As a writer, I was intrigued and impressed. As a reader, I was confused beyond any help. The majority of my experience with The Road can be summed up with a single expression, which, for the my future's sake, shall not be displayed on the internet. I CAN tell you, however, that it is a look of deep consternation, which is often mistaken for pain or diarrhea.
Mostly the trouble came from something my AP Lang teacher taught me to think of: which is that no good writer will put something in a novel of this caliber for fun. Everything written is written with a purpose, and they have a goal in mind every time they decide to type. Which is pretty troubling, honestly. Because a lot of my time, with my expression, was spend pondering that very thing.
I couldn't quite grasp every purpose in The Road. I couldn't quite understand the importance of every part. I know there must've been a deeper level to the footprints on the sand, a deeper meaning to the thief stealing their food. There must have been a point to the old man's skepticism, but either it all pointed towards the same earlier easily accessible truths, or I'm challenged in some way. Most of the road's parts seemed to be pointing me towards the same thing: the boy is slowly losing the innocence his father so desperately clings to. Which is all well and good, and makes for excellent story-telling, obviously, but doesn't necessarily warrant 287 pages of small print.
I guess my point is that I genuinely tried to enjoy reading The Road. I feel like McCarthy had some important things to say, and I understood some of them. But I'm not sure that the three things I was able to discern really deserved a Pulitzer.
I have no problem with The Road. I just felt like I was on one nearly as torturous while reading it.
No comments:
Post a Comment