One Last Bundle: The Beginning of the End of Summer Reading

I’ve been working through the catalog of Cormac McCarthy. So far I’ve read The Road, No Country for Old Men, Blood Meridian, and a few days ago I started The Border Triology—All the Pretty Horses, The Crossing, and Cities of the Plain. The Border Trilogy is the beginning of what I imagine will be the end of my summer pleasure reading. After I finish it, it’s down to the four books I picked up at King Library this hot Sunday afternoon. So, what have I chosen to spend my precious final month reading? When We Were Orphans by Kazuo Ishiguro, Fuck You—Aloha—I Love You by Juliana Spahr, Slouching Towards Bethlehem by Joan Didion, and Matinees by Ange Mlinko.

I’m hoping Mlinko will last until the beginning of my road trip east, because poetry is great for trips—lots of easy stopping points. As for Spahr, I’m sort of reading her to see what the buzz is about. I’ve been reading her blog, swoonrocket (check the links on the bottom right, I’ve been adding some) and it’s funny how bare and minimalist it is. Juliana Spahr wants to have a blog, but the aethetics show that Juliana Spahr does not care about her blog. C'mon, JS, at least give us a profile pic!

As for The Border Trilogy, it’s wonderful so far, addicting in the way that Blood Meridian was, but more relatable, tangible. The Judge always made things really weird. He reminds me of the dragon at the beginning of The Road.

I always forget how poetic McCarthy is, as I read the beginning of All the Pretty Horses I was reminded of something a teacher once told my class: “Repetition is a staple of poetry.” It’s also a staple of Cormac McCarthy. Here’s the first paragraph:

The candleflame and the image of the candleflame caught in the pierglass and twisted and righted when he entered the hall and again when he shut the door. He took off his hat and came slowly forward. The floorboards creaked under his boots. In his black suit he stood in the dark glass where the lilies leaned so palely from their waisted cutglass vase. Along the cold hallway behind him hung the portraits of forbears only dimly known to him all framed in glass and dimly lit above the narrow wainscotting. He looked down at the guttered candlestub. He pressed his thumbprint in the warm wax pooled on the oak veneer. Lastly, he looked at the face so caved and drawn among the folds of funeral cloth, the yellowed mustache, the eyelids paper thin. That was not sleeping. That was not sleeping.

Isn't the end great? It's like the paragraph skims from narration to John Grady Cole's thoughts. And there’s so much repetition in this initial section, of all different kinds. Repetition of words, of phrases, of images, and of sentence structure. I kept thinking about this how this would look with line breaks.

Another thing about McCarthy is his commas. A lot of writers—and I’m terrible about this—really abuse the comma, inserting one every time they want a slight pause. CM avoids them, even in his dialogue, which is a riot. He doesn’t use quotations marks either, so every now and then there’s a disjoint when I think I’m reading dialogue but it turns out to be narration, and sometimes I lose track of who's talking and have to reread. I loved this early exchange between John Grady Cole and his father, after the boy’s grandfather has died:

She’s gone to San Antonio, the boy said.
Don’t call her she.
Mama.
I know it.
They drank their coffee.
What do you aim to do?
About what?
About anything.
She can go where she wants to.
The boy watched him. You aint got no business smokin them things, he said.
His father pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the table and looked up. When I come around askin you what I’m supposed to do you’ll know you’re big enough to tell me, he said.
Yessir.
You need any money?
No.
He watched the boy. You’ll be all right, he said.

Well, back to reading instead of blogging about reading.