my college professors from Japan and ask her to tell me why. Her response was to say that something so enormous just couldn’t be put so simply, should not be flattened down and thrown around in the way that this limited phrase allows, and that it is almost obscene to assume everything involved in deep love can be encompassed in such a stunted bit of words. Though Japanese culture has sort of “whipped up” some ways to express a similar sentiment, it is more often than not used to placate Western lovers, is still quite limiting as to how they really feel, and even then is rarely used. Expression of the emotions coded in “I Love You” is preferably accomplished through a culmination of millions of different actions, tiny little kindnesses that aren’t named as kindnesses, minuscule, stacking pieces of the “I Love You’ puzzle. Well, this novel feels distinctly Japanese in this, along with many other, ways. Bare-bones, humble respect for every cell of every mass of the life process. The simplest of gestures binding together to communicate giant feelings. Reverence for the smallest bits of life, as they are crucial elements of the whole. At the risk of contradicting everything I just said, I would argue that the sentence which most communicates the moral underpinning this wonderful story is this: "When one has nothing left make ceremonies out of the air and breathe upon them." Allow me to be a bit clearer: I strongly suggest that you read this book.

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Dec 29, 2010 Scribble Orca added it · review of another edition

Shelves: adult-or-mature, unfinished

This isn't the review you think it is.

When she woke in the cave in the light and the warmth of the morning she'd reach out to caress the child sleeping beside her. Nights glowing beyond brightness and the days more colourful each one than what had gone before. Like the onset of some warm aurora illuminating the world. Her hand rose and fell softly with each miraculous breath. She pushed away the covering of knitted fabric and raised herself in the crumpled robes and blankets and looked toward th...more

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Dec 02, 2007 David rated it 3 of 5 stars · review of another edition

The Road is a literary mash up composed of equal parts William Faulkner, Raymond Carver, Samuel Beckett, and pulp sci-fi. This sounds great on paper but works only about 50% of the time.

For the first 25-30 pages of The Road my BS detector rang like a fire alarm. It soon quieted down, but ultimately the things I disliked about the book—it’s egregiously overwritten in places and some of McCarthy’s more “experimental” techniques seem arbitrary --kept me from fully appreciating its virtues. It took...more The Road is a literary mash up composed of equal parts William Faulkner, Raymond Carver, Samuel Beckett, and pulp sci-fi. This sounds great on paper but works only about 50% of the time.

For the first 25-30 pages of The Road my BS detector rang like a fire alarm. It soon quieted down, but ultimately the things I disliked about the book—it’s egregiously overwritten in places and some of McCarthy’s more “experimental” techniques seem arbitrary --kept me from fully appreciating its virtues. It took James Woods’ definitive review in The New Republic to help me see what there is to like about it. Wood praises The Road for: the way the McCarthy taps into a post 9/11 fear of apocalypse; his combination of an ornate lyricism a’la William Faulkner with the deadpan minimalism of Raymond Carver; and for McCarthy's rigorous attempt to imagine what a post-apocalyptic world would look and feel like. The Road doesn't extrapolate a dystopian future from some present fear or potential calamity. Rather it plops its characters down in a world engulfed by some kind of nuclear winter (the cause of the catastrophe is never specified) and obsessively imagines what that world would look and feel like.

Despite these virtues, there’s just something about the way The Road is executed that puts me off. Critics praise McCarthy for his linguistic inventiveness, and there are some beautiful passages in The Road, but the writing often struck me as showy rather than inventive. I mean, what’s so “inventive” about the arbitrary splicing together of two words? How much linguistic creativity does it take to call a cash register a cashregister, or a pump organ a pumporgan. Such devices occur frequently enough to annoy but not often enough to add much to the musicality of the prose. Then there’s the frequent use of antiquated words: gryke, discalced, scribing, laved, etc. There’s nothing wrong with this in principle—writers should make maximum use of the linguistic resources available to them. A generous interpretation of this tic would be that it adds to the sense of inhabiting a time that’s spiritually detached from the present, or makes the point that the future involves regression rather than progress. But it struck me as showy and gratuitous--a kind of screw you to 21st century sub-literates.

The other thing that bugged me was the frequent dropping of profundity bombs—brief portentous statements tacked onto the end of a paragraph that hint at philosophical or religious themes. Two problems with these: First, they are almost always duds; they are never developed and rarely explode into meaning. Second, they often come wrapped in convoluted syntax that I suspect obscures their banality. So, in this case, is McCarthy tweaking the language to make the banal sound profound?

Despite these misgivings I liked the book and found it hard to put down. When McCarthy stays in his minimalist register the writing is quite good. He definitely creates a mood, and many of the word-pictures he paints, especially when describing landscapes or the objects necessary to the two main characters’ survival, are quite beautiful. And I do have to give him props, as Wood notes, for advancing the post-apocalypse sub-genre by creating a remorselessly unedifying world in which our present concerns have almost completely faded from memory. Most of the dialogue in The Road is banal in the extreme, and the characters are almost completely without inner lives. But give McCarthy credit for credibly representing the psychological reality of a world in which the things that support inner lives—history, culture, community, an unacknowledged but ever present sense that humanity will extend into the indefinite future—have all but disappeared. McCarthy doesn’t tell us how to avoid the apocalypse, but he gives us a pretty good sense of how we’ll be spending our days when it comes.

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Sep 17, 2012 Cecily rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: miscellaneous-fiction, dystopian, american-canadian

Phew. This is a brilliant, bleak, beautiful book, but an emotionally harrowing one, albeit with uplifting aspects (they always cling to a sliver of hope, however tenuous).

In the near future, a man and his son traipse south, across a cold, barren, ash-ridden and abandoned land, pushing all their worldly goods in a wonky shopping trolley. They scavenge to survive and are ever-fearful of attack, especially as some of the few survivors have resorted to cannibalism.

It is written in a sparse, somewha...more Phew. This is a brilliant, bleak, beautiful book, but an emotionally harrowing one, albeit with uplifting aspects (they always cling to a sliver of hope, however tenuous).

