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The Border Trilogy #2
The Crossing
The Barnes & Noble Review
A legion of horribles, hundreds in number, half naked or clad in costumes attic or biblical or wardrobed out of a fevered dream with the skins of animals and silk finery and pieces of uniform still tracked with the blood of prior owners, coats of slain dragoons, frogged and braided cavalry jackets, one in a stovepipe hat and one with an umbrella and one in white stockings and a bloodstained weddingveil and some in headgear of cranefeathers or rawhide helmets that bore the horns of bull or buffalo and one in a pigeontailed coat worn backwards and otherwise naked and one in the armor of a spanish conquistador, the breastplate and pauldrons deeply dented with old blows of mace or sabre done in another country by men whose very bones were dust and many with their braids spliced up with the hair of other beasts until they trailed upon the ground and their horses' ears and tails worked with bits of brightly colored cloth and one whose horse's whole head was painted crimson red and all the horsemen's faces gaudy and grotesque with daubings like a company of mounted clowns, death hilarious, all howling in a barbarous tongue and riding down upon them like a horde from a hell more horrible yet than the brimstone land of christian reckoning, screeching and yammering and clothed in smoke like those vaporous beings in regions beyond right knowing where the eye wanders and the lip jerks and drools. Cormac McCarthy, BLOOD MERIDIAN
A legion of horribles, hundreds in number, half naked or clad in costumes attic or biblical or wardrobed out of a fevered dream with the skins of animals and silk finery and pieces of uniform still tracked with the blood of prior owners, coats of slain dragoons, frogged and braided cavalry jackets, one in a stovepipe hat and one with an umbrella and one in white stockings and a bloodstained weddingveil and some in headgear of cranefeathers or rawhide helmets that bore the horns of bull or buffalo and one in a pigeontailed coat worn backwards and otherwise naked and one in the armor of a spanish conquistador, the breastplate and pauldrons deeply dented with old blows of mace or sabre done in another country by men whose very bones were dust and many with their braids spliced up with the hair of other beasts until they trailed upon the ground and their horses' ears and tails worked with bits of brightly colored cloth and one whose horse's whole head was painted crimson red and all the horsemen's faces gaudy and grotesque with daubings like a company of mounted clowns, death hilarious, all howling in a barbarous tongue and riding down upon them like a horde from a hell more horrible yet than the brimstone land of christian reckoning, screeching and yammering and clothed in smoke like those vaporous beings in regions beyond right knowing where the eye wanders and the lip jerks and drools. Cormac McCarthy, BLOOD MERIDIAN
One sentence. This account of a Comanche attack is among the best and most famous in a novel full of hewn, harrowing sentences, not all of them nearly as long.The book begins with "See the child." It ends with "He says that he will never die." The sentence quoted above is followed, appropriately, by, "Oh my god, said the sergeant."
Long as the above sentence is, it is only superficially Faulknerian. It was written by a southerner, in a high style dense, yes, and biblical, too, but not so Latinate as Faulkner's. Its editor, Albert Erskine, was also for some time Faulkner's editor. It involves people on horses. Violence oozes from the prose's very cadences though McCarthy, especially in Blood Meridian, sometimes has in a single page more violence than Faulkner included in his entire body of work.
An athlete who bursts upon the scene will inevitably be compared glibly to the great ones who have come before ("the next Jordan"; "the next Willie Mays"; "the next Martina"). If the athlete attains greatness, the athlete is compared to no one, and others are compared to him. With writers, there are no box scores, only book reviews, and so this comparison rarely fully ceases until the writer is long dead. But when a writer is championed as an original by giants of the previous generation (Bellow, Ellison, Robert Penn Warren, Shelby Foote) and is compared by critics not only to the greatest of the great but also to a long list of extraordinarily different great writers, it's probably time for the comparisons to stop. Exhibit A: Cormac McCarthy, who has been compared on multiple occasions to Faulkner, Joyce, Hemingway, Melville, Beckett, Conrad, Proust, Twain, Poe, Paul Bowles, Owen Wister, de Sade, Dante, Shakespeare, and the translators of the King James Bible.
None of these comparisons seems to me without merit. But, in aggregate, they also suggest that it's high time to let McCarthy be McCarthy.
McCarthy is, of course, best known for the three novels that comprise his magnificent and commercially successful Border Trilogy: ALL THE PRETTY HORSES (1992), THE CROSSING (1994), and CITIES OF THE PLAIN (1998). A generation after the Western stopped being a commercial or cinematic force, these books tell the mid-20th-century stories of horseman extraordinaire John Grady Cole (All the Pretty Horses) and tracker-savant Billy Parham (The Crossing). The two join forces in the final book of the trilogy (which McCarthy wrote as a screenplay in the late 1970s and shelved): the episodic, deceptively simple Cities of the Plain. The title is an allusion to Sodom and Gomorrah, and anyone who thinks McCarthy has a penchant for sick stories told in deadpan, laconic prose should check out Genesis 19.
The books are as reader-friendly as Larry McMurtry's and as dense with American mythology as McCarthy's favorite novel, MOBY-DICK (oops, I slipped; no more comparisons). Take the American myth of being able, when all else fails, to light out for the territory. What does the heroic American protagonist do when there is no more territory? Where does an American myth go when it dies? These are questions the Border Trilogy confronts directly.
The "border" in question is explicitly that between the United States and Mexico, but the books concern other borders, too, all ones that can be crossed but not erased: the ones between men and women, between men and animals (especially horses, for John Grady, and wolves/d...
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First published June 1, 1994
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April 21, 2025
Enormously affecting. A boy and his father set out to trap a wolf that is preying on their cattle. The man who had trapped them in the past—who opened the plains for countless thousands of cattle to graze— is now dead. And the wolves have begun to return to their old hunting grounds from their retreat in Mexico. The father and son try to take up the trapping in the manner of the past master. The Crossing is about many things: the three journeys over four years into Mexico taken by the young Billy Parham; his own crossing into manhood; the crossing of the dead into ever-lasting life, etc. The series of tests Parham sets himself suggest any number of Old World quest narratives.
He captures the wolf, a pregnant female, whom he clearly comes to love, and decides to take her back to her native mountains in Mexico. It doesn't work out. When he returns to Cloverdale NM he learns his mother and father have been slaughtered by Indians. He collects his brother, Boyd, from a foster home and they set off for Mexico, ostensibly in search of the seven horses that constitute the family patrimony, though this mission is never so baldly stated. Billy and Boyd no longer have a home in the world and it's as if they are simply adrift in the landscape. They have entered a wild land still torn by endless revolution, where there is no law save the law that comes self made from the actions of peasants, banditos, philosophizing gypsies, itinerant carneys, mothering women, and children.
The landscape is beautifully rendered and as active an agent in the narrative as any of the characters Billy and Boyd meet with. I'm leaving a big chunk of the action undescribed, most of it in fact, not because I believe in spoilers (I don't), but because I think that no nimbleness of paraphrase on my part could ever capture the emotional richness, vivid imagery, and sheer narrative power of this fine novel.
I like the way emotional tensions are never directly addressed. Much is left unsaid. It's very stoic, Hemingwayesque. Nietzsche said that one repays a mentor badly when one remains a pupil. Hemingway and Faulkner, it's no surprise, were two of McCarthy's models. (There's probably a touch of Louis L'Amour in the mix too.) Yet I believe he has surpassed them. Both WF and EH were innovators whose late work became mannered, so taken were they of their own voices and styles. McCarthy may be less of a technical virtuoso, but he is no less the stylist, and he is by far the more consistent writer in terms of output than either of his models. That said, I am almost positive that one of McCarthy’s models here was Faulkner’s The Unvanquished. The running down of thieves by teenage boys in both novels seems too strikingly similar.
Of the seven or so McCarthy novels I've read, The Crossing, Blood Meridian, The Road, Suttree and All The Pretty Horses are my favorites. The Passenger is not bad either. I must read more of him.
He captures the wolf, a pregnant female, whom he clearly comes to love, and decides to take her back to her native mountains in Mexico. It doesn't work out. When he returns to Cloverdale NM he learns his mother and father have been slaughtered by Indians. He collects his brother, Boyd, from a foster home and they set off for Mexico, ostensibly in search of the seven horses that constitute the family patrimony, though this mission is never so baldly stated. Billy and Boyd no longer have a home in the world and it's as if they are simply adrift in the landscape. They have entered a wild land still torn by endless revolution, where there is no law save the law that comes self made from the actions of peasants, banditos, philosophizing gypsies, itinerant carneys, mothering women, and children.
The landscape is beautifully rendered and as active an agent in the narrative as any of the characters Billy and Boyd meet with. I'm leaving a big chunk of the action undescribed, most of it in fact, not because I believe in spoilers (I don't), but because I think that no nimbleness of paraphrase on my part could ever capture the emotional richness, vivid imagery, and sheer narrative power of this fine novel.
I like the way emotional tensions are never directly addressed. Much is left unsaid. It's very stoic, Hemingwayesque. Nietzsche said that one repays a mentor badly when one remains a pupil. Hemingway and Faulkner, it's no surprise, were two of McCarthy's models. (There's probably a touch of Louis L'Amour in the mix too.) Yet I believe he has surpassed them. Both WF and EH were innovators whose late work became mannered, so taken were they of their own voices and styles. McCarthy may be less of a technical virtuoso, but he is no less the stylist, and he is by far the more consistent writer in terms of output than either of his models. That said, I am almost positive that one of McCarthy’s models here was Faulkner’s The Unvanquished. The running down of thieves by teenage boys in both novels seems too strikingly similar.
Of the seven or so McCarthy novels I've read, The Crossing, Blood Meridian, The Road, Suttree and All The Pretty Horses are my favorites. The Passenger is not bad either. I must read more of him.
February 22, 2020
Beautiful, beautiful book. I am such a fan of Cormac McCarthy. Poetic realism, I would describe his style.
August 20, 2022
CHI SIAMO E COSA SIAMO
Il secondo romanzo della celebre trilogia.
Ambientato negli stessi territori del precedente, il confine col Messico: anche se questa volta la parte americana è un po’ più a ovest, il New Mexico, invece del Texas (anche se poi la copertina direi che mostra Zabriskie Point – ma magari all’Einaudi pensano che tutti i deserti sono uguali).
Anche il periodo storico è simile, qualche anno prima di Cavalli selvaggi: dal 1949, questa volta l’azione si sposta a pochi anni prima e durante l’ultima grande guerra.
E direi che il titolo The Crossing non si riferisce solo agli attraversamenti geografici, ma anche, e forse soprattutto, al superamento della linea di confine tra la giovinezza/adolescenza e l’età adulta.
Un altro romanzo di formazione che vedo al centro due ragazzi, due fratelli di 14 e 16 anni.
Diviso in tre parti: nella prima Billy, il maggiore dei due, accompagna suo padre a collocare le trappole per catturare la lupa arrivata dal Messico attraversando il confine sulla neve che ha già ucciso dei capi di bestiame (pecore); quando trova la lupa presa dalla trappola, però, non ha il coraggio di ucciderla, e neppure quello di chiamare suo padre per farlo. Decide invece di liberarla e di riportarla oltre il confine da dove è arrivata. Solo che le cose non vanno lisce: la bestia gli viene rubata e finisce nei combattimenti contro i cani. Quando Bill la ritroverà ferita sanguinante e stremata, troverà alfine il coraggio di spararle per smettere di farla soffrire.
Nella seconda, Billy fa ritorno a casa per trovare la famiglia sterminata dagli indiani. L’unico scampato al massacro è suo fratello Boyd. Insieme partiranno alla ricerca dei cavalli rubati. Di nuovo verso il Messico, di nuovo oltre il confine. E anche questa volta le cose non vanno bene: i ragazzi recuperano sì i cavalli, ma Boyd, il minore rimane ferito. Sarà salvato da una giovane ragazza locale, con la quale decide di restare a vivere. A Billy non resta che tornare a casa da solo.
Nella terza parte, sono passati alcuni anni, è di nuovo Billy protagonista, parte alla ricerca del fratello minore Boyd. Ancora una volta oltre il confine. Ma quello che troverà sono invece…
McCarthy attribuisce grande importanza al paesaggio, allo spazio naturale che circonda i suoi personaggi: sembra quasi far “parlare” più questo che quelli.
Agli uomini sottrae parole, li racconta in maniera silenziosa, sia perché sono sempre umani laconici, sia perché risparmia descrizioni: eppure, lasciando il lettore a intuire, approfondisce più che con l’uso delle parole.
I dialoghi sono secchi e scarni, senza virgolette, senza “disse”, “aggiunse”, “rispose”. Parco e asciutto anche nella punteggiatura. Nei silenzi e nelle pause, nel respiro dei deserti e dei canyon, si costruisce la “grandezza arcaica” della scrittura di Cormac McCarthy.
Sia che la vita di un uomo fosse scritta da qualche parte in un libro, sia che prendesse forma giorno dopo giorno, era sempre quella, perché consisteva di una sola realtà, che era il fatto stesso di viverla. Disse che mentre era vero che gli uomini dànno forma alla loro vita, era anche vero che non potevano avere altra forma, perché quale sarebbe mai stata quest'altra forma?
Il secondo romanzo della celebre trilogia.
Ambientato negli stessi territori del precedente, il confine col Messico: anche se questa volta la parte americana è un po’ più a ovest, il New Mexico, invece del Texas (anche se poi la copertina direi che mostra Zabriskie Point – ma magari all’Einaudi pensano che tutti i deserti sono uguali).
