Reading Cormac McCarthy novels is like eating a really big meal with lots of awesome tastes thrown in - the most extravagant, impossible to pin down flavours you could ever imagine - but every once in awhile this withered old hobo comes in and sits down next to you, reeking of piss and peppermints and caked filth. As he picks his nose and wipes it on the sole of his shoe, he gives a soliloquy about man's place in the universe, the whims of fate, and the inscrutability of meaning.
Then he sodomizes the librarian sitting across the table to death and wears her labia as earmuffs for the rest of dinner. |
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