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The Border Trilogy #1-3
The Border Trilogy: All the Pretty Horses / The Crossing / Cities of the Plain
Cormac McCarthy's monumental trilogy available in one beautifully presented volume
The Border Trilogy chronicles the coming-of-age of two young men in the south west of America.
John Grady Cole and Billy Parham, two cowboys of the old school, are poised on the edge of a world about to change forever. Their journeys across the border into Mexico, each an adventure fraught with fear and pain, mark a passage into adulthood, and eventual salvation.
McCarthy's clean, hard language evokes the physicality of an unforgiving landscape, the determination of the characters who roam within it, and the vanishing world of the Old West, where blood, violence and dying are conditions of life. Beautiful and brutal, filled with sorrow and humour, The Border Trilogy is both an epic love story an exhilarating elegy for the American Frontier.
'In these three fierce, desolate, beautiful novels, McCarthy has created a masterpiece' Sunday Times
'A landmark in American literature' Guardian
The Border Trilogy chronicles the coming-of-age of two young men in the south west of America.
John Grady Cole and Billy Parham, two cowboys of the old school, are poised on the edge of a world about to change forever. Their journeys across the border into Mexico, each an adventure fraught with fear and pain, mark a passage into adulthood, and eventual salvation.
McCarthy's clean, hard language evokes the physicality of an unforgiving landscape, the determination of the characters who roam within it, and the vanishing world of the Old West, where blood, violence and dying are conditions of life. Beautiful and brutal, filled with sorrow and humour, The Border Trilogy is both an epic love story an exhilarating elegy for the American Frontier.
'In these three fierce, desolate, beautiful novels, McCarthy has created a masterpiece' Sunday Times
'A landmark in American literature' Guardian
1037 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1998
566 people are currently reading
9692 people want to read
About the author
Cormac McCarthy
40 books28.2k followersCormac McCarthy was a highly acclaimed American novelist and screenwriter celebrated for his distinctive literary style, philosophical depth, and exploration of violence, morality, and the human condition. His writing, often characterized by sparse punctuation and lyrical, biblical language, delved into the primal forces that shape human behavior, set against the haunting landscapes of the American South and Southwest.
McCarthy’s early novels, including The Orchard Keeper and Outer Dark, established him as a powerful voice in Southern Gothic literature, while Blood Meridian (1985) is frequently cited as his magnum opus—a brutal, visionary epic about violence and manifest destiny in the American West. In the 1990s, his "Border Trilogy"—All the Pretty Horses, The Crossing, and Cities of the Plain—garnered widespread popularity and critical acclaim, blending coming-of-age themes with philosophical introspection and tragic realism.
His 2005 novel No Country for Old Men was adapted into an Academy Award-winning film by the Coen brothers, and his harrowing post-apocalyptic tale The Road (2006) won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction and was also made into a major motion picture. Both works brought him mainstream recognition and a broader readership later in his career.
Despite his fame, McCarthy remained famously private and rarely gave interviews, preferring to let his work speak for itself. His legacy endures through his powerful, often unsettling portrayals of humanity’s struggle with fate, violence, and redemption, making him one of the most influential and original voices in modern American literature.
McCarthy’s early novels, including The Orchard Keeper and Outer Dark, established him as a powerful voice in Southern Gothic literature, while Blood Meridian (1985) is frequently cited as his magnum opus—a brutal, visionary epic about violence and manifest destiny in the American West. In the 1990s, his "Border Trilogy"—All the Pretty Horses, The Crossing, and Cities of the Plain—garnered widespread popularity and critical acclaim, blending coming-of-age themes with philosophical introspection and tragic realism.
His 2005 novel No Country for Old Men was adapted into an Academy Award-winning film by the Coen brothers, and his harrowing post-apocalyptic tale The Road (2006) won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction and was also made into a major motion picture. Both works brought him mainstream recognition and a broader readership later in his career.
Despite his fame, McCarthy remained famously private and rarely gave interviews, preferring to let his work speak for itself. His legacy endures through his powerful, often unsettling portrayals of humanity’s struggle with fate, violence, and redemption, making him one of the most influential and original voices in modern American literature.