Anche il periodo storico è simile, qualche anno prima di Cavalli selvaggi: dal 1949, questa volta l’azione si sposta a pochi anni prima e durante l’ultima grande guerra.
E direi che il titolo The Crossing non si riferisce solo agli attraversamenti geografici, ma anche, e forse soprattutto, al superamento della linea di confine tra la giovinezza/adolescenza e l’età adulta.
Un altro romanzo di formazione che vedo al centro due ragazzi, due fratelli di 14 e 16 anni.
Diviso in tre parti: nella prima Billy, il maggiore dei due, accompagna suo padre a collocare le trappole per catturare la lupa arrivata dal Messico attraversando il confine sulla neve che ha già ucciso dei capi di bestiame (pecore); quando trova la lupa presa dalla trappola, però, non ha il coraggio di ucciderla, e neppure quello di chiamare suo padre per farlo. Decide invece di liberarla e di riportarla oltre il confine da dove è arrivata. Solo che le cose non vanno lisce: la bestia gli viene rubata e finisce nei combattimenti contro i cani. Quando Bill la ritroverà ferita sanguinante e stremata, troverà alfine il coraggio di spararle per smettere di farla soffrire.
Nella seconda, Billy fa ritorno a casa per trovare la famiglia sterminata dagli indiani. L’unico scampato al massacro è suo fratello Boyd. Insieme partiranno alla ricerca dei cavalli rubati. Di nuovo verso il Messico, di nuovo oltre il confine. E anche questa volta le cose non vanno bene: i ragazzi recuperano sì i cavalli, ma Boyd, il minore rimane ferito. Sarà salvato da una giovane ragazza locale, con la quale decide di restare a vivere. A Billy non resta che tornare a casa da solo.
Nella terza parte, sono passati alcuni anni, è di nuovo Billy protagonista, parte alla ricerca del fratello minore Boyd. Ancora una volta oltre il confine. Ma quello che troverà sono invece…
McCarthy attribuisce grande importanza al paesaggio, allo spazio naturale che circonda i suoi personaggi: sembra quasi far “parlare” più questo che quelli.
Agli uomini sottrae parole, li racconta in maniera silenziosa, sia perché sono sempre umani laconici, sia perché risparmia descrizioni: eppure, lasciando il lettore a intuire, approfondisce più che con l’uso delle parole.
I dialoghi sono secchi e scarni, senza virgolette, senza “disse”, “aggiunse”, “rispose”. Parco e asciutto anche nella punteggiatura. Nei silenzi e nelle pause, nel respiro dei deserti e dei canyon, si costruisce la “grandezza arcaica” della scrittura di Cormac McCarthy.
Sia che la vita di un uomo fosse scritta da qualche parte in un libro, sia che prendesse forma giorno dopo giorno, era sempre quella, perché consisteva di una sola realtà, che era il fatto stesso di viverla. Disse che mentre era vero che gli uomini dànno forma alla loro vita, era anche vero che non potevano avere altra forma, perché quale sarebbe mai stata quest'altra forma?
April 17, 2026
superb audio by Richard Poe who is especially good doing all voices including those speaking in Spanish
If a Russian master wrote a western style novel it would be this one and All the Pretty Horses. (I haven’t read Blood Meridian so we’ll have to see about that one.) That’s because of all the philosophy and psychology tied up in the characters and monologues.
We need to get Tolstoy out of the railway station and on a train to a port city, get him on board a ship to New York or Halifax, then buy him a one way railroad ticket to Montana or Alberta. Then he can hang out at a ranch, have a log cabin, wander the Rockies by day and write novels filled with horses and western types by night. Dostoevsky too. Frock coats and canvas pants until the frock coats wear out. Why not Turgenev? Maybe Yevtushenko although he never wrote a novel. But we have Cormac as our Russian master ✍🏻
🐴 The Crossing was near perfect. Cormac redeemed the loss of the wolf dog in the White Fang moment (vicious organized dog fights) by describing her running free in a heavenly state. He needed to redeem Billy’s cruelty at the end of the novel and did so by having him weep in contrition and remorse. Other deaths and murders were never quite resolved but haunted him and us. Yet he mercifully spared us the loss of the horse.
🐴 I cheered for Billy throughout the whole burning, wide-sky, intense novel, where he lost almost everything and everyone, but his cruelty towards a suffering dog who only needed some mercy - mercy that Billy received from the poor and destitute time and time again - made me furious with him. Yes, Billy came out of his wild spell, which was brought on by his own sufferings (which were many and also hard to read), calling for the dog and trying to win the poor creature back but at the novel’s end he has not succeeded. He should have loved what no one else had loved because by then he knew that was what mattered.
🐴It’s such a profound ending by Cormac, and I truly get the sense that it hurts him to write about his animals being mistreated as much as it hurts him to write about his humans and innocents being mistreated. His tragedies are Shakespearean in scope and depth and, like the Bard’s, wrapped in beautiful language. But within such beauty is the sting.
If a Russian master wrote a western style novel it would be this one and All the Pretty Horses. (I haven’t read Blood Meridian so we’ll have to see about that one.) That’s because of all the philosophy and psychology tied up in the characters and monologues.
We need to get Tolstoy out of the railway station and on a train to a port city, get him on board a ship to New York or Halifax, then buy him a one way railroad ticket to Montana or Alberta. Then he can hang out at a ranch, have a log cabin, wander the Rockies by day and write novels filled with horses and western types by night. Dostoevsky too. Frock coats and canvas pants until the frock coats wear out. Why not Turgenev? Maybe Yevtushenko although he never wrote a novel. But we have Cormac as our Russian master ✍🏻
🐴 The Crossing was near perfect. Cormac redeemed the loss of the wolf dog in the White Fang moment (vicious organized dog fights) by describing her running free in a heavenly state. He needed to redeem Billy’s cruelty at the end of the novel and did so by having him weep in contrition and remorse. Other deaths and murders were never quite resolved but haunted him and us. Yet he mercifully spared us the loss of the horse.
🐴 I cheered for Billy throughout the whole burning, wide-sky, intense novel, where he lost almost everything and everyone, but his cruelty towards a suffering dog who only needed some mercy - mercy that Billy received from the poor and destitute time and time again - made me furious with him. Yes, Billy came out of his wild spell, which was brought on by his own sufferings (which were many and also hard to read), calling for the dog and trying to win the poor creature back but at the novel’s end he has not succeeded. He should have loved what no one else had loved because by then he knew that was what mattered.
🐴It’s such a profound ending by Cormac, and I truly get the sense that it hurts him to write about his animals being mistreated as much as it hurts him to write about his humans and innocents being mistreated. His tragedies are Shakespearean in scope and depth and, like the Bard’s, wrapped in beautiful language. But within such beauty is the sting.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
October 8, 2019
Far more melancholic than its predecessor All the Pretty Horses, The Crossing is a beautiful if bleak western full of poetry and philosophical musings. The Billy character is wonderfully drawn and in particular the first part of the book with the wolf was outstanding. McCarthy's sparse Hemmingway-esque style lends an austere and yet often humorous tone to the dialogues - particularly those both spoken and unspoken between Billy and Boyd. I appreciate the author's reluctance to dummy down the story and challenge the reader constantly throughout. Looking forward to completing the trilogy now with Cities of the Plain.
January 14, 2026
Crossing is a hauntingly beautiful novel that showcases his masterful prose and profound storytelling. With vivid descriptions and deep philosophical undertones, McCarthy takes readers on an unforgettable journey through the rugged landscapes of the American Southwest and Mexico. The novel’s protagonist, Billy Parham, embarks on a series of heartbreaking yet transformative adventures, exploring themes of fate, loss, and the harsh realities of existence. Rich in emotion and poetic in its brutality, Crossing is a mesmerizing and deeply moving read that lingers in the mind long after the final page.
November 10, 2025
Long before "The Road", which made him known to a broader audience, the great Cormac McCarthy had already raged. And how. This long road-movie genre novel is a pure joy to read. Billy lives with his brother, Boyd, and their parents on a ranch near the US-Mexico border. One day, he discovers a wolf that is expecting little ones. Mastering her brings her back to these Mexican lands. The adventure will take him well beyond what he imagined.
In the second book of The Border Trilogy, McCarthy poses numerous questions about human nature in magnificent, wild settings, employing a rich, powerful, and dry style. Elegantly and abundantly dialogued (moreover, all the dialogues in Spanish are transcribed without translation but easy to understand), we follow Billy's adventures with great pleasure. An epic breath constantly pervades the novel; McCarthy weaves many stories into the original plot, giving the tale incredible strength and breadth.
McCarthy is considered a significant author; we know why—Vamos amigo.
In the second book of The Border Trilogy, McCarthy poses numerous questions about human nature in magnificent, wild settings, employing a rich, powerful, and dry style. Elegantly and abundantly dialogued (moreover, all the dialogues in Spanish are transcribed without translation but easy to understand), we follow Billy's adventures with great pleasure. An epic breath constantly pervades the novel; McCarthy weaves many stories into the original plot, giving the tale incredible strength and breadth.
McCarthy is considered a significant author; we know why—Vamos amigo.
December 5, 2014
One decision, as innocent as it may be, can fuck up your life forever. Now, you can live in fear and hide yourself away, or you can keep making those decisions and hope for the best, and if and when the shit hits the fan, you can stand strong and push on.
That's life. That's The Crossing.
Cormac McCarthy's "The Border" trilogy is where you'll find dusty plains, hard living, and a recent past populated by a people still living in an even more distant past. His characters are full of character, their own code and a new version of an old set of morals.
The Crossing is Homeric. There is a hero with a quest. There is a wise man. There are fools. And there are monsters. The hero's journey plays out upon the border between New Mexico and old Mexico, where the line dividing life and death is measured in handfuls of blood.
McCarthy's books are not where you shop for your good times and happy endings. His characters will die and you will feel pain.
I spent a good amount of time in early 2014 in southern Mexico. It was a learning experience and it helped me to appreciate what's in this novel. Not only was I able to follow along with much of the Spanish dialogue (it's basic stuff, trust me, I'm not bragging here), but the portrayal of the life and the people rings true and brings to mind images, scenes and people I saw and met during my time in that parched land.
I'm giving this five stars, not because I think it's perfect and that everyone will love it. In fact, I think many people would not like this. McCarthy occasionally veers from the action-packed path to discuss life and that irks some readers. However, I give it five stars for McCarthy's writing. It's superb. His language usage...ah, those glorious descriptions! It's all too beautiful!
That's life. That's The Crossing.
Cormac McCarthy's "The Border" trilogy is where you'll find dusty plains, hard living, and a recent past populated by a people still living in an even more distant past. His characters are full of character, their own code and a new version of an old set of morals.
The Crossing is Homeric. There is a hero with a quest. There is a wise man. There are fools. And there are monsters. The hero's journey plays out upon the border between New Mexico and old Mexico, where the line dividing life and death is measured in handfuls of blood.
McCarthy's books are not where you shop for your good times and happy endings. His characters will die and you will feel pain.
I spent a good amount of time in early 2014 in southern Mexico. It was a learning experience and it helped me to appreciate what's in this novel. Not only was I able to follow along with much of the Spanish dialogue (it's basic stuff, trust me, I'm not bragging here), but the portrayal of the life and the people rings true and brings to mind images, scenes and people I saw and met during my time in that parched land.
I'm giving this five stars, not because I think it's perfect and that everyone will love it. In fact, I think many people would not like this. McCarthy occasionally veers from the action-packed path to discuss life and that irks some readers. However, I give it five stars for McCarthy's writing. It's superb. His language usage...ah, those glorious descriptions! It's all too beautiful!
March 21, 2025
Dobra, powiem tak.
Raczej nie lubię bardzo definitywnych stwierdzeń, więc obawiam się pisać, że to jest moja ulubiona książka, jaką przeczytałem od czasu założenia kanału.
Natomiast sam fakt, że taka myśl chodzi mi po głowie, pokazuje, co o niej sądzę.
McCarthy wszedł z buta i ostro powywracał mój ranking ulubionych autorów.
Recenzja: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_vHKm...
Raczej nie lubię bardzo definitywnych stwierdzeń, więc obawiam się pisać, że to jest moja ulubiona książka, jaką przeczytałem od czasu założenia kanału.
Natomiast sam fakt, że taka myśl chodzi mi po głowie, pokazuje, co o niej sądzę.
McCarthy wszedł z buta i ostro powywracał mój ranking ulubionych autorów.
Recenzja: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_vHKm...
October 9, 2018
The Border Trilogy – Part 2 of 3
It is in the early 1940’s when Billy Pelham sets out on his first of three trips from his home to Mexico. He is sixteen and his first trip is to reunite a female wolf about to pup with others of her kind in the mountains where she came from.
When he returns home to New Mexico from his journey, his life as he knew it has changed. The family’s horses have been stolen and he and his 14 year old brother Boyd set out to retrieve them. During this longer journey, Billy turns 17 and his brother turns 15 – and he falls in love and disappears with his young love. Billy makes his way back home again and spends time working on various ranches and other jobs to save up enough to bring his brother home, along with his girl if need be.
Billy also tries several times to join the army once war is declared (WWII) but he can’t pass the medical examination because of a heart murmur. Eventually he accumulates an extra horse to use as a pack animal and has outfitted himself with everything he needs to find his brother. By this time, Billy is 20 years old and has more life experience than he had on his first two journeys south.