In the near future, a man and his son traipse south, across a cold, barren, ash-ridden and abandoned land, pushing all their worldly goods in a wonky shopping trolley. They scavenge to survive and are ever-fearful of attack, especially as some of the few survivors have resorted to cannibalism.

It is written in a sparse, somewhat poetic style ("cold autistic dark"), often detached (the characters are never named) and fragmented, to match the setting of the book. Even quotation marks and apostrophes are used sparingly (only where their absence might create ambiguity, e.g. we're and were), yet that somehow enhances the impact of the story, rather than distracting from it. Once I managed to think of it as a prose poem, I didn't mind the lack of punctuation nearly as much. It it were typset as a poem, it might raise fewer hackles. In fact I think I think one reason some people don't "get" this book is that they read it as a novel that hasn't been proofread, rather than immersing themselves in it as a prose poem

Much of the time almost nothing happens, yet that makes it all the more compelling.

The boy is very imaginative, empathetic, moral and scared - a difficult combination in the circumstances. There is a deep love and care between man and boy, each projecting their own survival instinct on to the other. In their anxiety, aspects of their relationship take on a ritualistic tone, and some of their conversations are almost liturgical, invariably ending with an assurance that they're the "good guys" and things will be "okay", yet without becoming banal.

Sometimes they are more wary of being seen than others, and at one point I wondered how much was "real" and how much might be imagined or paranoia, but that doubt passed. Whatever disaster caused the destruction (it is never explained) was some years before and the father realises that despite their closeness, in some ways "to the boy he was himself an alien. A being from a planet that no longer existed."

Much has been made of the intriguingly odd phrase "The snow fell nor did it cease to fall", which leapt off the page at me and is also discussed on Language Log: http://languagelog.ldc.upenn.edu/nll/....

A film is coming out in the autumn. It could be excellent, but if they try to make it too cheerful, it would lose its purpose.

WARNING: Having enjoyed this, I had high hopes for Outer Dark (my review here http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/...), but unfortunately I really didn't like that. I'm unsure whether to read more Cormac McCarthy now.(less)

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Nov 01, 2012 Nandakishore Varma rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

This review has been hidden because it contains spoilers. To view it, click here. There are some books which literally sweep you of your feet and leave you gasping for breath. As one grows older and the reading palate more jaded, the chance of finding such a book becomes rarer and rarer; so the actual discovery of one is all the more delightful.

The Road by Cormac McCarthy is such a book.

By all means, the story ought to have been a cliche: it explores the hackneyed dystopic theme of a group of people moving across a blasted landscape. The fact that it turns out to be one of th...more

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Jun 18, 2008 Maren rated it 1 of 5 stars · review of another edition

I'm a terrible person because I didn't really like "The Road" and I'm not sure how I feel about Cormac McCarthy. Honestly, I think there's something wrong with me.

I just finished reading "The Road" today - it only took a couple of hours to get through, because it's not that long a book, and I think it was a good way to read it because I felt really immersed in the story, which is told like one long run-on nightmare of poetic import. The characters don't get quotation marks when they speak, and...more I'm a terrible person because I didn't really like "The Road" and I'm not sure how I feel about Cormac McCarthy. Honestly, I think there's something wrong with me.

I just finished reading "The Road" today - it only took a couple of hours to get through, because it's not that long a book, and I think it was a good way to read it because I felt really immersed in the story, which is told like one long run-on nightmare of poetic import. The characters don't get quotation marks when they speak, and for some reason McCarthy also does away with the apostrophes in words like "couldn't" and "shouldn't" - I'm still not really sure why that was necessary, it seemed a little unjustified.

The story is set in a post-apocalyptic world but the apocalypse itself is never really described or explained. I still don't really know why the world is the way it is as the story begins, other than that everything suddenly started burning and there are few survivors. What survivors remain are generally split into "good guys" and "bad guys" - the good guys are just trying to get by and the bad guys usually kill and eat people and steal their things. A man and his boy are walking south, yet we never really know why - to get to what? Even the man, whose plan this is, never explains the rationale more than once when he thinks that it will be warmer there. We're meant to think that they're in America, I think, only there's little indicators of an American world or otherwise. At one point, near the end of the book, most of the artifacts they find are written in Spanish, which led me to think they had made it to Mexico possibly, but it still snows there, I think, which would be unusual.

In other words, there are few concrete details, and a lot of small conversations between the man and the boy - the man usually says "we have to keep going" or "we have to stay" and the boy says "i'm scared" or "don't leave me" and the man says "Don't be scared" or "Okay". That was probably my biggest frustration with the book - the mundane repetitiveness of the dialogue. While many will argue that that criticism is *exactly what the author intended* (along with the amorphous location and lack of details) in order to bring about the black ethos of the novel's post-apocalypse, I just felt like it made for an uninteresting read.

The language is definitely poetic and it's peppered with abstract observations about the world or life or death, but I wasn't very moved by them or the story. I didn't feel like I got to know the characters any better as the story went along - they remained distant to me emotionally, endless travelers that I could empathize with (as you would empathize with any soul wandering a post-apocalyptic desert) but I didn't really feel close to anything that happened because the narrative's disjointed and abstract tone just pushed me away as much as it made me reflect on apocalypse.

I read José Saramago's novel, "Blindness" a year or two ago and, to be honest, felt that it dealt with mass epidemic of an apocalyptic nature in a much more convincing, original and powerful way. It contains language of stunning beauty, dialogue that lacks distinction and punctuation, and dire situations but the characters are infinitely more real, more compelling and the situations far more disturbing. What McCarthy only hints at, Saramago dares to depict throughout "Blindness".