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June 13, 2015
I have this vague idea of going back and writing reviews of some of my favorite books, read long before I heard of Goodreads. And yet strangely, it’s somehow harder to write reviews of the books I love the best. I’m not sure why that is- maybe it’s because I feel SO MUCH for the books that are like old, beloved friends, that combing through all my weighty feelings and associations with them to find the right words is almost impossible. So there is my disclaimer that this will probably be a rambling, besotted jumble of thoughts, more than a true review.
I have a great deal of respect for Cormac McCarthy’s talent, and have been impressed by everything I have ever read by him. That said, these three books are the only ones that I truly love. I love almost everything about them, the unique, gorgeous poetry of McCarthy’s syntax and the depth of his philosophy, the complexity of his primary characters, who I love dearly. I also love how deeply he draws on numerous archetypes and myths that span almost every era of World Literature. You can delve deep with McCarthy, folks- as deep as any literary-analysis loving English major/book nerd dares to go. Personally, I wrote a 30 page paper on the role of myth and legend in the trilogy for a graduate level literature class, and it was my favorite paper that I wrote in college. There was just SO MUCH to sink my teeth into, and I never enjoyed analyzing literature so much before or since.
The first book in the trilogy is the most famous, winner of the National Book Award, frequently on AP Literature exams, etc. (And also, sadly, the inspiration for an absolutely horrid film version starring Matt Damon.) All the Pretty Horses is the boyhood story of John Grady Cole, a post World War version of a questing knight. His journey into the wild open land of Mexico, in search of a world that no longer exists (if it ever did, outside of stories) is at the simplest level a brilliantly drawn coming of age story. But instead of the clichéd resolution (adolescent loses his innocence and idealism after facing harsh realities/darkness of life) John Grady, the true Quixotic hero, manages to find a path where the idealism and belief in beauty outlives the innocence, and I think that’s a gorgeous thing.
The second book in the trilogy, The Crossing, is my favorite of the three. I love the two young brothers, Billy and Boyd, so very much, and McCarthy’s writing is so raw and beautiful it sometimes physically hurts. I also love his brilliant incorporation of the Corrido (Spanish ballads about oppression, history and tragedy, and often Quixotic reform) and the social bandit/outlaw myth. But it’s Billy’s story most of all, how his deeply sensitive nature is both shaped by and shapes fate, and how he is destined to love and try desperately to save wild, doomed creatures- both human and animal. I really can’t say much more about this one, because I’ll end up either giving copious spoilers or crying, or both.
The third and final book, Cities of the Plain, covers much more time, and completes the stories of the two protagonists from the other books, Billy and John Grady. While in my opinion this is the weakest in the trilogy, McCarthy’s weakest is still better than most contemporary novels I have read. And I love the relationship that develops between Billy and John Grady, and how seamless and authentic their characterization is throughout the trilogy.
While any of the three books can be read alone, in my opinion they shouldn’t be. The full effect of McCarthy’s poignant story about these two young men, and all they loved and lost , only comes from reading all three together.
I have a great deal of respect for Cormac McCarthy’s talent, and have been impressed by everything I have ever read by him. That said, these three books are the only ones that I truly love. I love almost everything about them, the unique, gorgeous poetry of McCarthy’s syntax and the depth of his philosophy, the complexity of his primary characters, who I love dearly. I also love how deeply he draws on numerous archetypes and myths that span almost every era of World Literature. You can delve deep with McCarthy, folks- as deep as any literary-analysis loving English major/book nerd dares to go. Personally, I wrote a 30 page paper on the role of myth and legend in the trilogy for a graduate level literature class, and it was my favorite paper that I wrote in college. There was just SO MUCH to sink my teeth into, and I never enjoyed analyzing literature so much before or since.
The first book in the trilogy is the most famous, winner of the National Book Award, frequently on AP Literature exams, etc. (And also, sadly, the inspiration for an absolutely horrid film version starring Matt Damon.) All the Pretty Horses is the boyhood story of John Grady Cole, a post World War version of a questing knight. His journey into the wild open land of Mexico, in search of a world that no longer exists (if it ever did, outside of stories) is at the simplest level a brilliantly drawn coming of age story. But instead of the clichéd resolution (adolescent loses his innocence and idealism after facing harsh realities/darkness of life) John Grady, the true Quixotic hero, manages to find a path where the idealism and belief in beauty outlives the innocence, and I think that’s a gorgeous thing.