Along the way of his third journey, he meets with several other travelers as well as people who give him food and shelter when needed. The people he meets all have stories to tell and their own versions of life they want to share: He said that most men were in their lives like the carpenter whose work went so slowly for the dullness of his tools that he had not time to sharpen them.
There are some rough scenes in this book: man’s cruelty to man, man’s cruelty to animals, and man’s cruelty to himself. Those are themes that run through this novel, but in the people’s stories and in their actions there are also many acts of kindness, of compassion, and of caring.
Once again, Cormac McCarthy has written a novel that feels real and gritty and harsh. His ability to relate the trials and difficulties of the journeys Billy makes while also holding and lightly weaving in a thread of hope and optimism is nothing short of magical.
Initially I did not intend to read this Border Trilogy back-to-back, yet long before I had finished the first book I knew that I had to continue through all three. The writing is exceptional, the characters authentic and sympathetic, while the adventures are compulsively readable. I am very much looking forward to the concluding “chapter” of this amazing Trilogy.
It is in the early 1940’s when Billy Pelham sets out on his first of three trips from his home to Mexico. He is sixteen and his first trip is to reunite a female wolf about to pup with others of her kind in the mountains where she came from.
When he returns home to New Mexico from his journey, his life as he knew it has changed. The family’s horses have been stolen and he and his 14 year old brother Boyd set out to retrieve them. During this longer journey, Billy turns 17 and his brother turns 15 – and he falls in love and disappears with his young love. Billy makes his way back home again and spends time working on various ranches and other jobs to save up enough to bring his brother home, along with his girl if need be.
Billy also tries several times to join the army once war is declared (WWII) but he can’t pass the medical examination because of a heart murmur. Eventually he accumulates an extra horse to use as a pack animal and has outfitted himself with everything he needs to find his brother. By this time, Billy is 20 years old and has more life experience than he had on his first two journeys south.
Along the way of his third journey, he meets with several other travelers as well as people who give him food and shelter when needed. The people he meets all have stories to tell and their own versions of life they want to share: He said that most men were in their lives like the carpenter whose work went so slowly for the dullness of his tools that he had not time to sharpen them.
There are some rough scenes in this book: man’s cruelty to man, man’s cruelty to animals, and man’s cruelty to himself. Those are themes that run through this novel, but in the people’s stories and in their actions there are also many acts of kindness, of compassion, and of caring.
Once again, Cormac McCarthy has written a novel that feels real and gritty and harsh. His ability to relate the trials and difficulties of the journeys Billy makes while also holding and lightly weaving in a thread of hope and optimism is nothing short of magical.
Initially I did not intend to read this Border Trilogy back-to-back, yet long before I had finished the first book I knew that I had to continue through all three. The writing is exceptional, the characters authentic and sympathetic, while the adventures are compulsively readable. I am very much looking forward to the concluding “chapter” of this amazing Trilogy.
February 13, 2024
I consider my expectations might have been set too high, having enjoyed All the Pretty Horses when I read it last year.
All the Pretty Horses, while descriptive and slow in its own way, felt like a racehorse compared to this Clydesdale. Over 400 pages, it read like 500 pages (despite me reading it in three days - circumstances allowed this). It certainly had its moments, and the primary narrative - Billy Parham's story was on par with John Grady Cole (from ...Pretty Horses); and yes the Spanish conversations stunted my reading (there was so much more than in book 1, and I had to bend to use Google Translate with camera for translation); but really for me it was the long, detailed side stories which I couldn't find relevance with that made this less enjoyable - if you have read it you will know them - the priest, the blind man, Gypsies & carnies etc. For me, they broke the narrative, and seemed unrealistic that these strangers would spill their life story to Billy Parham the way they did (although the Gypsies and carnies less so, as they dove-tailed in a bit better). The theological aspects, of course, are wasted on me. I thought overall it lost focus after the wolf narrative ended.
McCarthy is all about bleak, about flawed, naive characters with morals that extend beyond their capacity to back them up. The sparse nature of the conversations, lack of punctuation and ability to sustain the suspense for long passages are characteristic.
For me, this was less successful than book 1, but was still well worth the experience of reading. I look forward to the two primary characters from book one and two coming together in book three, and seeing whether McCarthy can wrap it all up.
4 stars
All the Pretty Horses, while descriptive and slow in its own way, felt like a racehorse compared to this Clydesdale. Over 400 pages, it read like 500 pages (despite me reading it in three days - circumstances allowed this). It certainly had its moments, and the primary narrative - Billy Parham's story was on par with John Grady Cole (from ...Pretty Horses); and yes the Spanish conversations stunted my reading (there was so much more than in book 1, and I had to bend to use Google Translate with camera for translation); but really for me it was the long, detailed side stories which I couldn't find relevance with that made this less enjoyable - if you have read it you will know them - the priest, the blind man, Gypsies & carnies etc. For me, they broke the narrative, and seemed unrealistic that these strangers would spill their life story to Billy Parham the way they did (although the Gypsies and carnies less so, as they dove-tailed in a bit better). The theological aspects, of course, are wasted on me. I thought overall it lost focus after the wolf narrative ended.
McCarthy is all about bleak, about flawed, naive characters with morals that extend beyond their capacity to back them up. The sparse nature of the conversations, lack of punctuation and ability to sustain the suspense for long passages are characteristic.
For me, this was less successful than book 1, but was still well worth the experience of reading. I look forward to the two primary characters from book one and two coming together in book three, and seeing whether McCarthy can wrap it all up.
4 stars
December 15, 2018
I did love this but found it slightly less successful than the first book in this trilogy. For one thing it follows an almost identical formula - innocence going out into the big bad world. The opening when a young boy watches wolves at play in the snow at night is magical. It continues in this gripping fashion when the boy takes pity on the wolf he and his father have caught in a trap and decides to take the injured animal back to the mountains of Mexico. The relationship he creates between the boy and the wolf is a marvel in itself. In Mexico he sees his father's horse and knows something bad has happened at home.
People often speak of the violence in his books but what always gets to me is the deep beautiful bonds he establishes between his characters and often between a character and an animal. This is very much true here where the relationship Billy shares with his brother, the wolf, his horse and his dog are all deeply moving. He gets us to care so much for his characters that the possibility of heartbreak looms forebodingly on every turned page. Another thing I love about his books is the philosophy. As I said he's so good at engaging you on a feeling level; then his characters always meet eccentric individuals on their travels whose philosophising make you think about everything that is happening on a deeper more intellectual level. He engages the intellect as challengingly as the emotions. 4.5 stars. And now onto book three…
People often speak of the violence in his books but what always gets to me is the deep beautiful bonds he establishes between his characters and often between a character and an animal. This is very much true here where the relationship Billy shares with his brother, the wolf, his horse and his dog are all deeply moving. He gets us to care so much for his characters that the possibility of heartbreak looms forebodingly on every turned page. Another thing I love about his books is the philosophy. As I said he's so good at engaging you on a feeling level; then his characters always meet eccentric individuals on their travels whose philosophising make you think about everything that is happening on a deeper more intellectual level. He engages the intellect as challengingly as the emotions. 4.5 stars. And now onto book three…
November 17, 2023
This is one of the books I recommended to read after Blood Meridian. Check out the video here: 9 Books To Read If You Like Blood Meridian
The Crossing may well be Cormac McCarthy's most beautiful book. Here is a book that is far different to it's predecessor, All The Pretty Horses (which is also brilliant). It is melancholic and poetic, it takes its time to pull you in and settle you and there is an emotional punch waiting for you to spring its trap. It is incredibly written - Billy Parham is my favourite protagonist from McCarthy's works and the sheer amount of emotion I felt throughout was remarkable. As always with Cormac's writing, the American landscape is almost a character, with moods and feelings of its own. It is a story of crossing boundaries into states and countries, of crossing into adulthood and crossing into death. I loved every word and I can't wait to read it again.
The Crossing may well be Cormac McCarthy's most beautiful book. Here is a book that is far different to it's predecessor, All The Pretty Horses (which is also brilliant). It is melancholic and poetic, it takes its time to pull you in and settle you and there is an emotional punch waiting for you to spring its trap. It is incredibly written - Billy Parham is my favourite protagonist from McCarthy's works and the sheer amount of emotion I felt throughout was remarkable. As always with Cormac's writing, the American landscape is almost a character, with moods and feelings of its own. It is a story of crossing boundaries into states and countries, of crossing into adulthood and crossing into death. I loved every word and I can't wait to read it again.
August 6, 2007
The Crossing is an astonishing book, more downbeat than All the Pretty Horses, yet not as bleak as the likes of Blood Meridian, it is a sprawling coming-of-age tale filled with moments of beauty and sorrow. The descriptions are as beautiful as anything Cormac McCarthy writes, the action is sparse but nailbiting when it comes and the characters are brilliantly realised. There are moments when the book lags but whenever this happens you can be assured that within a couple of pages McCarthy will come out with a line or paragraph that is so amazing you'll have to reread several times, possibly out loud, before you can continue with the story. The book never gives you all the information about some aspects of the story which is sometimes frustrating but works within the confines of the world that McCarthy is created, he's never one to end everything neatly and perfectly, the subplot of Billy's brother and the girl leaves you wishing for more though is all the more powerful for the fact that it's heard in rumours and secondhand recollections. Throughout the book there are times when Billy will meet characters who will tell them their own story, these digressions act as stories within the main narrative, both separate from it and integral to it. The story of the blind revolutionary in particular is fantastic, as McCarthy drops his visual mastery to explain the blind man's travels. This book is a journey from youth to adulthood, from hope to despair, along a hard path populated with kind hearts and desperate men. This book is a journey that you never want to end.
Read
March 31, 2022Acts of God
“Before he reached the door the old man called to him again. The boy turned and stood. The matrix will not help you, the old man said. He said to catch the wolf the boy should find that place where the acts of God and those of man are of one piece. Where they cannot be distinguished. The old man said that it was not a question of finding such a place but rather of knowing it when it presented itself. He said that it was at such places that God sits and conspires in the destruction of that which he has been at such pains to create.”
New Mexico. Early 1940s. A wolf had come up from Mexico, killing cattle on a ranch. Billy and his father set out traps to catch it, but the wolf uncovered them all. Then Billy set a trap in the ashes of a cold campfire. The following day when he went alone to check the trap, he had caught the pregnant wolf, her foot badly injured. He took pity on her and tied her up to protect himself from being mauled, even killed. Dragging her on three legs, he headed home. Thinking it over, he took a detour and ended up at a neighboring ranch, where the woman doctored the wolf’s foot, fed the boy, and then the boy went on his way to Mexico, to save the wolf, to release her to others of her kind.
I thought a lot about this: What will McCarthy do with his story? The boy was kind-hearted, but was McCarthy? Had McCarthy softened in his old age? I wanted to believe he had. In time the wolf became almost like a companion to Billy, but Billy was naïve. He fed and watered the wolf, he protected her from vicious dogs and man alike. He even saved her from drowning in a river which they had been crossing. And he grew to love her, but maybe he loved her from the moment he saw her in that trap. Maybe, I thought, we are all trapped in one way or another. But McCarthy, being true to his own nature, couldn’t allow it to be. Even today, it is hard to imagine a wolf surviving in our world, a world that hates the wolf. Then it began happening, and it wouldn’t stop. In the end, do we praise McCarthy for his prose, or do we curse him for his cruelty? I did both. Then I put the book down, but only for the night and part of the following day.
The boy headed back to New Mexico, to his father’s ranch. He was growing up fast at the young age of 17. When he arrived at the ranch, things had changed. He got his brother Boyd, and together they went to Mexico to find the horses that had been stolen from his father’s ranch. Some things should be left alone, forgotten. Maybe even forgiven.
“It had ceased raining in the night and he walked out on the road and called for the dog. He called and called. Standing in that inexplicable darkness when there was no sound anywhere save only the wind. After a while he sat in the road. He took off his hat and placed it on the tarmac before him and he bowed his head and held his face in his hands and wept. He sat there for a long time and after a while the east did gray and after a while the right and the godmade sun did rise, once again, for all and without distinction.”
“Before he reached the door the old man called to him again. The boy turned and stood. The matrix will not help you, the old man said. He said to catch the wolf the boy should find that place where the acts of God and those of man are of one piece. Where they cannot be distinguished. The old man said that it was not a question of finding such a place but rather of knowing it when it presented itself. He said that it was at such places that God sits and conspires in the destruction of that which he has been at such pains to create.”
New Mexico. Early 1940s. A wolf had come up from Mexico, killing cattle on a ranch. Billy and his father set out traps to catch it, but the wolf uncovered them all. Then Billy set a trap in the ashes of a cold campfire. The following day when he went alone to check the trap, he had caught the pregnant wolf, her foot badly injured. He took pity on her and tied her up to protect himself from being mauled, even killed. Dragging her on three legs, he headed home. Thinking it over, he took a detour and ended up at a neighboring ranch, where the woman doctored the wolf’s foot, fed the boy, and then the boy went on his way to Mexico, to save the wolf, to release her to others of her kind.