So, like I said, I'm sure I'm a terrible person and there's just something that I'm not getting, but I was really disappointed by "The Road" and generally find McCarthy and unenjoyable read. (less)

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Oct 03, 2011 K.D. Oliveros rated it 2 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Recommended to K.D. by: Angus Miranda

Shelves: pulitzer, oprah, post-apocalyptic, saddest

I agree that the story is mind-boggling as McCarthy brought us to the bleak and sad post-apocalyptic cataclysmic America. I agree that the sparse searing prose beautifully mimics the sad and hopelessness of the two unnamed characters: a boy whose age and name were not revealed and the man who he calls as “Papa.” I agree that the book is a good reminder to us of what can happen if we do not take care of our environment. And for these reasons, I understand why this book won the nod of the Pulitzer...more I agree that the story is mind-boggling as McCarthy brought us to the bleak and sad post-apocalyptic cataclysmic America. I agree that the sparse searing prose beautifully mimics the sad and hopelessness of the two unnamed characters: a boy whose age and name were not revealed and the man who he calls as “Papa.” I agree that the book is a good reminder to us of what can happen if we do not take care of our environment. And for these reasons, I understand why this book won the nod of the Pulitzer jurors in 2007.

The reason why I did not like this book was similar to the reason why I did not like Jodi Piccoult’s My Sister’s Keeper. There was just too much sorrow that my empathy to the characters became desensitized in the second half of the book. The hopelessness and sadness were not just too much to bear but everything became false and artificial. The repetitive dialogues of ”I’m scared”, ”Okay”, ”We will not die”, ”We are the good guys” and ”Because we have the fire” lost their meaning and became irritating. The repetitive cycle of “food found” followed by “eating” followed by “the last apple/tin can/juice/what-have-you” followed by “hunger” after sometime lost its impact and when McCarthy introduced other elements like the cannibals, thief, fever and spitting of blood, the artificiality of it all surfaced out and I just could not help feeling that I was just taken for a ride. For a person living in a Third World country, this sorry state (well, except cannibalism) is not new to me. I grew up in an island in the Pacific and if it was full moon, my fisherman father would come home without any fish. Since the island was within the usual typhoon path, whenever there were big typhoons the young coconuts would fall down so that the harvest would be very few (and my parents’ income would not even enough to pay for our daily needs). I remember that my mother would ask one of us (her four offsprings) to go to the nearby sari-sari store to ask for a can of sardines an hour before meal time so she could feed all of us including my father. So, I grew up seeing poverty, around me and even at our very home.

I would imagine that the hunger described in the book would be shocking to some especially those living in the First World where, if you are jobless, you can file for bankruptcy and you live on welfare and you line up whenever there are some charitable organizations are distributing rations of canned goods for poor people. Then you don’t feel hungry anymore. For us in the Third World country, you either beg (and normally no one at some point would help you) or steal (that will make you end up dead or in jail). My point is that, even if my heart bled for the man and the boy, the hunger and the sickness that they went through were not shocking at all. If I just open my eyes and detour from my normal daily home-office-home route, I should be able to see them by rolling my car off by some few meters.

It seemed to me that McCarthy, after thinking of a fantastic theme, did not know even bother to write a decent profile (in the writing workshop I attended, this is called the character’s resume) for his main characters. What happened in that cataclysmic event? Could they not just stay at home and the man defend himself and the boy againts attackers just like why Robert Neville did in Richard Matheson’s I am Legend? True that there was snow, could the man not have thought of something to insulate the wall or burn fire wood in their house’s or somebody’s house’s chimney? The boy kept on addressing the man “Papa” (and this pinched my heart each time) but why did the man never addressed him “son”? Why did the mother kill herself? Considering the man’s fortitude, why did the father not do anything drastically to prevent it?

I know that I may be a minority her but I just did not get the whole thing. True that it was a good different book from the many that I’ve read so far. It was just that when I finally closed the book, it had an repugnant aftertaste: bitter and plastic.
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Dec 12, 2007 Nick rated it 2 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: i-want-my-time-back, apocolyptic

I wrestled with a final rating for this. "The Road" definitely has merit. The style is purposefully minimalist. As others have noted there are very few apostrophe's, no commas, no quotation marks. The font is dull. The paragraphs carry extra spacing. The words are clipped. This all works very well for setting the atmosphere.

As others have offered it is also not the job of the author to explain away all questions. Leaving a sense of mystery can be very good for a story. We should expect that in t...more I wrestled with a final rating for this. "The Road" definitely has merit. The style is purposefully minimalist. As others have noted there are very few apostrophe's, no commas, no quotation marks. The font is dull. The paragraphs carry extra spacing. The words are clipped. This all works very well for setting the atmosphere.

As others have offered it is also not the job of the author to explain away all questions. Leaving a sense of mystery can be very good for a story. We should expect that in the end there should be some questions left unanswered. We should expect this all the more when the story is written in a third person form that has a nearly claustrophobic attachment to the characters perspective.

However, we should always expect the story to make sense based on what we know of how the world works. The setting is not just furniture. This is true in all settings, even fantasy and science fiction. In Tolkien's world dragons may breath fire but apples still fall down. As the setting becomes grittier we should expect the rules to be tighter and more menacing.

Unfortunately, rules don't apply in "The Road". We are presented with an apocalyptic world where every meal counts and where people have turned to cannibalism to survive. And here we are presented with our first problem. Cannibalism as a survival technique isn't very efficient. Eating people that are emaciated by hunger doesn't result in a good transfer of calories. Yet the book strongly implies that the cannibalistic cults have been active for years.

Also odd is that they have avoided the bodies. The father and son are constantly coming across corpses. Some of them still smell. More than a few are mummified. Why not boil those down, since they seem to be plentiful, before having to chase and hunt humans "on the hoof"? It isn't that this makes the cults suicidal and stupid, the problem is that there is no reason for them still existing.

There are other logical inconstancies. The father and son eat dried apples from a field in a world were clouds, rain, and snow seem to be constant. How exactly are they dry? The sun can't dry them out and neither can the heat. All of that is gone.

Nothing grows except one instance of fungus. If everything is dead, except the humans, where did the fungus come from? If fungus survived, why not moss? After all of this time why isn't life coming back? Even Chernobyl is virtual a parkland now. There appears to be no radiation in this world yet nothing lives, why? There are fires being set by the cults yet houses, and the author spends some time describing what is wooden frame construction sitting next to the burnt out houses, still stand. Fires are also being set to what, charcoal? The author doesn't have to explain all of these things, but he does have to be consistent.