The second book in the trilogy, The Crossing, is my favorite of the three. I love the two young brothers, Billy and Boyd, so very much, and McCarthy’s writing is so raw and beautiful it sometimes physically hurts. I also love his brilliant incorporation of the Corrido (Spanish ballads about oppression, history and tragedy, and often Quixotic reform) and the social bandit/outlaw myth. But it’s Billy’s story most of all, how his deeply sensitive nature is both shaped by and shapes fate, and how he is destined to love and try desperately to save wild, doomed creatures- both human and animal. I really can’t say much more about this one, because I’ll end up either giving copious spoilers or crying, or both.
The third and final book, Cities of the Plain, covers much more time, and completes the stories of the two protagonists from the other books, Billy and John Grady. While in my opinion this is the weakest in the trilogy, McCarthy’s weakest is still better than most contemporary novels I have read. And I love the relationship that develops between Billy and John Grady, and how seamless and authentic their characterization is throughout the trilogy.
While any of the three books can be read alone, in my opinion they shouldn’t be. The full effect of McCarthy’s poignant story about these two young men, and all they loved and lost , only comes from reading all three together.
August 12, 2018
All'inizio del mondo
“Così il viaggiatore arrivò in questo luogo al crepuscolo, mentre le montagne intorno si facevano sempre più scure e il vento soffiava nel passo ormai freddo all'avvicinarsi della notte, e depose a terra il suo fardello per riposarsi e si tolse il cappello per rinfrescarsi la fronte, poi il suo sguardo cadde su questo altare, macchiato di un sangue che in tutti questi millenni né le intemperie della sierra né le tempeste della sierra erano riuscite a cancellare. E lì lui scelse di trascorrere la notte, tanta è l'imprudenza di coloro a cui Dio è stato così buono da risparmiare una giusta parte di avversità, in questo mondo. […] Visto che non riusciamo a conoscere noi stessi nella veglia, che possibilità abbiamo di conoscerci nei sogni?”
La scrittura di McCarthy nasconde più cose di quante ne riveli: per il lettore è un duello con sé stesso leggere oltre il senso e il confine della razionalità, per arrivare a credere che la follia che sta nel racconto sia una cosa sacra, un frammento di divinità. L'uomo di McCarthy si contrappone al vuoto in modo così impulsivo e irrazionale da venirne inghiottito. Tra furti di cavalli, la cattura di una lupa gravida, la salvezza per una giovane venduta al protettore, si incontrano gli uomini del cammino, i cowboys e i braccianti, i vaqueros e i mercanti, i maestri ciechi, i vagabondi filosofi, i domatori e i banditi e gli indios e gli zingari, per un paesaggio di montagne e mesas e pianure che attraversa il confine infinito e metafisico tra Texas e Messico. Gli uomini sono di poche parole; fuggono e inseguono e cacciano. Le donne sono intense e decise, profonde nel sentire e nell'opporsi. La tradizione non permette il perdono, le stelle cadono ed è solo erba e sangue e pietre e pioggia. Tutte le storie sono una cosa sola: ogni essere umano è un orfano, si imbatte nel messaggero di un dolore irreparabile, accetta di divenire un testimone della tragedia, si accorge di avere fatto troppa strada per poter tornare. E la fine è un inganno epico dentro una notte di sogni. L'uomo di McCarthy rimane attaccato alla dimensione del viaggio, all'oscurità e alla ricerca; è un essere rivolto al tramonto, pur inconsciamente, interprete solitario di una natura cruda e inesorabile, cavaliere notturno piegato dalle cose, sognatore sconfitto tra libertà e giustizia. Ma c'è insieme molta concretezza, molta natura: cibo, fagioli e tortillas, animali, bestiame, piante, legna, cuoio, pelle, fuoco, bivacchi, acqua, volti e affari, orizzonti, famiglie e armi. Nessuno ha interesse per i guai eppure ne resta prigioniero, nessuno cerca la guerra ma ogni momento è una sottrazione alla pace e al bene; l'umanità è selvatica, coraggiosa e pronta, spera e desidera, piange e ricorda, sceglie nel dolore e agisce con risolutezza con amici e nemici. È un mondo svanito, composto da bellezza e perdita, intriso di male e destino, costruito con ciò che è lasciato a ciascun essere, quel poco che resta di singolare, di unico.
