While in Utah recently, I finally read Cormac McCarthy's The Road. I expected to read a few pages; a friend had suggested I look at McCarthy's compression of language.
I picked the book up and never put it down.
The Road is part Hemingway (The Old Man and the Sea) and part Dante (The Inferno). Somehow, with very little information and very few pages, I found I cared deeply about what happened with this father and son.
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and i'm still mad at mccarthy--but that's the sign of a great novelist--i cared about someone who doesn't exist...
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