Since humans, lumbering giants at the tip of the food pyramid, survived he has to show what happened to the mice. And no, canned food doesn't count. Even a survivalist will only pack enough for his family for six months to a few years. The book implies that the son was born at the time of the disaster and he's old enough now to hold a conversation and be useful which implies that he's at least four years old. Why isn't the food all gone? Given that nothing lives, why not avoid the calorie expenditure and sit on any store of food you find rather than tromping through freezing weather to find the shore. Most critical of all, if there is a reason, why not impart this reason to your son?

Since the book never answers these questions it has to rely on style, which is done well, and a questionable emotional appeal. It is, in many ways, the worst of modern decadence. It expects us to not ask any important questions about the setting and instead feel for the horrors that the characters face. It is a very subtle and powerful form of emotional blackmail. It teaches us to be less than human, to fear and not to think about what we fear.(less)

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Feb 06, 2011 Mariel rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition Recommends it for: post apocalyptic roaches

Recommended to Mariel by: al gore

My pet gator, Gatorella (her sex is not in question. I didn't check but she does wear a bow on her head), said that The Road is the saddest book she has ever seen me read. "There were no alligators!" Well, yeah, but it was freezing. "But gators outlived the dinosaurs! We are indestructible! And where were all of the cockroaches?" She has a point. That is really sad. Cockroaches are supposed to outlive us all. Who is going to read Macbeth when all of the people are gone? Who will dust the debris...more

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Mar 03, 2009 Mike rated it 3 of 5 stars · review of another edition

This wasn't nearly as funny as everybody says it is.

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May 23, 2008 Sdsouza rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

This review has been hidden because it contains spoilers. To view it, click here.

Immersed in the world of The Road, I wrote a review for my blog, and rambling though it is, thought i'll include it here :

What can you say about a seventy four year old author who has been interviewed by the media just thrice? That his work is dark and luminous? That he brings to life the contemplation of death? That he loves Dostoevsky, Faulkner and Melville, in alphabetical order?

I knew very little about Cormac McCarthy until I heard that he had won the Pulitzer Prize for The Road. Last Monda

...more

Immersed in the world of The Road, I wrote a review for my blog, and rambling though it is, thought i'll include it here :

What can you say about a seventy four year old author who has been interviewed by the media just thrice? That his work is dark and luminous? That he brings to life the contemplation of death? That he loves Dostoevsky, Faulkner and Melville, in alphabetical order?

I knew very little about Cormac McCarthy until I heard that he had won the Pulitzer Prize for The Road. Last Monday, a two hour wait for a delayed flight at the Chennai airport sent me into a bookstore. Going in to check for Vikram Chandra's Sacred Games, I ended up purchasing The Road, Peter Carey's Theft and John Updike's Terrorist. Cormac came first, since I hadn't read any of his work. I finished The Road in a couple of flights, and cab rides in Delhi and Bangalore.

Warning : Plot details follow -

The back of the book says "A father and his young son walk alone through burned America, heading slowly for the coast. Nothing moves in the ravaged landscape save the ash on the wind. They have nothing but a pistol to defend themselves against the men who stalk the road, the clothes they are wearing, a cart of scavenged food - and each other." That is one more hyphen than I found anywhere in the novel itself. The pistol is to ensure that the two can kill themselves before being taken by others who will ensure a slow, horrible death. The world is disintegrating, even "the names of things slowly following those things into oblivion". What is left of humanity reverts to barbaric practices.

The first thing that strikes you about the book is the form rather than the content - Spare prose that somehow is denser than the richest writing possible. An eschewal of punctuation that doesn't seem contrived. Words like rimstone, slutlamp, gryke, riprap, gambreled, and these in just the first 16 pages of the paperback, unfamiliar but evocative.

The atmosphere of much of The Road is laden with futility. Deep stone flues where the water dripped and sang. Tolling in the silence the minutes of the earth and the hours and the days of it and the years without cease. Yet the father and son carry within them a fire that smoulders on against the nothingness that surrounds. A blushing Cormac admits in an interview that the novel can be seen as a love story for his son. He describes an incident in his relatively recent fatherhood as the spark that created the story. The love blazes through the novel and culminates in a climax that appropriately has been described as redemptive.

Apocalpyse and its aftermath have been imagined for centuries. Yeats' The Second Coming has always been a favourite verse of mine. I can't help noticing some connections between his poem and Cormac's prose -

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Like the great pendulum in its rotunda scribing through the long day movements of the universe of which you may say it knows nothing and yet know it must.

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, ...
... twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

... a creature that raised its dripping mouth from the rimstone pool and stared into the light with eyes dead white and sightless as the eggs of spiders. Crouching there pale and naked and translucent, its alabaster bones cast up in shadow .. It .. gave out a low moan and turned and lurched away and loped soundlessly into the dark.

Yet the connection could be more due to the lyricism of The Road, rather than any allegory the two have in common.

The book has been received with acclaim, and Cormac talks of it in a rare interview. He says it is just about the boy and the man on the road, but obviously you can draw conclusions about all sorts of things. License having been given, I speculate about the Biblical themes in the novel. The Man and the Son of Man. In this case, it is not the Son who (though he loves the world entire) gives his life up, but the Father. In so doing, he provides the only light in a dark story - salvation for his only beloved Son who is then enfolded by the rest of good humanity.

A cataclysm that sounds like the casting out of Man from Eden. The Woman who succumbs to temptation - this time taking Death for a lover as she cannot face continued existence. A house that the Man enters after they have run out of food - there is seemingly nothing in it, but the Man stops on the grass half-faint. He looks back to see the Son watching him. Suddenly he seems to find the ground beneath him special. It is - a bunker with a huge cache of food lies beneath. Food that is like the multiplying of loaves and fish. A prophetic voice in the wilderness that does not see any sense in prophesying - People were always getting ready for tomorrow. I didn't believe in that. Tomorrow wasn't getting ready for them. It didn't even know they were there.