“Non era un illuso. Sapeva che le cose che più desideriamo tenere nel nostro cuore spesso ci vengono sottratte, mentre quelle di cui faremmo a meno sembrano spesso, proprio in virtù della nostra indifferenza, mostrare una inattesa capacità di durare nel tempo. Sapeva quanto è fragile il ricordo delle persone amate. Certo, noi chiudiamo gli occhi e parliamo con loro. Certo, noi aneliamo a risentire le loro voci anche una volta sola, ma queste voci e questi ricordi si affievoliscono sempre più, finché ciò che un tempo era carne e sangue non è più che eco e ombra. Alla fine, forse, nemmeno questo”.
“Così il viaggiatore arrivò in questo luogo al crepuscolo, mentre le montagne intorno si facevano sempre più scure e il vento soffiava nel passo ormai freddo all'avvicinarsi della notte, e depose a terra il suo fardello per riposarsi e si tolse il cappello per rinfrescarsi la fronte, poi il suo sguardo cadde su questo altare, macchiato di un sangue che in tutti questi millenni né le intemperie della sierra né le tempeste della sierra erano riuscite a cancellare. E lì lui scelse di trascorrere la notte, tanta è l'imprudenza di coloro a cui Dio è stato così buono da risparmiare una giusta parte di avversità, in questo mondo. […] Visto che non riusciamo a conoscere noi stessi nella veglia, che possibilità abbiamo di conoscerci nei sogni?”
La scrittura di McCarthy nasconde più cose di quante ne riveli: per il lettore è un duello con sé stesso leggere oltre il senso e il confine della razionalità, per arrivare a credere che la follia che sta nel racconto sia una cosa sacra, un frammento di divinità. L'uomo di McCarthy si contrappone al vuoto in modo così impulsivo e irrazionale da venirne inghiottito. Tra furti di cavalli, la cattura di una lupa gravida, la salvezza per una giovane venduta al protettore, si incontrano gli uomini del cammino, i cowboys e i braccianti, i vaqueros e i mercanti, i maestri ciechi, i vagabondi filosofi, i domatori e i banditi e gli indios e gli zingari, per un paesaggio di montagne e mesas e pianure che attraversa il confine infinito e metafisico tra Texas e Messico. Gli uomini sono di poche parole; fuggono e inseguono e cacciano. Le donne sono intense e decise, profonde nel sentire e nell'opporsi. La tradizione non permette il perdono, le stelle cadono ed è solo erba e sangue e pietre e pioggia. Tutte le storie sono una cosa sola: ogni essere umano è un orfano, si imbatte nel messaggero di un dolore irreparabile, accetta di divenire un testimone della tragedia, si accorge di avere fatto troppa strada per poter tornare. E la fine è un inganno epico dentro una notte di sogni. L'uomo di McCarthy rimane attaccato alla dimensione del viaggio, all'oscurità e alla ricerca; è un essere rivolto al tramonto, pur inconsciamente, interprete solitario di una natura cruda e inesorabile, cavaliere notturno piegato dalle cose, sognatore sconfitto tra libertà e giustizia. Ma c'è insieme molta concretezza, molta natura: cibo, fagioli e tortillas, animali, bestiame, piante, legna, cuoio, pelle, fuoco, bivacchi, acqua, volti e affari, orizzonti, famiglie e armi. Nessuno ha interesse per i guai eppure ne resta prigioniero, nessuno cerca la guerra ma ogni momento è una sottrazione alla pace e al bene; l'umanità è selvatica, coraggiosa e pronta, spera e desidera, piange e ricorda, sceglie nel dolore e agisce con risolutezza con amici e nemici. È un mondo svanito, composto da bellezza e perdita, intriso di male e destino, costruito con ciò che è lasciato a ciascun essere, quel poco che resta di singolare, di unico.