I thought a lot about this: What will McCarthy do with his story? The boy was kind-hearted, but was McCarthy? Had McCarthy softened in his old age? I wanted to believe he had. In time the wolf became almost like a companion to Billy, but Billy was naïve. He fed and watered the wolf, he protected her from vicious dogs and man alike. He even saved her from drowning in a river which they had been crossing. And he grew to love her, but maybe he loved her from the moment he saw her in that trap. Maybe, I thought, we are all trapped in one way or another. But McCarthy, being true to his own nature, couldn’t allow it to be. Even today, it is hard to imagine a wolf surviving in our world, a world that hates the wolf. Then it began happening, and it wouldn’t stop. In the end, do we praise McCarthy for his prose, or do we curse him for his cruelty? I did both. Then I put the book down, but only for the night and part of the following day.
The boy headed back to New Mexico, to his father’s ranch. He was growing up fast at the young age of 17. When he arrived at the ranch, things had changed. He got his brother Boyd, and together they went to Mexico to find the horses that had been stolen from his father’s ranch. Some things should be left alone, forgotten. Maybe even forgiven.
“It had ceased raining in the night and he walked out on the road and called for the dog. He called and called. Standing in that inexplicable darkness when there was no sound anywhere save only the wind. After a while he sat in the road. He took off his hat and placed it on the tarmac before him and he bowed his head and held his face in his hands and wept. He sat there for a long time and after a while the east did gray and after a while the right and the godmade sun did rise, once again, for all and without distinction.”
June 9, 2008
Alice Munro said in an interview that our lives begin as straightforward stories with the typical arc of fiction, but that as we go on living they become strange, experimental narratives, convoluted and difficult to interpret. It seems to me that's what's happening in this second volume of the Border Trilogy. Volume One was pretty straightforward, taut and clear in its construction. It told a story of a young man's searing introduction to the adult world. Volume Two does the same--with a different young man--yet its structure defies the conventions of fiction. After a relatively focused (and actually quite wonderful) first 125 pages, the novel circles and digresses for another 300. It tried my patience. I pressed on, though, in the hopes that Volume Three will make good on the promise of the first book and redeem the disappointment of this one.
October 13, 2021
It was not long after I joined Goodreads when he messaged me for the first time. He did not even have a profile picture; all that was to be seen were his books and his name. He explained that he just joined the site, and we began to talk; soon we arranged to read our first book together.
I was his first friend here - I'm still happy about it -but soon he became a regular in our community of readers, and a popular one. Goodreads seemed to be a little more close-knit back then; I certainly was more active and interacted more regularly with people I met here, many of whom became and remain my friends. I'm happy to say that he was one of them; we began exchanging messages and he always had a kind word to say to me.
One of his favorite writers was Cormac McCarthy, and it was he who introduced me to his works. I remember us arguing endlessly whether The Road was a good novel; he pointed me in the direction of his earlier works, which I liked more. One of my favorite things to do was to tease him about McCarthy's dislike of punctuation. It became a running gag for us, and I did it for years, even after I grew to appreciate McCarthy and his style, and even find beauty in his writing.
The Crossing is the second book of McCarthy's trilogy of novels, and like its predecessor it takes place along the American-Mexican border. I read the first novel, All the Pretty Horses years ago, but only now got around to reading the second; I thought that there was all the time in the world for reading, talking and reminiscing. I took my time to read this book; I read it slowly, only a few pages every day, because it felt right. The Crossing is not a book to be rushed through; it is a book that benefits being read not on a page, but on a sentence level - bit by bit, word by word, letter by letter.
Storywise, The Crossing is a similar book All the Pretty Horses, but is a much slower, more somber and melancholic work. Even though All The Pretty Horses was also pretty bleak, it contained moments of humor and excitement, which are largely absent from The Crossing. What it does contain in multitudes are philosophical musings on the nature of life and man, a lot of untranslated Spanish (I think there was some in its predecessor, but here entire conversations are left untranslated - realism, I guess), and plenty of really emotional and beautiful descriptions of the American southwest, throughout which our protagonist, Billy Parham, travels on his three crossings across the border - between the U.S. and Mexico, but also between that what we can explain and that what we cannot.
With each of these three crossings Billy will change, and so will his relationship with the land and those who inhabit it. He begins the book as a boy; he will end it as a man, with all the burdens and sorrows associated with it. I felt kinship with Billy because I too have changed since I've read All the Pretty Horses all these years ago. In many ways I still am the person I was then, but in many others I'm not; it feels strange reading the words I wrote to review that book and observe how much time has passed.
In many ways - most notably in the vividness of its lyricism and deep affection for the land it describes - The Crossing is a beautiful book, but it can also be cruel and unforgiving, reminding us of our own mistakes and the fact that we cannot turn back time, and that the Earth turns on its axis irregardless of us and how we feel about it, and will continue to do so long after we'll be gone.
"Life is a memory, and then it is nothing."
I miss you, Mike.
I was his first friend here - I'm still happy about it -but soon he became a regular in our community of readers, and a popular one. Goodreads seemed to be a little more close-knit back then; I certainly was more active and interacted more regularly with people I met here, many of whom became and remain my friends. I'm happy to say that he was one of them; we began exchanging messages and he always had a kind word to say to me.
One of his favorite writers was Cormac McCarthy, and it was he who introduced me to his works. I remember us arguing endlessly whether The Road was a good novel; he pointed me in the direction of his earlier works, which I liked more. One of my favorite things to do was to tease him about McCarthy's dislike of punctuation. It became a running gag for us, and I did it for years, even after I grew to appreciate McCarthy and his style, and even find beauty in his writing.
The Crossing is the second book of McCarthy's trilogy of novels, and like its predecessor it takes place along the American-Mexican border. I read the first novel, All the Pretty Horses years ago, but only now got around to reading the second; I thought that there was all the time in the world for reading, talking and reminiscing. I took my time to read this book; I read it slowly, only a few pages every day, because it felt right. The Crossing is not a book to be rushed through; it is a book that benefits being read not on a page, but on a sentence level - bit by bit, word by word, letter by letter.
Storywise, The Crossing is a similar book All the Pretty Horses, but is a much slower, more somber and melancholic work. Even though All The Pretty Horses was also pretty bleak, it contained moments of humor and excitement, which are largely absent from The Crossing. What it does contain in multitudes are philosophical musings on the nature of life and man, a lot of untranslated Spanish (I think there was some in its predecessor, but here entire conversations are left untranslated - realism, I guess), and plenty of really emotional and beautiful descriptions of the American southwest, throughout which our protagonist, Billy Parham, travels on his three crossings across the border - between the U.S. and Mexico, but also between that what we can explain and that what we cannot.
With each of these three crossings Billy will change, and so will his relationship with the land and those who inhabit it. He begins the book as a boy; he will end it as a man, with all the burdens and sorrows associated with it. I felt kinship with Billy because I too have changed since I've read All the Pretty Horses all these years ago. In many ways I still am the person I was then, but in many others I'm not; it feels strange reading the words I wrote to review that book and observe how much time has passed.
In many ways - most notably in the vividness of its lyricism and deep affection for the land it describes - The Crossing is a beautiful book, but it can also be cruel and unforgiving, reminding us of our own mistakes and the fact that we cannot turn back time, and that the Earth turns on its axis irregardless of us and how we feel about it, and will continue to do so long after we'll be gone.
"Life is a memory, and then it is nothing."
I miss you, Mike.
October 13, 2024
Blowing the ancient biblical dust off the pages, I completely immersed myself in the slow, languid atmosphere of The Crossing — a profound and poignant coming-of-age story that explores fate, loneliness, and the human struggle. The novel's characters travel through Mexico, but it’s more a movement for movement’s sake — “I just need to keep moving” (which is quite my philosophy of travel). Along their journey, they take actions devoid of logic (and how much logic is there in life?), relying on intuition more than reason. And though life hits them again and again, it doesn’t matter much to them — they keep moving.
I particularly want to highlight the first part of the novel, which deserves its own book. It’s a story about a boy and a she-wolf, whose metaphysical journey is so striking that everything written in the subsequent chapters immediately pales in comparison.
And of course, lines like “The dead have no nationality” are words that one wishes to carve in stone. McCarthy, as always, masterfully creates an atmosphere, balancing between the simplicity of narration and deep philosophical reflections.
I particularly want to highlight the first part of the novel, which deserves its own book. It’s a story about a boy and a she-wolf, whose metaphysical journey is so striking that everything written in the subsequent chapters immediately pales in comparison.
And of course, lines like “The dead have no nationality” are words that one wishes to carve in stone. McCarthy, as always, masterfully creates an atmosphere, balancing between the simplicity of narration and deep philosophical reflections.
September 21, 2011
È il dolore ad addolcire ogni dono.
Grazie, Cormac McCarthy. Grazie all'infinito. Hai scritto il libro della mia vita. E ti chiedo scusa se lo chiamo libro. Ti chiedo scusa per quelli che lo hanno disprezzato e lo disprezzeranno. Perdonali, perché non sanno quello che fanno. Io non posso fare altro che inchinarmi davanti a tanta capacità letteraria. Non posso far altro che piangere sapendo che un autore ancora vivente ha prodotto questo libro. Sapendo che ha scritto queste pagine, che non è stato un dio a farlo.
Scusatemi, sto cercando di razionalizzare un po'. Sono sconvolto, davvero sconvolto. Sono arrivato all'ultima riga con gli occhi pieni di lacrime senza sapere neanche bene il perché. So solo che dentro ero completamente scosso. Ancora adesso faccio una fatica immensa a ragionare, a restare lucido. Le parole, di fronte a certe pagine, vengono meno.
Ci troviamo di fronte a un libro di livello superiore. Non so cos'altro leggerò, nei prossimi anni, ma qui la letteratura - e parlo della letteratura di tutti i tempi - tocca vette altissime. La maggior parte degli scrittori, io per primo, possono solo trascorrere la vita sognando di avere anche solo la metà della bravura di McCarthy, ma la verità è che non l'avranno mai. La verità è che Cormac McCarthy è il miglior scrittore che io abbia mai letto. La verità è che "The Crossing" (Oltre il confine) è talmente immenso che necessita sicuramente decine di riletture prima di poterlo comprendere a pieno. Prima di comprendere ogni riga, ogni parola. Prima di rendersi conto di star leggendo un "miracolo in prosa", come dice il retrocopertina. Prima di accorgersi che sono 370 pagine di poesia, non una di meno.
Le quattro parti in cui è suddiviso il libro sono una più bella dell'altra. La prima, quella che descrive il rapporto tra il protagonista e la lupa, credo comprenda le pagine più belle mai scritte sulla relazione che si può instaurare tra un essere umano e la natura. Le altre tre parti parlano d'altro, e non ho intenzione di accennarvi nemmeno una parola a riguardo.
McCarthy, quando scrive, lo fa scrivendo del lato umano più triste, più cupo, più nero. Lo fa di proposito, perché alla fine la vita è questo. Leggere questo libro è stato come guardare dentro un abisso e rimanere a fissarlo per tutta la durata della lettura. Un abisso che affonda le sue radici in te, come i tuoi occhi affondano le loro in lui. E da quell'abisso è impossibile uscirne. O forse ne esci, ma ne esci con una consapevolezza del mondo da togliere il fiato. Non guarderai più nemmeno un sasso allo stesso modo con cui lo guardavi pieno. McCarthy ha questo potere. Il potere di illuminare di una luce triste tutta la realtà. E poi non c'è nient'altro da fare se non piangere. E piangi per sfinimento, non perché il libro vuole commuovere. Non è quello il suo intento. A dire il vero il libro è così crudo e reale che commuovere è l'ultima delle sue intenzioni. Ma tu piangi perché alla fine non ce la fai più. Piangi perché i personaggi non ti dicono i loro pensieri. Tranne che nei dialoghi, McCarthy non te li dice. Tu lo capisci dai gesti cosa pensano. Tu lo capisci da come vedono il mondo. E il mondo che vedono è un mondo triste, triste, triste.
Ho sottolineato quasi tutto il libro. Ci sono intere pagine sottolineate di seguito. Molti passi li ho già trascritti, ma non li ripoterò nella recensione. Non ha senso, sono talmente belli che stonano con le mie parole.
Ho ancora qualcosa da dire. Vorrei dirvi leggetelo, ma sarebbe banale. Non ha senso leggerlo. Vi renderà solo persone più tristi. Vi renderà ancora più estranei a questo mondo che viviamo tutti i giorni. Vi farà credere che niente ha senso, che tutto quello che facciamo è inutile. Ed è terribile. Io credo che amare un libro così sia semplice. È facile che piaccia. Sia perché è scritto in modo sublime, sia perché McCarthy ha la miglior prosa che io abbia mai conosciuto, sia perché è poesia pura. Ma che lo capiate, che capiate quello che McCarthy vuole dire, be', quella è un'altra storia. Il fatto è che un libro di tale portata letteraria è presente nella maggior parte delle librerie italiane eppure nessuno che conosco l'aveva mai letto o sentito nominare. Toglietevi dalla testa "La strada", l'ultimo lavoro del Maestro. È un bel libro, è bello anche il film, ma qui siamo a livelli inconcepibili per noi comuni mortali. Qui tocchiamto l'apice dell'abilità letteraria che un uomo può raggiungere.
Quando ho detto che avevo ancora qualcosa da dire, intendevo qualcosa di lungo. Se siete stanchi, fermatevi qui. Seguiranno solo inutili soliloqui sulla bellezza di questo libro. Sto già pensando a come costruire l'altare a McCarthy in casa mia.