The pivot in the book seems to be the discovery of a stranded sailboat by the man and the boy. Named Pajaro de Esperanza, or the Bird of Hope, it evokes the Trinity completed by the Holy Ghost, who is usually depicted as a dove. It also brings to mind an Emily Dickinson poem, Hope is the Thing with Feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Dickinson of course lived a hermetic life, much as Cormac McCarthy seems to. To return to the novel, it gathers pace after the man and the boy retrieve as much as they can from the boat (leaving behind a sextant - a beautiful object but of no use in a world in which precise navigation is pointless). The boy sickens with fever and recovers, only for them to find that all their belongings are stolen. When they catch up with the thief and repossess their cart, something changes. The boy has always had compassion for the stray humans and animals they come across in their wanderings. The man ignores them as much as he can in his desire to keep the boy safe. After the latest encounter, the father says to the boy, You are not the one who has to worry about everything. Yes I am the boy replies, I am the one.

After this pronouncement, there seems to be very little left to do, except for them to reach the south and the Father to hand over the flame to humans. Yet those undertones seem to come to nothing. The religious symbolism does not resolve into anything explicit, which is just as well. Like a reviewer says, if we do destroy the planet it will be [perfectly plausible that it is:] because of religious faith and not in spite of it.

In a 1992 interview, Cormac comments "There's no such thing as life without bloodshed. I think the notion that the species can be improved in some way, that everyone could live in harmony, is a really dangerous idea. Those who are afflicted with this notion are the first ones to give up their souls, their freedom. Your desire that it be that way will enslave you and make your life vacuous." The realization that I can be eaten by my neighbour when the planet immolates and the local grocery store stops delivering food is one that will clarify the priorities in my life, I think. I do not jest. The casual cannibalism in the book is shocking. The immediacy of portents on our planet that can result in the world of The Road lets me know how powerless I am, and a vast majority of humanity is, in shaping our future. A few men and women often deluded by the trappings of their office will dictate our legacy to our children.

There are very few words strung together of late with the power to bring tears to our eyes. Ten thousand years of history seem to render every generation a little more immune to the power of the written word. The Road reminds me how it was for a writer to take ahold of my mind and make it imagine. In the Oprah interview, Cormac talks of his life and how just when things were truly truly bleak, something totally unforeseen always happened. His novel is full of unforeseen events that allow the man and the boy to carry on, and the end must be the most unforeseen of them all, for a Cormac novel.

Oprah also asks him if he is passionate about writing and as he hesitates, describes how she goes around telling students to follow their passion. Cormac sets her down gently, calling passion a fancy word but says he likes what he does. I hope he continues to like writing and writes more than ever.

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May 06, 2007 Tom rated it 2 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: general-fiction, scifi-fantasy

Review for Chimes (May 11, 2007)

“The blackness he woke to on those nights was sightless and impenetrable. A blackness to hurt your ears with listening. Often he had to get up. No sound but the wind in the trees. He rose and stood tottering in that cold autistic dark with his arms outheld for balance while the vestibular calculations in his skull cranked out their reckonings.”

In his new novel “The Road,” Cormac McCarthy portrays the journey of a father and son across a bleak, post-apocalyptic wor...more

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Mar 04, 2008 Kristen rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Recommended to Kristen by: George Farrell

This review has been hidden because it contains spoilers. To view it, click here. In his latest novel, The Road, Pulitzer-prize winning author Cormac McCarthy chronicles the journey of a father and son in a post-apocalyptic world, where everything that made the world a beautiful place has been destroyed. Lacking civilization, the only ones that remain are victims of the unknown catastrophe desperately searching for salvation (the good guys) and those who have converted into cannibalism, victimizing passersby, to stay alive (the bad guys). The Road is a remarkably written nove...more In his latest novel, The Road, Pulitzer-prize winning author Cormac McCarthy chronicles the journey of a father and son in a post-apocalyptic world, where everything that made the world a beautiful place has been destroyed. Lacking civilization, the only ones that remain are victims of the unknown catastrophe desperately searching for salvation (the good guys) and those who have converted into cannibalism, victimizing passersby, to stay alive (the bad guys). The Road is a remarkably written novel, engaging the reader in a world of despair and hopelessness with language arranged so elegantly, it leaves images in your mind you never would have dreamed of.

The father and son, both unnamed and without age, are suffering from starvation, the suicide of a wife and mother, and winter’s frigid weather. They embark on a journey to reach the southeastern United States, in order to have a chance at life in a warm climate, with the knowledge that they may not be able to survive the winter. The father is devoted to keeping his son safe from attack and somewhat adequately nourished while trying to avoid thoughts of his wife’s death that seem to haunt both him and the son throughout the story. They find abandoned carts and houses full of food, but not without consequence. Human remains are scattered all over the landscape and the child has seen so much more than any adult in our world has likely ever witnessed. Despite having a childhood tainted with such gruesomeness, the son seems to be certain there exists some kind of ethical humanity beyond the melancholic road they are traveling.

As a student with grammatical and mechanical rules embedded into my brain, I couldn’t help but cringe at the run-on, punctuation-less sentences; but as a lover of words and the power that they hold, I put my years of English class knowledge behind me and embraced the fantastic imagery. The world McCarthy creates is so dreary that when he refers to “dead limbs” in the woods, one cannot be sure whether he means broken tree branches or human extremities. He paints such a dull, gloomy life that even the snowflakes, one of nature’s most beautiful and intricate creations, are gray from the ash covering the earth.

McCarthy makes us wonder what our own lives would be like post-apocalypse. He forces us to question ourselves: Would I be able to survive? Would I have the strength to bear all the things that they have endured? There are no laws, no rules to live by, no sense of order in that world. The only true form of currency is the heartache those who are still alive feel for their past, present, and future.

At first, I thought the only shortcoming of this novel lay in the conversation between father and son. The age of the son is unknown, though it is a common conception that he between six and eight years old. Repetitive and monotonous, I initially considered the dialogue hard to accept as realistic between a father and a child of that age. The more I thought about it, however, the more I came to believe that the exchanges of words were a mere representation of the world they lived in, which is exactly that: repetitive and monotonous. I suppose in a life after the apocalypse, there is nothing left to say. All the stories have been told, all questions have been asked, all memories have been recalled.