“Non era un illuso. Sapeva che le cose che più desideriamo tenere nel nostro cuore spesso ci vengono sottratte, mentre quelle di cui faremmo a meno sembrano spesso, proprio in virtù della nostra indifferenza, mostrare una inattesa capacità di durare nel tempo. Sapeva quanto è fragile il ricordo delle persone amate. Certo, noi chiudiamo gli occhi e parliamo con loro. Certo, noi aneliamo a risentire le loro voci anche una volta sola, ma queste voci e questi ricordi si affievoliscono sempre più, finché ciò che un tempo era carne e sangue non è più che eco e ombra. Alla fine, forse, nemmeno questo”.
March 15, 2017
Mar 13 ~~ Wow. Gotta catch my breath. Review coming tomorrow.
Mar 14 ~~ First of all, a big Thank You to GR friend Daniel for suggesting I read these books. I would have missed an amazing experience if not for your tip!
This particular volume contains the three books of McCarthy's border trilogy: All The Pretty Horses, The Crossing, and Cities Of The Plain. I have been immersed in these books for a month. Was it a good idea to read them one right after the other? In many ways McCarthy's world is raw, brutal, violent and bloody. Over 1000 pages worth of his type of realism could be overwhelming for some people.
But I think this was the best way for me to read these books. I cannot say I completely understand all the messages McCarthy was sending, not after just one reading. But I did get completely lost in the stories. It helped that I am very familiar with the areas of the two countries (USA and Mexico) where these books take place. When he mentions the Animas Valley, the Guadalupe mountains, Fabens, Janos, Torreon, El Paso, nearly every place our cowboys went through, I have either been there myself or know enough about it to easily 'be there' while reading.
I also was familiar with the type of man the main characters were. I used to work with such men, and I have yet to meet their equals. The conversations and the relationships between the various men all rang true and reminded me of times (and people) from my past. I was lucky to have known certain people, lucky to have shared a bit of time in life with them. Riding along with John Grady Cole and Billy Parham reminded me of those magical years. Not because of the violence of the adventures they had, but because of the down-to-earth way they faced each moment. There is a certain honesty and integrity here, just like there was around my old friends.
I was surprised at being so personally touched by this book. I was not expecting that to happen. All I was expecting was some good writing about horses, and that only because friend Daniel had mentioned it. I had never read McCarthy although I had heard a little bit about him. But while I read I laughed, I cried, I was shocked and awed, I was eager to keep turning pages and sad to reach the end.
One tiny nit I have to pick comes from The Crossing, where Billy Parham and his brother Boyd are riding from Lordsburg New Mexico to Douglas Arizona, planning to head down into Mexico. They could have saved a lot of miles if they had just turned left at Rodeo and gone from there to Douglas, but McCarthy has them ride through another mountain range and then go south through McNeal and Elfrida. That seemed to be the long way to skin that particular cat, but maybe McCarthy felt that traveling through the fairly rugged Silver Creek area would have been too hard for a horse carrying two men, I don't know. I just know that I would have turned left a whole lot sooner if it had been me.
I haven't said much about the plots of these books. Basically in All The Pretty Horses we have a young man who is feeling a bit lost in the world ride to Mexico to try to find himself, going through hell while there. In The Crossing we meet two brothers who go through hell trying to find something they have lost. And in Cities Of The Plains, the young man and one of the brothers are working together on a ranch near El Paso. But do they go through hell together? You'll have to saddle up and ride along to decide for yourself.
Mar 14 ~~ First of all, a big Thank You to GR friend Daniel for suggesting I read these books. I would have missed an amazing experience if not for your tip!
This particular volume contains the three books of McCarthy's border trilogy: All The Pretty Horses, The Crossing, and Cities Of The Plain. I have been immersed in these books for a month. Was it a good idea to read them one right after the other? In many ways McCarthy's world is raw, brutal, violent and bloody. Over 1000 pages worth of his type of realism could be overwhelming for some people.