Billy è un ragazzo incredibile. Incredibile nella sua realtà di uomo, di essere umano. Incredibile nelle sue domande, nei racconti che ascolta durante il suo vagabondare. Ed è reso incredibile soprattutto dalle parole degli altri, da chi parla a lui di cose sconosciute, di ragionamenti sul mondo e sulla vita. Le storie che apprende nel suo viaggio sono molteplici. Le più importanti sono quelle del confronto tra il vecchio e il prete e quella del cieco. Quest'ultima è di una bellezza sconvolgente. Toccante a tal punto che non mi ritenevo degno di leggere. A tal punto da smettere e dirmi: tu non meriti di leggere parole così belle. Tu non meriti di leggere questo libro. Perché io sono nato e ho vissuto diciassette anni della mia vita aspettando di leggere il libro pubblicato l'anno della mia nascita. Ormai lo credo per certo. Ancora grazie, Cormac McCarthy. Mi sembra di deturpare il tuo genio solo parlandone. Anche io non so quello che faccio, perdonami, e io ti perdonerò di avere 78 anni e ti perdonerò il fatto che non saranno molti i libri che ti restano da pubblicare. Ma io mi accontento lo stesso. Io mi accontento del fatto che tu abbia donato al mondo "The Crossing". Tutti dovremmo accontentarcene. Cosa si può chiedere di più dalla vita se non la lettura di un romanzo di questa portata? Davvero, cosa si può chiedere dui più? La felicità, forse? La felicità non è niente.
Un'altra cosa che ho capito, e spero di averla capita nel modo giusto, è che il mondo è una storia. Che tutte le storie fanno parte di un'unica storia, e quella storia è il mondo. E che noi stiamo vivendo una storia, né più né meno. Piango di fronte a questa consapevolezza. Piango di fronte all'illusione del mondo, alla sua inconsistenza, alla sua leggerezza. Come dice Mccarthy, non si può tenerlo in una mano, perché è inconsistente. È una storia. È un'illusione.
Alla fine ho deciso che qualche cosa dovevo pur riportarla. È lunga, ma non può essere altrimenti:
Sono venuto come un eretico che fugge da una vita precedente. Stavo fuggendo.
È venuto a nascondersi?
Sono venuto per via del disastro.
Scusi?
Il disastro. Il terremoto.
Il terremoto, certo.
Stavo cercando prove dell'intervento di Dio nel mondo. Ero arrivato a credere che quell'intervento fosse dettato dall'ira e credevo che gli uomini non si fossero mai interrogati a sufficienza sui miracoli della distruzione. Sui disastri di una certa grandezza. Credevo vi fossero prove del fatto che tutto ciò era stato tenuto in scarsa considerazione. Pensavo che Lui non si sarebbe dato premura di cancellare tutti i segni del proprio intervento. Avevo molta voglia di sapere. Pensavo che magari Lui si divertisse addirittura a lasciare degli indizi.
Che genere di indizi?
Non so. Qualcosa. Qualcosa di imprevisto. Qualcosa fuori posto. Qualcosa non vero o improbabile. Una traccia nella polvere. Un gingillo caduto a terra. Non una causa. No di certo. Non una causa. Le cause non fanno altro che moltiplicarsi e conducono al caos. Volevo sapere cos'aveva in mente. Non potevo credere che distruggesse la propria chiesa senza alcuna ragione.
Crede forse che la gente di qui avesse fatto qualcosa di simile?
L'uomo fumò pensieroso. Sì, credevo che fosse possibile. Possibile. Come nelle città in pianura. Pensavo ci fossero prove di qualcosa di indicibile che l'avesse sollecitato a intervenire. Qualcosa tra le macerie. Tra la polvere. Sotto le vigas. Qualcosa di oscuro. Chi potrebbe dirlo?
Che cosa ha trovato?
Nulla. Una bambola. Un piatto. Un osso.
Si chinò e spense la sigaretta in una coppa di terracotta sul tavolo.
Sono qui a causa di una certa persona. Sono venuto a ricostruirne i passi. Forse a vedere se per caso vi fosse un percorso alternativo. Ma qui non si trova niente. Le cose separate dalle loro storie non hanno senso. Sono semplici forme. Di una certa dimensione e di un certo colore. Di un certo peso. Quando ne abbiamo perso il significato, non hanno più neppure un nome. La storia, d'altro canto, non può mai venir separata dal luogo al quale appartiene, perché essa è quel luogo. Ecco che cosa si poteva trovare qui. Il corrido. La storia. E come tutti i corridos, in fin dei conti raccontava soltanto una storia, perché ce n'è solo una da raccontare.
I gatti si muovevano, il fuoco scoppiettava nella stufa. Fuori, nel villaggio abbandonato, il silenzio più profondo.
Che storia è? domandò il ragazzo.
Nella città di Caborca, sul fiume Altar, visse un uomo, un vecchio. A Caborca era nato e a Caborca morì. Però visse per un certo periodo in questa città, a Huisiachepic.
Che cosa sa Caborca di Huisiachepic e che cosa sa Huisiachepic di Caborca? Sono mondi diversi, dovrai convenire con me. Eppure anche così c'è solo un mondo e qualsiasi cosa tu possa immaginare è un suo elemento necessario. Perché questo mondo che ci pare una cosa fatta di pietra, vegetazione e sangue non è affatto una cosa ma è semplicemente una storia. E tutto ciò che esso contiene è una storia e ciascuna storia è la somma di tutte le storie minori, eppure queste sono la medesima storia e contengono in esse tutto il resto. Quindi tutto è necessario. Ogni minimo particolare. È questa in fondo la lezione. Non si può fare a meno di nulla. Nulla può venire disprezzato. Perché, vedi, non sappiamo dove stanno i fili. I collegamenti. Il modo in cui è fatto il mondo. Non abbiamo modo di sapere quali sono le cose di cui si può fare a meno. Ciò che può venire omesso. Non abbiamo modo di sapere che cosa può stare in piedi e che cosa può cadere. E quei fili che ci sono ignoti fanno naturalmente parte anch'essi della storia e la storia non ha dimora né luogo d'essere se non nel racconto, è lì che vive e dimora e quindi non possiamo mai aver finito di raccontare. Non c'è mai fine al raccontare. E, ripeto, sia a Caborca che a Huisiachepic che in qualsiasi altro posto con qualsiasi altro nome o senza nome alcuno, tutte le storie sono una cosa sola. Se ascolti come si deve, sono una unica storia.
Voi cosa dite? Voi che parole pronunciate di fronte a un foglio e dell'inchiostro? Che potere avete voi, che potere abbiamo noi, davanti a un libro scritto in questo modo?
Io nessuno. Io sono un poveraccio, una nullità. Sto seriamente pensando di esauire tutti i caratteri a disposizione. Ma poi chi la legge, questa recensione? Ancora due cose, solo due.
Voglio solamente dire a chi è arrivato fino in fondo, che questi libri vi distruggono. Non vi cambiano la vita, non vi salvano. Vi distruggono. La bellezza ha quest'effetto.
L'ultima cosa che vi dico è di regalarlo a tutti coloro che conoscete. Non per distruggerli, ma per farli diventare come voi. Per farli rendere conto della vita e del mondo. Regalatelo e piangete pensando alle persone che amate che piangono leggendolo. Che piangono arrivando all'ultima parola. Arrivando al punto. Ci sono arrivato anch'io. Basta.
Grazie, Cormac McCarthy. Grazie all'infinito. Hai scritto il libro della mia vita. E ti chiedo scusa se lo chiamo libro. Ti chiedo scusa per quelli che lo hanno disprezzato e lo disprezzeranno. Perdonali, perché non sanno quello che fanno. Io non posso fare altro che inchinarmi davanti a tanta capacità letteraria. Non posso far altro che piangere sapendo che un autore ancora vivente ha prodotto questo libro. Sapendo che ha scritto queste pagine, che non è stato un dio a farlo.
Scusatemi, sto cercando di razionalizzare un po'. Sono sconvolto, davvero sconvolto. Sono arrivato all'ultima riga con gli occhi pieni di lacrime senza sapere neanche bene il perché. So solo che dentro ero completamente scosso. Ancora adesso faccio una fatica immensa a ragionare, a restare lucido. Le parole, di fronte a certe pagine, vengono meno.
Ci troviamo di fronte a un libro di livello superiore. Non so cos'altro leggerò, nei prossimi anni, ma qui la letteratura - e parlo della letteratura di tutti i tempi - tocca vette altissime. La maggior parte degli scrittori, io per primo, possono solo trascorrere la vita sognando di avere anche solo la metà della bravura di McCarthy, ma la verità è che non l'avranno mai. La verità è che Cormac McCarthy è il miglior scrittore che io abbia mai letto. La verità è che "The Crossing" (Oltre il confine) è talmente immenso che necessita sicuramente decine di riletture prima di poterlo comprendere a pieno. Prima di comprendere ogni riga, ogni parola. Prima di rendersi conto di star leggendo un "miracolo in prosa", come dice il retrocopertina. Prima di accorgersi che sono 370 pagine di poesia, non una di meno.
Le quattro parti in cui è suddiviso il libro sono una più bella dell'altra. La prima, quella che descrive il rapporto tra il protagonista e la lupa, credo comprenda le pagine più belle mai scritte sulla relazione che si può instaurare tra un essere umano e la natura. Le altre tre parti parlano d'altro, e non ho intenzione di accennarvi nemmeno una parola a riguardo.
McCarthy, quando scrive, lo fa scrivendo del lato umano più triste, più cupo, più nero. Lo fa di proposito, perché alla fine la vita è questo. Leggere questo libro è stato come guardare dentro un abisso e rimanere a fissarlo per tutta la durata della lettura. Un abisso che affonda le sue radici in te, come i tuoi occhi affondano le loro in lui. E da quell'abisso è impossibile uscirne. O forse ne esci, ma ne esci con una consapevolezza del mondo da togliere il fiato. Non guarderai più nemmeno un sasso allo stesso modo con cui lo guardavi pieno. McCarthy ha questo potere. Il potere di illuminare di una luce triste tutta la realtà. E poi non c'è nient'altro da fare se non piangere. E piangi per sfinimento, non perché il libro vuole commuovere. Non è quello il suo intento. A dire il vero il libro è così crudo e reale che commuovere è l'ultima delle sue intenzioni. Ma tu piangi perché alla fine non ce la fai più. Piangi perché i personaggi non ti dicono i loro pensieri. Tranne che nei dialoghi, McCarthy non te li dice. Tu lo capisci dai gesti cosa pensano. Tu lo capisci da come vedono il mondo. E il mondo che vedono è un mondo triste, triste, triste.
Ho sottolineato quasi tutto il libro. Ci sono intere pagine sottolineate di seguito. Molti passi li ho già trascritti, ma non li ripoterò nella recensione. Non ha senso, sono talmente belli che stonano con le mie parole.
Ho ancora qualcosa da dire. Vorrei dirvi leggetelo, ma sarebbe banale. Non ha senso leggerlo. Vi renderà solo persone più tristi. Vi renderà ancora più estranei a questo mondo che viviamo tutti i giorni. Vi farà credere che niente ha senso, che tutto quello che facciamo è inutile. Ed è terribile. Io credo che amare un libro così sia semplice. È facile che piaccia. Sia perché è scritto in modo sublime, sia perché McCarthy ha la miglior prosa che io abbia mai conosciuto, sia perché è poesia pura. Ma che lo capiate, che capiate quello che McCarthy vuole dire, be', quella è un'altra storia. Il fatto è che un libro di tale portata letteraria è presente nella maggior parte delle librerie italiane eppure nessuno che conosco l'aveva mai letto o sentito nominare. Toglietevi dalla testa "La strada", l'ultimo lavoro del Maestro. È un bel libro, è bello anche il film, ma qui siamo a livelli inconcepibili per noi comuni mortali. Qui tocchiamto l'apice dell'abilità letteraria che un uomo può raggiungere.
Quando ho detto che avevo ancora qualcosa da dire, intendevo qualcosa di lungo. Se siete stanchi, fermatevi qui. Seguiranno solo inutili soliloqui sulla bellezza di questo libro. Sto già pensando a come costruire l'altare a McCarthy in casa mia.
Billy è un ragazzo incredibile. Incredibile nella sua realtà di uomo, di essere umano. Incredibile nelle sue domande, nei racconti che ascolta durante il suo vagabondare. Ed è reso incredibile soprattutto dalle parole degli altri, da chi parla a lui di cose sconosciute, di ragionamenti sul mondo e sulla vita. Le storie che apprende nel suo viaggio sono molteplici. Le più importanti sono quelle del confronto tra il vecchio e il prete e quella del cieco. Quest'ultima è di una bellezza sconvolgente. Toccante a tal punto che non mi ritenevo degno di leggere. A tal punto da smettere e dirmi: tu non meriti di leggere parole così belle. Tu non meriti di leggere questo libro. Perché io sono nato e ho vissuto diciassette anni della mia vita aspettando di leggere il libro pubblicato l'anno della mia nascita. Ormai lo credo per certo. Ancora grazie, Cormac McCarthy. Mi sembra di deturpare il tuo genio solo parlandone. Anche io non so quello che faccio, perdonami, e io ti perdonerò di avere 78 anni e ti perdonerò il fatto che non saranno molti i libri che ti restano da pubblicare. Ma io mi accontento lo stesso. Io mi accontento del fatto che tu abbia donato al mondo "The Crossing". Tutti dovremmo accontentarcene. Cosa si può chiedere di più dalla vita se non la lettura di un romanzo di questa portata? Davvero, cosa si può chiedere dui più? La felicità, forse? La felicità non è niente.
