Some Thoughts on Cormac McCarthy
Some novels open spiritual doors. Hesse’s Steppenwolf is one. When I read it in my late teens, while in the army in Germany, it made me sane. I knew that there was someone in the world who thought like I did — that I wasn’t entirely loopy. Google loop garoo some time. You’ll know what I mean. The best guitarist ever, Roy Buchanan, when asked why he played so well, replied that he was half wolf.
Kerouac’s On the Road, the first blues novel, killed me, too. Telling a story via bop rhythm and jazz colorizations was just too hip. It didn’t have much to do with structure or plot, other than on a minimal level; it was about that same loop garoo yearning expressed in the frenetic Chicago blues of Muddy Waters, James Cotton, and yes, Howling Wolf. Ramblin’ Jack picked up on the mantric qualities of what was to become Rock and Roll. Wop Bop A Lula Walla Lop Bam Boom. Chant my mantra.
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, completes a triad; a bent seven chord, down and dirty. Ken Kesey re-told the gospel in a madhouse. Incipient evil personified in a sterile white nurse dispensing eucharistic soma to calm the maladjusted and rowdy into valium-induced submissiveness. R. P. McMurphy died for your sins.
Now there is a prophet loose in the land and his name is Cormac McCarthy. He bends language to his will and creates works of stark, stunning beauty. There are none remotely like him. Everything in American literature to date has been a pre-cursor to his work. Yes, he’s that good. I strongly urge everyone I know to find his work and read it.
For the first time in a long, long time, there is someone who gives me hope.
Ahh I had a Steppenwolf moment too. I will have to look into the other three books. I like the vibe on your blog lately. Satire was good, but it’s nice to get more of an idea of what you think, straight-up.