But I think this was the best way for me to read these books. I cannot say I completely understand all the messages McCarthy was sending, not after just one reading. But I did get completely lost in the stories. It helped that I am very familiar with the areas of the two countries (USA and Mexico) where these books take place. When he mentions the Animas Valley, the Guadalupe mountains, Fabens, Janos, Torreon, El Paso, nearly every place our cowboys went through, I have either been there myself or know enough about it to easily 'be there' while reading.
I also was familiar with the type of man the main characters were. I used to work with such men, and I have yet to meet their equals. The conversations and the relationships between the various men all rang true and reminded me of times (and people) from my past. I was lucky to have known certain people, lucky to have shared a bit of time in life with them. Riding along with John Grady Cole and Billy Parham reminded me of those magical years. Not because of the violence of the adventures they had, but because of the down-to-earth way they faced each moment. There is a certain honesty and integrity here, just like there was around my old friends.
I was surprised at being so personally touched by this book. I was not expecting that to happen. All I was expecting was some good writing about horses, and that only because friend Daniel had mentioned it. I had never read McCarthy although I had heard a little bit about him. But while I read I laughed, I cried, I was shocked and awed, I was eager to keep turning pages and sad to reach the end.
One tiny nit I have to pick comes from The Crossing, where Billy Parham and his brother Boyd are riding from Lordsburg New Mexico to Douglas Arizona, planning to head down into Mexico. They could have saved a lot of miles if they had just turned left at Rodeo and gone from there to Douglas, but McCarthy has them ride through another mountain range and then go south through McNeal and Elfrida. That seemed to be the long way to skin that particular cat, but maybe McCarthy felt that traveling through the fairly rugged Silver Creek area would have been too hard for a horse carrying two men, I don't know. I just know that I would have turned left a whole lot sooner if it had been me.
I haven't said much about the plots of these books. Basically in All The Pretty Horses we have a young man who is feeling a bit lost in the world ride to Mexico to try to find himself, going through hell while there. In The Crossing we meet two brothers who go through hell trying to find something they have lost. And in Cities Of The Plains, the young man and one of the brothers are working together on a ranch near El Paso. But do they go through hell together? You'll have to saddle up and ride along to decide for yourself.
May 16, 2021
"every man's death is a standing in for every other. And since death comes to all there is no way to abate the fear of it except to love that man who stands for us. We are not waiting for his history to be written. He passed here long ago. That man who is all men and who stands in the dock for us until our own time is come and we must stand for him. Do you love him, that man? Will you honor the path he has taken? Will you listen to his tale?"
January 13, 2008
It took me a while to get through this trilogy, since I took a break between the second and third book, but I'm so glad I finally finished it.
All the Pretty Horses was definitely the strongest and most even, in my opinion. McCarthy introduces his epic hero, John Grady Cole, and it's hard not to fall in love with him from the beginning.
The Crossing, which introduces the trilogy's second protagonist was my least favorite of the three. The narrative kept wandering into philosophical discussions for several pages at a time, and it was difficult to stay engaged with the story.
Cities of the Plains brings both protagonists together, and makes a fitting end to their intertwined stories, excecpt for a very unsatisfying epilogue that makes an unbelievable 50-year leap and lapses into another dreamlike philosophical tangent.
So, why five stars? The language, my goodness, the language of these books is beautiful. There are passages and descriptions that I reread again and again, thinking I never would have made such observations or thought to use such analogies, but they convey the scene so perfectly. For example: "Narrow spires of smoke standing vertically into the windless dawn so still the village seemed to hang by threads from the darkness."
Also, McCarthy writes some of my favorite dialogue ever. When I read exchanges between characters, I hear their voices come alive. I grew up in West Texas, and he really nails the way people talk.
As bleak as these stories are at times, he's got a subtle, but wicked, sense of humor. I often laugh out loud as I'm reading.
An incredible writer.
All the Pretty Horses was definitely the strongest and most even, in my opinion. McCarthy introduces his epic hero, John Grady Cole, and it's hard not to fall in love with him from the beginning.
The Crossing, which introduces the trilogy's second protagonist was my least favorite of the three. The narrative kept wandering into philosophical discussions for several pages at a time, and it was difficult to stay engaged with the story.
Cities of the Plains brings both protagonists together, and makes a fitting end to their intertwined stories, excecpt for a very unsatisfying epilogue that makes an unbelievable 50-year leap and lapses into another dreamlike philosophical tangent.