Un'altra cosa che ho capito, e spero di averla capita nel modo giusto, è che il mondo è una storia. Che tutte le storie fanno parte di un'unica storia, e quella storia è il mondo. E che noi stiamo vivendo una storia, né più né meno. Piango di fronte a questa consapevolezza. Piango di fronte all'illusione del mondo, alla sua inconsistenza, alla sua leggerezza. Come dice Mccarthy, non si può tenerlo in una mano, perché è inconsistente. È una storia. È un'illusione.
Alla fine ho deciso che qualche cosa dovevo pur riportarla. È lunga, ma non può essere altrimenti:
Sono venuto come un eretico che fugge da una vita precedente. Stavo fuggendo.
È venuto a nascondersi?
Sono venuto per via del disastro.
Scusi?
Il disastro. Il terremoto.
Il terremoto, certo.
Stavo cercando prove dell'intervento di Dio nel mondo. Ero arrivato a credere che quell'intervento fosse dettato dall'ira e credevo che gli uomini non si fossero mai interrogati a sufficienza sui miracoli della distruzione. Sui disastri di una certa grandezza. Credevo vi fossero prove del fatto che tutto ciò era stato tenuto in scarsa considerazione. Pensavo che Lui non si sarebbe dato premura di cancellare tutti i segni del proprio intervento. Avevo molta voglia di sapere. Pensavo che magari Lui si divertisse addirittura a lasciare degli indizi.
Che genere di indizi?
Non so. Qualcosa. Qualcosa di imprevisto. Qualcosa fuori posto. Qualcosa non vero o improbabile. Una traccia nella polvere. Un gingillo caduto a terra. Non una causa. No di certo. Non una causa. Le cause non fanno altro che moltiplicarsi e conducono al caos. Volevo sapere cos'aveva in mente. Non potevo credere che distruggesse la propria chiesa senza alcuna ragione.
Crede forse che la gente di qui avesse fatto qualcosa di simile?
L'uomo fumò pensieroso. Sì, credevo che fosse possibile. Possibile. Come nelle città in pianura. Pensavo ci fossero prove di qualcosa di indicibile che l'avesse sollecitato a intervenire. Qualcosa tra le macerie. Tra la polvere. Sotto le vigas. Qualcosa di oscuro. Chi potrebbe dirlo?
Che cosa ha trovato?
Nulla. Una bambola. Un piatto. Un osso.
Si chinò e spense la sigaretta in una coppa di terracotta sul tavolo.
Sono qui a causa di una certa persona. Sono venuto a ricostruirne i passi. Forse a vedere se per caso vi fosse un percorso alternativo. Ma qui non si trova niente. Le cose separate dalle loro storie non hanno senso. Sono semplici forme. Di una certa dimensione e di un certo colore. Di un certo peso. Quando ne abbiamo perso il significato, non hanno più neppure un nome. La storia, d'altro canto, non può mai venir separata dal luogo al quale appartiene, perché essa è quel luogo. Ecco che cosa si poteva trovare qui. Il corrido. La storia. E come tutti i corridos, in fin dei conti raccontava soltanto una storia, perché ce n'è solo una da raccontare.
I gatti si muovevano, il fuoco scoppiettava nella stufa. Fuori, nel villaggio abbandonato, il silenzio più profondo.
Che storia è? domandò il ragazzo.
Nella città di Caborca, sul fiume Altar, visse un uomo, un vecchio. A Caborca era nato e a Caborca morì. Però visse per un certo periodo in questa città, a Huisiachepic.
Che cosa sa Caborca di Huisiachepic e che cosa sa Huisiachepic di Caborca? Sono mondi diversi, dovrai convenire con me. Eppure anche così c'è solo un mondo e qualsiasi cosa tu possa immaginare è un suo elemento necessario. Perché questo mondo che ci pare una cosa fatta di pietra, vegetazione e sangue non è affatto una cosa ma è semplicemente una storia. E tutto ciò che esso contiene è una storia e ciascuna storia è la somma di tutte le storie minori, eppure queste sono la medesima storia e contengono in esse tutto il resto. Quindi tutto è necessario. Ogni minimo particolare. È questa in fondo la lezione. Non si può fare a meno di nulla. Nulla può venire disprezzato. Perché, vedi, non sappiamo dove stanno i fili. I collegamenti. Il modo in cui è fatto il mondo. Non abbiamo modo di sapere quali sono le cose di cui si può fare a meno. Ciò che può venire omesso. Non abbiamo modo di sapere che cosa può stare in piedi e che cosa può cadere. E quei fili che ci sono ignoti fanno naturalmente parte anch'essi della storia e la storia non ha dimora né luogo d'essere se non nel racconto, è lì che vive e dimora e quindi non possiamo mai aver finito di raccontare. Non c'è mai fine al raccontare. E, ripeto, sia a Caborca che a Huisiachepic che in qualsiasi altro posto con qualsiasi altro nome o senza nome alcuno, tutte le storie sono una cosa sola. Se ascolti come si deve, sono una unica storia.
Voi cosa dite? Voi che parole pronunciate di fronte a un foglio e dell'inchiostro? Che potere avete voi, che potere abbiamo noi, davanti a un libro scritto in questo modo?
Io nessuno. Io sono un poveraccio, una nullità. Sto seriamente pensando di esauire tutti i caratteri a disposizione. Ma poi chi la legge, questa recensione? Ancora due cose, solo due.
Voglio solamente dire a chi è arrivato fino in fondo, che questi libri vi distruggono. Non vi cambiano la vita, non vi salvano. Vi distruggono. La bellezza ha quest'effetto.
L'ultima cosa che vi dico è di regalarlo a tutti coloro che conoscete. Non per distruggerli, ma per farli diventare come voi. Per farli rendere conto della vita e del mondo. Regalatelo e piangete pensando alle persone che amate che piangono leggendolo. Che piangono arrivando all'ultima parola. Arrivando al punto. Ci sono arrivato anch'io. Basta.
August 30, 2022
“Él y la loba se sentaron juntos a oscuras y vieron como las sombras emergían en el prado y trotaban y se desvanecían y volvían a emerger. La loba miraba con las orejas apuntando hacia delante y olisqueaba el aire, primero en una dirección, luego en otra, como si quisiera instigar la vida del mundo. Él se sentó arrebujado con la manta y contempló las sombras en movimiento mientras la luna se elevaba sobre las montañas que se erguían a su espalda, y a lo lejos, a orillas del Bavispe, las luces parpadearon una a una hasta extinguirse por completo.”
Bill Parham sale a cazar una loba, y cuando vuelve a casa, semanas o meses después, el mundo que él conocía como tal, está hecho trizas. Éste es quizá un resumen exagerado de todo lo que acontece en una novela como ésta, totalmente desbordante y antológica, donde ocurren muchas más situaciones límite, pero es este principio entre la loba y Bill, el que sentará las bases de todo lo que tendrá que vivir este chico a lo largo de la novela.
"Dónde está el lobo? El lobo es como un copo de nieve.
Un copo de nieve.
Un copo de nieve. Tú atrapas un copo de nieve pero cuando te miras la mano ya no está. Puede que veas este dechado. Pero antes de que puedas verlo ha desaparecidog. Si quieres verlo tienes que verlo en tu propio terreno. Si lo atrapas lo pierdes. Y a donde va no hay camino de vuelta."
Bill Parham tiene dieciséis años y sale de casa para atrapar una loba que ha estado acechando los rebaños de su familia. La captura pero en lugar de matarla decide cruzar la frontera y llevarla de vuelta a la tierra de donde procede, a las montañas de México. Ésta será la primera vez que Bill cruzará la frontera y es en este viaje, donde aprenderá que el mundo en el que vive no tiene un orden marcado o quizá sí, el orden marcado por la violencia y la muerte. La odisea iniciática de Bill en compañía de la loba, que ocupa el primer tercio de la novela, se convierte en una travesía casi suspendida en el limbo, fuera del tiempo, donde el paisaje y la violencia más salvaje confluyen continuamente una con otra, la naturaleza en todo su esplendor enfrentada a la violencia que marca el hombre cuando aparece. Incluso se podría decir que este primer tercio de la novela donde se relata la conexión entre Bill y la loba, podrían funcionar como un relato independiente, una experiencia que marcará a Bill y que le enseñará que el mundo es oscuro e impenetrable allí donde el hombre campa a sus anchas.
"Uno nunca sabe que cosas pone en marcha, dijo. Nadie puede saberlo. No hay profeta capaz de predecirlo. Las consecuencias de una acción son a menudo bastante distintas de lo que uno pensaba. Asegúrese de que lo que le mueve en el fondo del corazón es lo bastante grande como para contener todos los virajes equivocados, todas las decepciones."
Bill cruzará la frontera con México dos veces más a lo largo de la novela en el transcurso de varios años hasta cumplir los veinte, le acompañará su hermano Boyd, dos años menor, y en ambas travesías en la que van a la búsqueda de algo con un espiritú inquebrantable, se irán dando cuenta de que las cosas, las situaciones, que se irán encontrando en su camino, irán disminuyendo su fe en los hombres, aunque no todo es desolación pura y dura, porque en los respectivos encuentros con otros seres humanos, descubrirán que todos tendrán algo nuevo que aportar a su experiencia... en todos y cada uno de los hombres y mujeres que Cormac McCarthy pondrá en el camino de estos dos hermanos, hay una filosofía de vida, una manera de concebir el mundo aunque la desolación quizá esté en el hecho de que la mayoría son como figuras fantasmagóricas en una tierra de devastada por la desesperanza.
“Alzó los ojos. De tan pálido su pelo parecía blanco. Por el aspecto parecía tener catorce años camino de una edad que nunca alcanzaría. Era como si hubiera estado allí sentado y Dios hubiese hecho los árboles y las rocas alrededor de él. Por encima de todo parecía estar lleno de una tristeza terrible. Como si albergara noticias de cierta pérdida horrenda que solo había llegado a oídos de él. Una inmensa tragedia, pero no debido a un hecho, un incidente o un acontecimiento, sino por el modo de ser del mundo.”
“En la frontera” es la segunda novela de una trilogia donde la primera novela “Todos los hermosos caballos” tambien tenía como protagonista a un adolescente a punto de descubrir el mundo a través de la violencia. El nexo común entre Bill y Grady está en el hecho de que ambos son dos vaqueros atrapados entre dos eras: el salvaje oeste a punto de desintegrarse y el nuevo marcado por la era tecnológica y los inventos del hombre. El simbolismo que puede significar el lobo (desapareciendo) o el caballo (siendo sustituido por los vehículos), a los que se aferran continuamente Bill o su hermano Boyd en esta novela, no dejan de ser la consciencia de que sabían que estaban viviendo en un mundo a punto de extinguirse y es la forma en que Cormac nos está haciendo ver que para él, para su concepción del mundo, el ser humano lo es todo, así que cuando crea un personaje como Bill Parham continuamente luchando contra personas/situaciones que se le enfrentan por su desacuerdo con sus valores, totalmente aferrada a sus convicciones, está narrando hasta qué punto el mundo está marcado por el caos. La novela está ambientada en en el fina de la década de los años 30 justo un poco antes de que comenzara la Segunda Guerra Mudial, pero se siente como una novela atemporal, y en momentos en los que Cormac McCarthy sorprende en una frase con palabras como parquímetro o aeroplano, es cuando somos conscientes de que no está situada en en la era dorada del salvaje oeste sino en pleno s.XX.
"El secreto, dijo, es que en este mundo lo verdadero es la máscara."
Aunque la primera novela de la trilogía me pareció estupenda, es ésta la que de verdad me ha impactado, casi en la misma medida que me impactó "Meridiano de Sangre" porque aquí más que en la primera, Cormac McCarthy tira por la borda la narrativa más conservadora y aunque construye una atmósfera elaborada a través de párrafos continuados en relación al paisaje y a la naturaleza en comunión con el hombre, llega un punto en el que el lector no está preparado para un cierto momento, un zarpazo con el cual McCarthy sorprende al lector, ya sea un momento de auténtica brutalidad, un abandono o incluso unas lágrimas inesperadas. Hay momentos absolutamente devastadores en esta novela, inolvidables, momentos que se quedan ya grabados para siempre. Una joya con uno de esos finales perfectos que hacen a Cormac McCarthy uno de los grandes. Maravilla.
“En realidad el mundo sigue un camino que no está fijado en ningún lugar. ¿Cómo iba a estarlo? Nosotros mismos somos nuestro propio viaje. Y por eso también somos el tiempo. Somos como el tiempo. Huidizos. Inescrutables. Despiadados.”
https://kansasbooks.blogspot.com/2022...
Bill Parham sale a cazar una loba, y cuando vuelve a casa, semanas o meses después, el mundo que él conocía como tal, está hecho trizas. Éste es quizá un resumen exagerado de todo lo que acontece en una novela como ésta, totalmente desbordante y antológica, donde ocurren muchas más situaciones límite, pero es este principio entre la loba y Bill, el que sentará las bases de todo lo que tendrá que vivir este chico a lo largo de la novela.
"Dónde está el lobo? El lobo es como un copo de nieve.
Un copo de nieve.
Un copo de nieve. Tú atrapas un copo de nieve pero cuando te miras la mano ya no está. Puede que veas este dechado. Pero antes de que puedas verlo ha desaparecidog. Si quieres verlo tienes que verlo en tu propio terreno. Si lo atrapas lo pierdes. Y a donde va no hay camino de vuelta."
