
A White-Line Nightmare, After the End of the World
It looks like Cormac McCarthy is wasting away. Once he was prolix, stuffing big fat novels with long, trailing sequences of curious, chewy words. The prose was rich, the thick paragraphs daunting. He was compared to Faulkner, to Melville. Try reading aloud selected passages from his baroque masterpiece, Blood Meridian (1985), and you’ll soon find Read More