So, why five stars? The language, my goodness, the language of these books is beautiful. There are passages and descriptions that I reread again and again, thinking I never would have made such observations or thought to use such analogies, but they convey the scene so perfectly. For example: "Narrow spires of smoke standing vertically into the windless dawn so still the village seemed to hang by threads from the darkness."
Also, McCarthy writes some of my favorite dialogue ever. When I read exchanges between characters, I hear their voices come alive. I grew up in West Texas, and he really nails the way people talk.
As bleak as these stories are at times, he's got a subtle, but wicked, sense of humor. I often laugh out loud as I'm reading.
An incredible writer.
June 6, 2025
Vor 20 Jahren gelesen, es hat mir sehr gut gefallen, wie später auch "Die Straße" und "Stella".
Möchte es noch in diesem Jahr erneut lesen.
Möchte es noch in diesem Jahr erneut lesen.
April 3, 2024
Monumental trilogy. As I brushed off the ancient biblical dust from the pages, I found myself immersed in the slowly flowing atmosphere of its narrative.
In short, the characters journey through Mexico, embracing a philosophy of movement - I just need to keep moving (which resonates deeply with my own philosophy of travel), often taking illogical actions along the way (after all, how much logic is there in life?), and relying more on intuition than understanding. Life hits them hard, yet it's not a major concern for our heroes. They simply need to keep moving forward. I refer to multiple heroes because the novels are not interconnected and can be read independently without losing their essence.
The first novel, All the Pretty Horses, is a coming-of-age story filled with love, madness, and other corresponding attributes. Describing the plot feels redundant. While there is a film adaptation of the book, I hesitate to watch it, fearing it may diminish the magic of McCarthy's ascetic language.
I must highlight the first part of the novel The Crossing, which could easily stand alone as a separate book. It tells the story of a boy and a she-wolf, embarking on a metaphysical journey so profound that it overshadows everything written in the subsequent chapters.
And indeed, phrases like "The dead have no nationality." resonate deeply and deserve to be etched in stone.
Монументальная трилогия. Сдувая со страниц древнюю библейскую пыль, я практически растворился в медленно-тягучей атмосфере её повествования.
Если коротко, то герои путешествуют по Мексике, ну как путешествуют – «мне просто нужно двигаться» (абсолютно моя философия путешествия), совершая по ходу действия нелогичные поступки (ну а много ли в жизни логики?) и действуя больше по интуиции, чем по разумению. А жизнь бьёт их, да всё по голове, хотя героям нашим это не так уж и важно. Им просто нужно двигаться. Говорю про героев во множественном числе потому, что романы между собой не связаны и их можно читать отдельно без потери смыслов.
Первый роман, «Кони, кони...» – похож на историю взросления, с любовью, безумием и другими соответствующими атрибутами. Думаю, что описывать сюжет не имеет смысла. По книге есть экранизация, но я не хочу смотреть её, так как понимаю, что картинка может разрушить всю магию аскетичного языка Маккарти.
Особо хочется отметить первую часть романа «За чертой», которую нужно было бы сделать отдельной книгой. Это история про мальчика и волчицу. Их метафизическое путешествие так впечатляет, что всё что написано в последующих главах, на его фоне сразу же теряется.
И да, фразы типа «У мёртвых нет национальности.» – можно высекать в камне.
In short, the characters journey through Mexico, embracing a philosophy of movement - I just need to keep moving (which resonates deeply with my own philosophy of travel), often taking illogical actions along the way (after all, how much logic is there in life?), and relying more on intuition than understanding. Life hits them hard, yet it's not a major concern for our heroes. They simply need to keep moving forward. I refer to multiple heroes because the novels are not interconnected and can be read independently without losing their essence.
The first novel, All the Pretty Horses, is a coming-of-age story filled with love, madness, and other corresponding attributes. Describing the plot feels redundant. While there is a film adaptation of the book, I hesitate to watch it, fearing it may diminish the magic of McCarthy's ascetic language.
I must highlight the first part of the novel The Crossing, which could easily stand alone as a separate book. It tells the story of a boy and a she-wolf, embarking on a metaphysical journey so profound that it overshadows everything written in the subsequent chapters.