Bill Parham tiene dieciséis años y sale de casa para atrapar una loba que ha estado acechando los rebaños de su familia. La captura pero en lugar de matarla decide cruzar la frontera y llevarla de vuelta a la tierra de donde procede, a las montañas de México. Ésta será la primera vez que Bill cruzará la frontera y es en este viaje, donde aprenderá que el mundo en el que vive no tiene un orden marcado o quizá sí, el orden marcado por la violencia y la muerte. La odisea iniciática de Bill en compañía de la loba, que ocupa el primer tercio de la novela, se convierte en una travesía casi suspendida en el limbo, fuera del tiempo, donde el paisaje y la violencia más salvaje confluyen continuamente una con otra, la naturaleza en todo su esplendor enfrentada a la violencia que marca el hombre cuando aparece. Incluso se podría decir que este primer tercio de la novela donde se relata la conexión entre Bill y la loba, podrían funcionar como un relato independiente, una experiencia que marcará a Bill y que le enseñará que el mundo es oscuro e impenetrable allí donde el hombre campa a sus anchas.
"Uno nunca sabe que cosas pone en marcha, dijo. Nadie puede saberlo. No hay profeta capaz de predecirlo. Las consecuencias de una acción son a menudo bastante distintas de lo que uno pensaba. Asegúrese de que lo que le mueve en el fondo del corazón es lo bastante grande como para contener todos los virajes equivocados, todas las decepciones."
Bill cruzará la frontera con México dos veces más a lo largo de la novela en el transcurso de varios años hasta cumplir los veinte, le acompañará su hermano Boyd, dos años menor, y en ambas travesías en la que van a la búsqueda de algo con un espiritú inquebrantable, se irán dando cuenta de que las cosas, las situaciones, que se irán encontrando en su camino, irán disminuyendo su fe en los hombres, aunque no todo es desolación pura y dura, porque en los respectivos encuentros con otros seres humanos, descubrirán que todos tendrán algo nuevo que aportar a su experiencia... en todos y cada uno de los hombres y mujeres que Cormac McCarthy pondrá en el camino de estos dos hermanos, hay una filosofía de vida, una manera de concebir el mundo aunque la desolación quizá esté en el hecho de que la mayoría son como figuras fantasmagóricas en una tierra de devastada por la desesperanza.
“Alzó los ojos. De tan pálido su pelo parecía blanco. Por el aspecto parecía tener catorce años camino de una edad que nunca alcanzaría. Era como si hubiera estado allí sentado y Dios hubiese hecho los árboles y las rocas alrededor de él. Por encima de todo parecía estar lleno de una tristeza terrible. Como si albergara noticias de cierta pérdida horrenda que solo había llegado a oídos de él. Una inmensa tragedia, pero no debido a un hecho, un incidente o un acontecimiento, sino por el modo de ser del mundo.”
“En la frontera” es la segunda novela de una trilogia donde la primera novela “Todos los hermosos caballos” tambien tenía como protagonista a un adolescente a punto de descubrir el mundo a través de la violencia. El nexo común entre Bill y Grady está en el hecho de que ambos son dos vaqueros atrapados entre dos eras: el salvaje oeste a punto de desintegrarse y el nuevo marcado por la era tecnológica y los inventos del hombre. El simbolismo que puede significar el lobo (desapareciendo) o el caballo (siendo sustituido por los vehículos), a los que se aferran continuamente Bill o su hermano Boyd en esta novela, no dejan de ser la consciencia de que sabían que estaban viviendo en un mundo a punto de extinguirse y es la forma en que Cormac nos está haciendo ver que para él, para su concepción del mundo, el ser humano lo es todo, así que cuando crea un personaje como Bill Parham continuamente luchando contra personas/situaciones que se le enfrentan por su desacuerdo con sus valores, totalmente aferrada a sus convicciones, está narrando hasta qué punto el mundo está marcado por el caos. La novela está ambientada en en el fina de la década de los años 30 justo un poco antes de que comenzara la Segunda Guerra Mudial, pero se siente como una novela atemporal, y en momentos en los que Cormac McCarthy sorprende en una frase con palabras como parquímetro o aeroplano, es cuando somos conscientes de que no está situada en en la era dorada del salvaje oeste sino en pleno s.XX.
"El secreto, dijo, es que en este mundo lo verdadero es la máscara."
Aunque la primera novela de la trilogía me pareció estupenda, es ésta la que de verdad me ha impactado, casi en la misma medida que me impactó "Meridiano de Sangre" porque aquí más que en la primera, Cormac McCarthy tira por la borda la narrativa más conservadora y aunque construye una atmósfera elaborada a través de párrafos continuados en relación al paisaje y a la naturaleza en comunión con el hombre, llega un punto en el que el lector no está preparado para un cierto momento, un zarpazo con el cual McCarthy sorprende al lector, ya sea un momento de auténtica brutalidad, un abandono o incluso unas lágrimas inesperadas. Hay momentos absolutamente devastadores en esta novela, inolvidables, momentos que se quedan ya grabados para siempre. Una joya con uno de esos finales perfectos que hacen a Cormac McCarthy uno de los grandes. Maravilla.
“En realidad el mundo sigue un camino que no está fijado en ningún lugar. ¿Cómo iba a estarlo? Nosotros mismos somos nuestro propio viaje. Y por eso también somos el tiempo. Somos como el tiempo. Huidizos. Inescrutables. Despiadados.”
https://kansasbooks.blogspot.com/2022...
May 2, 2015
Magnífica Travessia!
Tem umas passagens árduas, tem. Umas em que se fala de Deus e de Fé, e que facilmente impacientam uma ímpia infiel como eu… Mas o resto deixou-me extasiada.
Cormac consegue expor o Homem no seu estado mais Puro; um Ser absolutamente livre e corajoso e determinado, que se entrega e sacrifica aos outros não por Dever mas por Querer. Não será por acaso, talvez, que a personagem principal tem apenas 16 anos; já é fisicamente um homem mas a alma ainda é de menino…
Estou viciada em Cormac McCarthy. Como o ser humano apenas se vicia no que dá prazer, tirem as vossas conclusões… eu não digo mais nada. Vou até às Cidades da Planície encontrar-me com os meus adoráveis meninos/homens – o John dos Belos Cavalos e o Billy da Travessia…
Tem umas passagens árduas, tem. Umas em que se fala de Deus e de Fé, e que facilmente impacientam uma ímpia infiel como eu… Mas o resto deixou-me extasiada.
Cormac consegue expor o Homem no seu estado mais Puro; um Ser absolutamente livre e corajoso e determinado, que se entrega e sacrifica aos outros não por Dever mas por Querer. Não será por acaso, talvez, que a personagem principal tem apenas 16 anos; já é fisicamente um homem mas a alma ainda é de menino…
Estou viciada em Cormac McCarthy. Como o ser humano apenas se vicia no que dá prazer, tirem as vossas conclusões… eu não digo mais nada. Vou até às Cidades da Planície encontrar-me com os meus adoráveis meninos/homens – o John dos Belos Cavalos e o Billy da Travessia…
June 20, 2023
Loved the first section, with the wolf. Loved when the brothers were together, great dialogue. Couldn't really be bothered to think through the mystic mumbo jumbo except on the most basic, surface level. Sorry Mr McCarthy, not really my thing. Love the stoic deadpan and the action and all the free tortillas.
June 10, 2024
“The Crossing” begins in the 1930s and ends in 1945. It is a coming-of-age epic tale in the Western genre. The second book of The Border Trilogy, it is the third McCarthy book I’ve read. It follows my reading of “All the Pretty Horses” last year. I read “The Road” in some fuzzy pre-Goodread time. “The Crossing” is divided into four parts and while the first part reminded me of McCarthy’s writing in “All the Pretty Horses,” there is a darker, more dismal side that gets even more dismal as the story proceeds. It’s not a book that I can fully take in as far as parameters, dimensions, and depth in one reading.
The prose is often poetic
...among the pale cottonwoods with their limbs like bones.”
Before him the mountains were blinding white in the sun. They looked new born out of the hand of some improvident god who’d perhaps not even puzzled out a use for them.
He combines the philosophic with the poetic:
When the flames came up her eyes burned out there like gatelamps to another world. A world burning on the shore of an unknowable void. A world construed out of blood and blood’s alcahest and blood in its core and in its integument because it was that nothing save blood had power to resonate against that void which threatened hourly to devour it.
McCarthy adroitly convinces me that Billy Parham is one of those introspective individuals who is wise beyond his years. As a reader, I understood the death knell for Billy’s youth, a tragedy that screams off the page in McCarthy’s quiet, understated prose. I lament its loss even as I understand it as a rite of passage, the necessary and harrowing transformation of a boy into a man. There are philosophical passages that arise from living in and against the land, and nature, from surviving and meeting death on all sides. I accept Billy’s philosophical predisposition. I am convinced, at times by long sequences about life on the range that his experiences have qualified him, have demanded of him that he become a cowboy philosopher. That’s not to say that all of McCarthy’s set-ups go down well. The synchronicity of Billy’s meetings with melancholic and insightful individuals is suspect, but it’s a grain of salt I can manage. Meeting these strangers with my full-on attention is however, more than I can accomplish with this first reading.
Some passages are long and meandering. I lose my place. My thoughts wander. Important things happen while I’m not paying attention. I have to go backward before I can get on track again. It’s worth it to me so that I can pick up the gems, the prose treasures, the startling insights revealed as only McCarthy can. That won’t be the case for every reader.
Billy Parham, sixteen years old and filling the role of a full-fledged cowhand for his father, and Boyd, Billy’s fourteen-year-old brother are major characters. For me, Boyd was somewhat of an unknown quality, one that I couldn’t fully understand, and perhaps that is the point. How many people do we have in our lives, even siblings, that are largely opaque to us, whose history we share, and yet, we still do not know them? We do not fully understand their motivations and desires. I was not prepared for Boyd’s actions later in the story but I never felt he was just a catalyst for Billy. Boyd was a prognosticator. One of his dreams was an ominous foretelling. In another instance, he simply knew something before he should have known it. The brothers were close. McCarthy establishes this in the first paragraph.
He carried Boyd before him in the bow of the saddle and named to him features of the landscape and birds and animals in both spanish and english. In the new house they slept in the room off the kitchen and he would lie awake at night and listen to his brother’s breathing in the dark and he would whisper half aloud to him as he slept his plans for them and the life they would have.”
The she-wolf in Part 1 is also a major character. The traits of the wolf’s wildness and inscrutability blend with attributes of the landscape, especially the mysterious world of Mexico that lies across the border. I loved this part so much that if it had been the story entire, I would have been satisfied. Billy is obsessed with the wolf and wants to return her to the Sierra de la Madera to the south, where he surmises she was born. Wolves have become a rarity in New Mexico, where Billy lives on the ranch with his family. His father tells him if you come across the wolf in a trap, come and get me; if her leg is broken, shoot her. The cattle that the Parham family manages are their livelihood. The wolf is killing the calves, picking them off. Billy only recognizes the impetus to save the wolf after he captures her and incongruous as it seems, muzzles her, pulling her along on a lead behind his horse named, Bird. Or perhaps the motivation stirred when he talked to Don Arnulfo, an old sick man lying abed in his home. The woman tending to him says Arnulfo is a brujo “sorcerer.” Billy seeks advice from Arnulfo regarding trapping wolves. Arnulfo says, “El lobo es una cosa incognoscible. (The wolf is an unknowable thing).” Just as easy to know the stones, the trees, the world, he tells him. “The wolf is like the copo de nieve (snowflake)... If you catch it you lose it.” None of this deters Billy. He is set on his path and the river Fate carries him along. He disobeys his father and crosses the border with the wolf in tow. It's the first of Billy's three trips across the border in this story.
I have only scratched the surface. There’s so much more to explore, both in terms of McCarthy’s writing style and the themes of loss and the search for meaning in what often seems to be a meaningless world. Violence and uncertainty are everyday companions in this epic tale. While it won’t appeal to every reader, I enjoyed McCarthy’s prose for its beauty and overt as well as subtle meanings and for McCarthy's exploration of the human condition.
The prose is often poetic
...among the pale cottonwoods with their limbs like bones.”
Before him the mountains were blinding white in the sun. They looked new born out of the hand of some improvident god who’d perhaps not even puzzled out a use for them.
He combines the philosophic with the poetic:
When the flames came up her eyes burned out there like gatelamps to another world. A world burning on the shore of an unknowable void. A world construed out of blood and blood’s alcahest and blood in its core and in its integument because it was that nothing save blood had power to resonate against that void which threatened hourly to devour it.
McCarthy adroitly convinces me that Billy Parham is one of those introspective individuals who is wise beyond his years. As a reader, I understood the death knell for Billy’s youth, a tragedy that screams off the page in McCarthy’s quiet, understated prose. I lament its loss even as I understand it as a rite of passage, the necessary and harrowing transformation of a boy into a man. There are philosophical passages that arise from living in and against the land, and nature, from surviving and meeting death on all sides. I accept Billy’s philosophical predisposition. I am convinced, at times by long sequences about life on the range that his experiences have qualified him, have demanded of him that he become a cowboy philosopher. That’s not to say that all of McCarthy’s set-ups go down well. The synchronicity of Billy’s meetings with melancholic and insightful individuals is suspect, but it’s a grain of salt I can manage. Meeting these strangers with my full-on attention is however, more than I can accomplish with this first reading.