McCarthy’s choice of words in The Road create graphic and disturbing images in your mind. He describes a house filled with human bodies, both dead and barely alive, kept hostage by cannibalistic maniacs. He goes into great detail about the bodies strewn about, burned alive in their final resting place. Though his imagery bordered terrifying at times, what upset me the most was the colossal fear and desperation that lead the father to hand his son a pistol and tell him to commit suicide if the bad guys found him. “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 up. Do it quick and hard. Stop crying. Do you understand?” The idea of that tore through me; I couldn’t wrap my mind around such a horrific experience for a child.

For a novel in which nothing major occurs or is accomplished, The Road has a stunning way of keeping the reader engaged. It is simply a story of a journey for a father and son who are just trying to stay alive. Cormac McCarthy truly has a gift for language and creates a world for the reader he or she never would have imagined. The fluidity of words makes for a graceful storytelling of the unconscionable. While The Road offers a dark, gloomy post-apocalyptic tale that is nothing short of depressing, the beautiful vocabulary and imagery are what makes it so difficult to put down. I recommend this novel to those who are intrigued by language, and take time to think about life in ways they have never before.

~ wrote this for class
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Dec 29, 2012 Lou rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: re-read-list

The living is sparse
a few walk upon the land.

The two of us, my son and i
Wonder the land constantly on the move,
never in one place for more than a night
we eat what we can find.
Canned fruit in high numbers.

My younger companion is constantly asking me questions of which the answer I can't really give honestly
Will we meet some good people?
How many are alive?
When will the road end and how?
When the food is no more will people yonder resort to eating each other?

In the quite times when I watch over h...more

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Jan 31, 2009 Robin rated it 1 of 5 stars · review of another edition Recommends it for: No one

Recommended to Robin by: Book Club

Shelves: bad-books, not-worth-it

This review has been hidden because it contains spoilers. To view it, click here. So I generally don't hate books - Recently when joining a face2face club they asked which book I disliked the most - and had no answer. Well I want to thank Cormac McCarthy for giving me something to be able to put there.

Having heard the buzz about this book and having seen the plethora of positive reviews, I felt compelled to write my own if only to be that voice of reason in a wilderness of pretentious insanity.

Cormac’s McCarthy’s The Road, I can honestly say, is the worst book I have ever re...more

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Sep 17, 2007 Lori rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition Recommends it for: everyone

Shelves: fricken-awesome, apocalyptic-fiction

Ok. I know that nothing I can say can do this book justice.

I will say that it is beautifully written. The characters have no names. The land has no name. Everything is covered in ash from something that happened but that we the reader are not meant to know of.

The author uses simple, straight foward words to pull you into the landscape, to yank you off your couch, or out of your bed, and put you out there in the cold, walking side by side with the father and the son, walking the road.....survivi...more

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May 25, 2010 Kat Kennedy rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: contemporary-fiction, kat-s-book-reviews

Sometimes you enjoy a book so immensely, that you give it several stars even though there were some things in the story that you had reservations about. I was like this with the Fever Series. The enjoyment I received from the book far outweighed some small character problems I had.

The Road is different. It is actually brilliantly written. So wonderful in its prose and the thought behind every word that I had to give it four stars despite the immense heartache it gave me.

It would have received fi...more

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Jun 25, 2012 Jason Koivu rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Everyone warned me it was depressing, but I read it anyway. I read it anyway because each and every one of those people also said The Road was really great. They were right. With masterstrokes of economic elegance, McCarthy colors his spartan, post-apocalyptic landscape, bringing a barren world to life in all its misery. The characters are developed only as deeply as necessary, showing admirable restraint by the author. Yet even with the barest of bare essentials a character could possess (they...more

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Apr 23, 2012 Jonathan rated it 1 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: popularity-contest

The Herald claims this novel as "a masterpiece that will soon become a classic." I cannot believe they are referring to this novel The Road. Or surely the entire quote is missing the big "NOT" in front of it? For this is perhaps the worst story I have ever read. Overhyped, overly nihilistic, perhaps even overly sentimental in some eyes and appearing to possess depth while lacking it.

I love books and there are few books I don't enjoy in some measure. Most books have something to offer morally, en...more

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Jan 27, 2010 C. rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Recommended to C. by: Ben Morgan

Shelves: dystopias-utopias-apocalyptic, 2010

When I was about fifteen, I watched American History X. And it was, I guess, really good. It was shocking, and it was brutal, and I think it made me cry. It probably crushed some of my illusions at just the right time.

But was it that great? Quite apart from the fact that the ending was a cop-out, I'm not convinced. I have this niggling worm of a feeling somewhere deep inside my inner ear that it's somehow... easier to write (or make films about) deep heavy shit like that. You know, all happy fa...more When I was about fifteen, I watched American History X. And it was, I guess, really good. It was shocking, and it was brutal, and I think it made me cry. It probably crushed some of my illusions at just the right time.

But was it that great? Quite apart from the fact that the ending was a cop-out, I'm not convinced. I have this niggling worm of a feeling somewhere deep inside my inner ear that it's somehow... easier to write (or make films about) deep heavy shit like that. You know, all happy families are the same, all unhappy families are different in their own way kind of thing. For all that I love extreme racial tension and post-apocalyptic journeys, I'm much more impressed by a book about a woman going to buy some flowers. I'd rather read about some ordinary girl trying to decide who to marry than about death and destruction. Provided it's beautifully written and perfectly realised, of course (which it has been. Extra points if you can guess which books I'm referring to). This is Tolstoy to Chekhov stuff, and I choose Chekhov.

But really, what the fuck am I talking about? This book was very nearly great. The pacing was brilliant, I liked the weird new vocabulary and the lack of punctuation, the dialogue between the man and the boy was brilliant. And I've always thought that despite almost everything, life was still worth living because of the art and the music and the sheer inexplicable worthiness of learning stuff. But here you have a book where all of those things are gone. Every single book was swollen with damp! I could deal with everything else, but a post-apocalyptic world without books, I couldn't deal with. But then at the end it turned out there was something to live for, and I won't spoil it, it's clichéd enough to guess, but well done enough that it doesn't matter. Tears are cheap, but I didn't shed any.

So I liked it a lot, and I'm going to go see the movie when it comes out ($6 tickets at Nova on a Monday, bargain), and what's more I'm going to hope the movie doesn't slaughter the book, and I'm going to avoid Justin Clemens' discussion of same, because he's an idiot.

I also think there may well be something in what Bram said in his review:

"I bet more than a few writers and would-be writers read this and thought, “Damn, if only I had written this first,” rather than the actually true statement of “Damn, I wish I could write something like this.” "

But I didn't love this book. I still prefer Chekhov.(less)

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Oct 30, 2008 Chris rated it 1 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Recommended to Chris by: Clack....what did I ever do to you!

I’m trying to find solace in the fact that I’m probably not the only one to be humiliatingly hoodwinked into taking the time to read Cormac McCarthy’s much-celebrated yawn-fest “The Road”, although this hardly makes this bamboozling something to boast about. In spite of the fact approximately three-fourths of the world seemed to readily embrace this as worthy fare, I managed to keep my distance for some time, mainly through ignorance of the general plot of the book and my usual stubborn reluctan...more I’m trying to find solace in the fact that I’m probably not the only one to be humiliatingly hoodwinked into taking the time to read Cormac McCarthy’s much-celebrated yawn-fest “The Road”, although this hardly makes this bamboozling something to boast about. In spite of the fact approximately three-fourths of the world seemed to readily embrace this as worthy fare, I managed to keep my distance for some time, mainly through ignorance of the general plot of the book and my usual stubborn reluctance to blindly jump off a bridge with the masses. I should have obeyed my gut instinct and remained one of the few spared the tedium of “The Road”, but then I had to go and actually examine a copy from a carefully-arranged pile resembling some kaleidoscopic, symmetrical form that some unfortunate, underpaid bookslut had to labor over for hours to create, and noticed that not only did this win the Pulitzer Prize, but happened to be a post-apocalyptic tale, and nothing stirs my loins nearly as vigorously. I’d even had it suggested by one of my fellow goodreaders, and after brief contemplation as to whether to waste my money on this alleged masterpiece or another box of nitrous cartridges, I decided that it was time to see what all the fuss was about (regarding “The Road”, I think I can understand the allure of the EZ Whip cream chargers, especially when you’ve got one of those bigass punch-ball balloons).

I sat in a numbed stupor while I read this, completely baffled as to how the hell this managed not only to win awards of great prestige, but, more importantly, just how it managed to be a commercial success with the ordinary reader. I’m almost interested to hear why someone might have actually enjoyed “The Road”, in which McCarthy somehow managed to make boring the concept of post-apocalyptic America. While I usually happen to be a fan of the genre, I found this to be everything which I don’t desire within that intriguing realm. At this point, I’m obviously begging for someone to come along and tell me that I ‘didn’t get it’, and probably point out that I’m a moron for good measure. I’m not denying that these are certainly valid arguments, but convincing me that I didn’t like this book is going to be impossible, my cheeky little friend.

So, what did I get from “The Road”, which stupefies me with its status as a #1 bestseller and Pulitzer-winning tour de force? Several things, all of them sucky; a whole lot of repetitive and boring conversation and redundant let’s-trek-towards-the-coast plodding, a lot of stupidass and harebrained compoundwords, and an insipid amalgam of fiftyword paragraphs that seldom accomplished anything as far as entertaining me as a reader.

Here’s the story in a nutshell, for anyone who might be inexplicably reading this without having read the book; probably because they were wise enough to invest in the EZ Whip instead, and are now dicking around with their iTunes trying to find the song that best complements that flanging sound in their head. Some sort of catastrophe has befallen planet Earth, and I have to admit I was pretty interested to find out the nature of this calamity, but McCarthy decides to keep that a secret for some reason beyond my grasp, maybe as the highlight of “The Road 2: Thoroughfare”. Ok, I can dig it, whatever it was, I know that it had no trouble fucking up Earth’s weak and fragile little blue ass. Score; Unexplained Devastating Event 1, Earth 0. Does it really matter what might have happened, seeing as all it resulted in was the end of almost all life as we know it? Actually, yeah, the lack of any sort of input regarding the origin of this chain of events does suck, and badly. Score: Utter Buffoonishness 1, Cormac McCarthy 0.

In the wake of, well, whatever cataclysmic shit happened, we’ve got a father and son struggling to survive in the resulting aftermath, and things aren’t very promising for this enterprising duo, as whatever wiped out the inhabitants of planet earth also eradicated not only all plant and animal life, but in a shocking display of sheer spite also managed to do away with quotation marks, colons, semicolons, and most hyphens. Survivors of this worldwide holocaust are few and far between: scattered bands of humans that have largely resorted to thuggishness and cannibalism for lack of other hobbies or nutrition, a few mushrooms, and question marks, periods, and a wily subset of apostrophes have managed to escape extermination. The father and son have managed to eke out a regrettable existence for an unknown number of years, and the approaching winter promises to be outrageously cold, so they make way for an unnamed southern coastline, where I can only presume they're expecting to encounter something more accommodating.

Their journey is perhaps the most ridiculously boring shit I’ve ever read. They push a shopping cart along with their scant supplies while alternately stomping through ash and sleeping in ditches. Once in a while they encounter another survivor, each meeting completely preposterous and without substance. They ransack homes and forage for food, they abandon the weak and feeble, they ramble incessantly, engaging in snippets of pointless conversation, usually about how they cannot give up, as they are ‘carrying the fire’. I’m assuming that ‘the fire’ is the inextinguishable hope for mankind, a barely flickering light personified in the child, or maybe the fact that any chance of repopulating may depend on their ash-coated and unwashed swinging schlongs, who the hell knows, the ‘fire’ could be their undiminished belief in god which they’ll impart on the cannibal savages running unchecked when not feasting on fetus.

That’s it. Seriously, that’s the story, and I’ve long since abandoned any attempt to discover what all the hype surrounding this supposed ‘story’ is.