Some passages are long and meandering. I lose my place. My thoughts wander. Important things happen while I’m not paying attention. I have to go backward before I can get on track again. It’s worth it to me so that I can pick up the gems, the prose treasures, the startling insights revealed as only McCarthy can. That won’t be the case for every reader.
Billy Parham, sixteen years old and filling the role of a full-fledged cowhand for his father, and Boyd, Billy’s fourteen-year-old brother are major characters. For me, Boyd was somewhat of an unknown quality, one that I couldn’t fully understand, and perhaps that is the point. How many people do we have in our lives, even siblings, that are largely opaque to us, whose history we share, and yet, we still do not know them? We do not fully understand their motivations and desires. I was not prepared for Boyd’s actions later in the story but I never felt he was just a catalyst for Billy. Boyd was a prognosticator. One of his dreams was an ominous foretelling. In another instance, he simply knew something before he should have known it. The brothers were close. McCarthy establishes this in the first paragraph.
He carried Boyd before him in the bow of the saddle and named to him features of the landscape and birds and animals in both spanish and english. In the new house they slept in the room off the kitchen and he would lie awake at night and listen to his brother’s breathing in the dark and he would whisper half aloud to him as he slept his plans for them and the life they would have.”
The she-wolf in Part 1 is also a major character. The traits of the wolf’s wildness and inscrutability blend with attributes of the landscape, especially the mysterious world of Mexico that lies across the border. I loved this part so much that if it had been the story entire, I would have been satisfied. Billy is obsessed with the wolf and wants to return her to the Sierra de la Madera to the south, where he surmises she was born. Wolves have become a rarity in New Mexico, where Billy lives on the ranch with his family. His father tells him if you come across the wolf in a trap, come and get me; if her leg is broken, shoot her. The cattle that the Parham family manages are their livelihood. The wolf is killing the calves, picking them off. Billy only recognizes the impetus to save the wolf after he captures her and incongruous as it seems, muzzles her, pulling her along on a lead behind his horse named, Bird. Or perhaps the motivation stirred when he talked to Don Arnulfo, an old sick man lying abed in his home. The woman tending to him says Arnulfo is a brujo “sorcerer.” Billy seeks advice from Arnulfo regarding trapping wolves. Arnulfo says, “El lobo es una cosa incognoscible. (The wolf is an unknowable thing).” Just as easy to know the stones, the trees, the world, he tells him. “The wolf is like the copo de nieve (snowflake)... If you catch it you lose it.” None of this deters Billy. He is set on his path and the river Fate carries him along. He disobeys his father and crosses the border with the wolf in tow. It's the first of Billy's three trips across the border in this story.
I have only scratched the surface. There’s so much more to explore, both in terms of McCarthy’s writing style and the themes of loss and the search for meaning in what often seems to be a meaningless world. Violence and uncertainty are everyday companions in this epic tale. While it won’t appeal to every reader, I enjoyed McCarthy’s prose for its beauty and overt as well as subtle meanings and for McCarthy's exploration of the human condition.
September 30, 2022
Cormac Mccarthy The crossing. The second installment of McCarthy's border trilogy. Not as good as All the Pretty Horses, but still a great read.
Action-packed...it is not. Full of life lessons, observations, sadness, depression, and beautiful writing... it is.
We follow young Billy Parham on his coming-of-age journey from New Mexico to Mexico and back again and again and again. We see him go from a wide-eyed farm kid to a calloused adult. A boy with a life and a family to a grown man with nothing left. A kid full of hope and wonder to a broken man beat down by life.
Don't expect to garnish any happiness out of this book. Billy gets to learn firsthand how life can kick your ass and leave you with nothing.
You tried to do something good and decent billy, and life took a shit on you, and I'm sorry, you didn't deserve that.
Action-packed...it is not. Full of life lessons, observations, sadness, depression, and beautiful writing... it is.
We follow young Billy Parham on his coming-of-age journey from New Mexico to Mexico and back again and again and again. We see him go from a wide-eyed farm kid to a calloused adult. A boy with a life and a family to a grown man with nothing left. A kid full of hope and wonder to a broken man beat down by life.
Don't expect to garnish any happiness out of this book. Billy gets to learn firsthand how life can kick your ass and leave you with nothing.
You tried to do something good and decent billy, and life took a shit on you, and I'm sorry, you didn't deserve that.
October 3, 2025
I loved All the Pretty Horses, and I've been hearing from my brother for years that The Crossing contains McCarthy's greatest writing. So, of course, I went in with very high expectations. I was entranced by the duality of sentimentality and brutality in All the Pretty Horses, and that was found again in The Crossing. On top of that, we have a story of a young man, and an injured wolf. Of course I am going to love that.
I am finding it especially difficult to put my thoughts of The Crossing into words. It is deeply melancholic and impactful, with incredible passages and sections, but also some that were a bit too meandering and veered away from the punchy, stripped-back storytelling of All the Pretty Horses. The beginning section is extraordinary, the middle was a bit of a slog, but the ending returned to high quality, with some scenes and images that will remain vivid in my time for a long time to come.
4/5 STARS
I am finding it especially difficult to put my thoughts of The Crossing into words. It is deeply melancholic and impactful, with incredible passages and sections, but also some that were a bit too meandering and veered away from the punchy, stripped-back storytelling of All the Pretty Horses. The beginning section is extraordinary, the middle was a bit of a slog, but the ending returned to high quality, with some scenes and images that will remain vivid in my time for a long time to come.
4/5 STARS
June 22, 2025
3 stars
*** I have a YouTube channel now! Check it out here. ***
I love this idea of documenting life as is... thing is life is not always that interesting. Sometimes an ex-mormon priest dude is lecturing you about how every story is the same story. Sometimes a blind old man is telling u the story of how his eyes were slurped out. Sometimes it's a tragedy where you lose those you love and through that loss emerge irrevocably scarred only to realise it later.
But sometimes... A GIRLY IS IN A READING SLUMP <3
*** I have a YouTube channel now! Check it out here. ***
I love this idea of documenting life as is... thing is life is not always that interesting. Sometimes an ex-mormon priest dude is lecturing you about how every story is the same story. Sometimes a blind old man is telling u the story of how his eyes were slurped out. Sometimes it's a tragedy where you lose those you love and through that loss emerge irrevocably scarred only to realise it later.
But sometimes... A GIRLY IS IN A READING SLUMP <3
April 8, 2018
This was very depressing, and that's just how life goes which is the point I think McCarthy was trying to make.
September 17, 2022
I’m sorry. I just have not had time to write a review until now. Life has been extremely hectic. I like writing reviews. I like recording the impact a book has left on me. I read so many books. If I don’t write a review my memories fade and get muddled. I hope by explain the impression a book has left on me other readers can decide if the book will or will not fit them.
It is McCarthy’s writing style that is the most memorable about the book. Thereafter follows the story which is gripping and excruciatingly difficult at times. Despair colors the telling. The difficult sections are balanced by tongue in cheek humor and the stark beauty so stunningly drawn in the writing.
This is the second of McCarthy’s Border trilogy. The central protagonists of the first and second books meet up in the third. While it is of little consequence which of the first two books you read first, both should be read before going on to the third.
Richard Poe narrates the audiobook. The narration works better if you lower the speed. In this way, the strength of the prose cones through stronger and better matches the tone, the weight of the events as they unfold. What is said is simple to hear. Four stars for the narration.
Please read below my thoughts as I progressed through the book. They illustrate without giving spoilers how the reading influences both one’s emotions and thoughts.
******************
Fate exists, but it is also possible to shape it. We are not left without some control. In this there is implied a smidgen of hope.
******************
Parts are excruciatingly difficult to read. .....but this is as it should be. Excellent writing.
******************
Here’s now what’s going through my head. McCarthy could be classified as one of the American Naturalist school. I am reminded of Theodore Dreiser. The prose is clear, crisp, exact and spare. The simplicity of the lines relay strength and beauty. The simplicity gives emphasis to the message conveyed. Less says more.
***************************
The Border Trilogy
*All the Pretty Horses 4 stars
*The Crossing 4 stars
*Cities of the Plain TBR
*Suttree 1 star
It is McCarthy’s writing style that is the most memorable about the book. Thereafter follows the story which is gripping and excruciatingly difficult at times. Despair colors the telling. The difficult sections are balanced by tongue in cheek humor and the stark beauty so stunningly drawn in the writing.
This is the second of McCarthy’s Border trilogy. The central protagonists of the first and second books meet up in the third. While it is of little consequence which of the first two books you read first, both should be read before going on to the third.
Richard Poe narrates the audiobook. The narration works better if you lower the speed. In this way, the strength of the prose cones through stronger and better matches the tone, the weight of the events as they unfold. What is said is simple to hear. Four stars for the narration.
Please read below my thoughts as I progressed through the book. They illustrate without giving spoilers how the reading influences both one’s emotions and thoughts.
******************
Fate exists, but it is also possible to shape it. We are not left without some control. In this there is implied a smidgen of hope.
******************
Parts are excruciatingly difficult to read. .....but this is as it should be. Excellent writing.
******************
Here’s now what’s going through my head. McCarthy could be classified as one of the American Naturalist school. I am reminded of Theodore Dreiser. The prose is clear, crisp, exact and spare. The simplicity of the lines relay strength and beauty. The simplicity gives emphasis to the message conveyed. Less says more.
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The Border Trilogy
*All the Pretty Horses 4 stars
*The Crossing 4 stars
*Cities of the Plain TBR
*Suttree 1 star
May 3, 2009
I can't remember the last time I enjoyed a book less. I was all the more disappointed because I have liked everything else I've read of McCarthy. This felt like paint by numbers McCarthy to me: male characters laconic to the point of absurdity, but stopping often to listen to portentous theological soliloquies. Wandering through desert landscape, and experiencing sudden senseless violence. It is devoid of feeling until the final page--practically an autistic novel--and ultimately offers nothing to counter, redeem, or justify, its unrelenting bleakness.
July 24, 2023
Segundo volume da Trilogia da Fronteira, A Travessia é uma extraordinária obra acerca do mal, da fragilidade das certezas da vida, das decisões impensadas que modificam toda uma vida e uma profunda imersão na natureza do homem, como foi em Todos os belos cavalos.
Se no primeiro volume acompanhamos a jornada de Cole ao México, quem parte agora é Billy Parham, um adolescente de dezesseis anos que segue fronteira à dentro para realizar uma missão incompreensível, inusitada e perigosa: devolver uma loba ao seu território.
A partir disso, eventos pós eventos, a longa marcha do menino é ao mesmo tempo uma marcha pela vida e conjuntamente pela morte, onde vai aprender que "a luz do mundo estava apenas nos olhos dos homens porque o próprio mundo se movia nas trevas eternas" e que "os maus sabem que se a maldade que eles fizerem provocar um horror inominável ninguém se manifestará contra eles", em encontros que podem ser desde bárbaros à generosos pelo caminho.
Mais que um faroeste bonito, com planícies áridas onde se encontra povoados remotos, vaqueiros, índios, padres, meninas, lobos, irmãos e mortes, a jornada de Parham é um conjunto sombrio de eventos catastróficos, de poesia e de reflexão, em uma marcha que ao mesmo tempo o desespero e a esperança cavalgam lado a lado; onde, também, a ingenuidade cobra seu preço e a injustiça te alcança, mesmo tendo o cavalo mais veloz, sendo, uma continuação superior ao primeiro livro e mais brilhante, terrível e encantador.
Por fim, minha nota ao livro não é porque todos gostarão de McCarthy ou dessa obra, que é um livro terrivelmente triste, mas porque é uma jornada que você nunca vai querer terminar, eu nunca quis. McCarthy atravessou outra fronteira mês passado, de modo que essa é uma leitura que sempre estará comigo. Todas as estrelas possíveis.
Se no primeiro volume acompanhamos a jornada de Cole ao México, quem parte agora é Billy Parham, um adolescente de dezesseis anos que segue fronteira à dentro para realizar uma missão incompreensível, inusitada e perigosa: devolver uma loba ao seu território.
A partir disso, eventos pós eventos, a longa marcha do menino é ao mesmo tempo uma marcha pela vida e conjuntamente pela morte, onde vai aprender que "a luz do mundo estava apenas nos olhos dos homens porque o próprio mundo se movia nas trevas eternas" e que "os maus sabem que se a maldade que eles fizerem provocar um horror inominável ninguém se manifestará contra eles", em encontros que podem ser desde bárbaros à generosos pelo caminho.
Mais que um faroeste bonito, com planícies áridas onde se encontra povoados remotos, vaqueiros, índios, padres, meninas, lobos, irmãos e mortes, a jornada de Parham é um conjunto sombrio de eventos catastróficos, de poesia e de reflexão, em uma marcha que ao mesmo tempo o desespero e a esperança cavalgam lado a lado; onde, também, a ingenuidade cobra seu preço e a injustiça te alcança, mesmo tendo o cavalo mais veloz, sendo, uma continuação superior ao primeiro livro e mais brilhante, terrível e encantador.
Por fim, minha nota ao livro não é porque todos gostarão de McCarthy ou dessa obra, que é um livro terrivelmente triste, mas porque é uma jornada que você nunca vai querer terminar, eu nunca quis. McCarthy atravessou outra fronteira mês passado, de modo que essa é uma leitura que sempre estará comigo. Todas as estrelas possíveis.
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