Despite my generally low opinion of our collective taste as a species, I found myself shocked that “The Road” was deemed favorable by so many. But what I really can’t wrap my head around is the critical acclaim, which applauds this for reasons I’ll never understand, and sincerely hope the critics don’t either. I found the storytelling utterly regrettable and lacking in all possible aspects, once in a while McCarthy bizarrely waxed poetic, and he also made the completely unforgivable mistake of mentioning how the ‘sun went around the earth’, which, if intended to be literal, at least offers an explanation as to why the planet is becoming so inhospitable. Otherwise, all Cormac has to offer is a bunch of really short, uninteresting sentences, banal murmurings between father and son, and a whole lot of tedium. I might almost be impressed that on several occasions McCarthy busted out some word which I’ve previously never seen before in my life (woad and siwash come to mind, both forever burnt in my brain as examples of meaningless gibberish), but when the use of these words is considered next to the rest of the prose, composed of rudimentary language, all it called to mind was the disheartening suspicion that McCarthy stumbled across these relics from some Word-Of-The-Day vocabulary-enhancing calendar, making them seem improbably forced into the story:

June 14th: WOAD: n, some absurd, obscure shit.

“Hmmmm,” Cormac ponders this treasure, “I may have to have the protagonists come across a load of woad.” He chuckles idiotically. “A load. Heh. Of woad. Heh heh.”

While the Woad Incident was bad enough, McCarthy also uses ‘wonky’. Christ, the last time I heard wonky used was in Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome, coming from Master Blaster. This made for a pretty fitting connection between the two, both being pieces of post-apocalyptic poodle piddle. After getting an unsavory sampling of the author’s propensity for rarely-seen words, I was half expecting to see rampike, which would have actually worked in the context of the story on countless occasions, but apparently that one was included in Roget’s Word-Of-The-Day and our man McCarthy was given the Merriam-Webster last Christmas.

Now I’m just nit-picking, for lack of anything else to comment on, since this was so devoid of action, intrigue, or anything remotely thought-provoking.
(less)

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Feb 06, 2011 Ian rated it 1 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: best-sellers-that-suck, unfulfilled-expectations, not-for-kids

I just read some guy's review of The Road that contained the following:

"In the three hours that I read this book I found myself crying, laughing, shouting, and most of the time my lip was trembling. ... As soon as I finished it, I sat there feeling numb, but not in a bad way, actually sort of like I was high."

Wow, dude. I mean, really? Your lip was trembling? And you felt high? And your lip was trembling? Pherphuxake, what do you even say to someone like that?
------------------------------------...more

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view all 23 comments

Christine I hated it too. Just because I don't like a book does not mean that it is a bad book, however, it was dry and there are numerous books that do this bl...more
Aug 19, 2012 05:32pm

Steph Campbell Woah, that was a rant and a half.
I resepect your opinion and can see where you are coming from, but as a 15 year old who loves science fiction and ad...more Woah, that was a rant and a half.
I resepect your opinion and can see where you are coming from, but as a 15 year old who loves science fiction and adventure novels I would like to say I loved this book.
I'd never read any of McCarthy's books before and I agree that judging by the quote you used he sounds like a bit of an arse. But that doesn't have much to do with the writing really, other than the lack of punctuation which overall didn't really bother me whilst reading it. I can see how it would bother some people, but surely as a book lover you can get over it easily enough.
I think you are however missing the point of this book. The list of things you put that the book lacks do not add up to the equation of a good novel in my eyes at all. The Cathcer in The Rye, one of the most critically acclaimed books of all time, doesn't have a solid plot line or paticularly well developed characters, yet I have never met a person that has read it who can't relate to Holden in one way or another.
Aside from that I think you have missed the main situation these characters are in, which was the reason I respected them from the moment I learned it anyway. They make mistakes and then have to make more in order to survive; you can't learn from mistakes in a world where taking risks is your only option.
And as for the settings and history being ambiguos, from what I gathered that was the point. This book wasn't trying to prove anything from where it was set, or the background that it had; the overall aim was to tell the story of a father and his son, which I think was acheived incredibly. Both of the characters develop over the novel, not immediatley, as they discovering more about themselves and one another with each obstacle the road throws at them, despite as you say yourself both coming from different worlds. The man is hardened by his experiences and the loss of his world, whereas the boy is innocent and naive, born into a world where horror is the norm. It shows the contrast beautifully. And that I think was McCarthy's main aim.
If you say that a father remebering the old world and trying to prevent his child from becoming a monster beacuse of the new one would make a great book, then I think you should consider re-reading this. There are various situations where the father is ultimatley torn between doing what he considers is best for his son and what his son thinks is right; it always results in the second.(less)
Feb 08, 2013 11:30am

Mar 23, 2013 Enrique rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: favorites, reviewed

http://www.librarything.com/work/1222...

12 likes · like · see review

Jul 25, 2008 Charissa rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition Recommends it for: those who wish to stare into the eternal abyss of despair

Recommended to Charissa by: Donald, that bastard

Shelves: apocalypse, dystopia, literature

This is the bleakest book I have ever crawled inside. When I wake up in the morning after having gone to sleep reading it, it's as if the grit of ashes is still caught in my eyelashes. The desperation of the man clutches around my heart. I have known that horror and loss of hope, if only for fleeting moments. I know the chasm this character teeters at the edge of. Oh this is the abyss we all frantically, busily keep ourselves distracted from knowing. Cormac McCarthy drags us through it, unflinch...more

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topics	posts	views	last activity
Mr. Householder's...: Fathers death	27	31	2 hours, 48 min ago
Mr. Householder's...: Fathers lies	17	30	4 hours, 18 min ago
Mr. Householder's...: how is the book?	13	31	4 hours, 31 min ago
Mr. Householder's...: The thief?	14	24	6 hours, 10 min ago
Mr. Householder's...: Why are the characters nameless?	30	49	May 20, 2013 07:28am
Mr. Householder's...: How would you react?	35	46	May 20, 2013 06:38am
Books2Movies Club: The Road - A Novel	13	64	May 19, 2013 06:51am

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