And indeed, phrases like "The dead have no nationality." resonate deeply and deserve to be etched in stone.
«Мир не имеет имени, — сказал он. — Названия холмов и горных кряжей, пустынь и рек существуют только на картах. Мы их выдумали, чтобы не сбиваться с пути. Но сделать это нам пришлось по той причине, что с пути-то мы уже сбились. Мир нельзя потерять. Каждый из нас — это мир. Однако вследствие того, что эти названия и координаты придумали мы сами, они не могут спасти нас. Они не могут за нас найти верный путь.»
Монументальная трилогия. Сдувая со страниц древнюю библейскую пыль, я практически растворился в медленно-тягучей атмосфере её повествования.
Если коротко, то герои путешествуют по Мексике, ну как путешествуют – «мне просто нужно двигаться» (абсолютно моя философия путешествия), совершая по ходу действия нелогичные поступки (ну а много ли в жизни логики?) и действуя больше по интуиции, чем по разумению. А жизнь бьёт их, да всё по голове, хотя героям нашим это не так уж и важно. Им просто нужно двигаться. Говорю про героев во множественном числе потому, что романы между собой не связаны и их можно читать отдельно без потери смыслов.
Первый роман, «Кони, кони...» – похож на историю взросления, с любовью, безумием и другими соответствующими атрибутами. Думаю, что описывать сюжет не имеет смысла. По книге есть экранизация, но я не хочу смотреть её, так как понимаю, что картинка может разрушить всю магию аскетичного языка Маккарти.
Особо хочется отметить первую часть романа «За чертой», которую нужно было бы сделать отдельной книгой. Это история про мальчика и волчицу. Их метафизическое путешествие так впечатляет, что всё что написано в последующих главах, на его фоне сразу же теряется.
И да, фразы типа «У мёртвых нет национальности.» – можно высекать в камне.
October 21, 2020
Non so, penso proprio che McCarthy non faccia per me. Ho letto La strada, osannatissimo capolavoro, tre anni fa, e l'ho trovato insulso e banale, oltre che noiosissimo. Per un po' ho messo l'autore da parte, ritenendo semplicemente che non rientrasse nelle mie corde. E tuttavia, restava uno dei grandi pilastri della narrativa americana, da me profondamente amata, ed ho dunque deciso di dargli una seconda possibilità, buttandomi sul genere che probabilmente più di ogni altro contraddistingue McCarthy, anche perché tendo a trovare una maggiore compiutezza nei romanzi più corposi, in grado di trasmettere significati più completi, e dunque ho deciso di propendere per i tre romanzi della Trilogia della frontiera.
Eeeee... Niente, non è scattata la scintilla. Trovo la prosa di McCarthy sciatta in molti punti, piana e brulla, ed eccessivamente lirica in momenti che non ne vedrebbero alcuna necessità. I personaggi sono carta velina, e affermano ripetutamente di amare la natura incontaminata, quando in realtà questo dalla scrittura si percepisce a stento. Ciò che resta è una terribile confusione geografica, un'indefinitezza, un senso di incompiutezza di trama e di identità dei personaggi, dall'età risibile e la personalità inesistente, ed è del tutto assente anche la rocambolesca serie di avventure tradizionalmente caratteristica del genere. (E quando c'è, è ovviamente stereotipatissima e banale). Gli unici momenti che ho veramente apprezzato sono stati i racconti e le leggende narrati dai vari contadini e proprietari terrieri che John Grady Cole e Billy incontrano sul loro cammino.
Ah, altra cosa: chi ha pensato che lasciare le parti in spagnolo non tradotte fosse una buona idea???? Interrompono costantemente il fluire del romanzo costringendo a un'inutile decodificazione, quando sarebbe stata sufficiente una banale nota a piè di pagina. 🤦🏼♀️
Per riassumere:
Cavalli selvaggi: 3 ⭐
Oltre il confine: 1.5 ⭐ (Una noia mortale senza capo né coda. I personaggi non si parlano e gli avvenimenti accadono perché sì, senza alcuna logica soggiacente.)
Città della pianura: 3.5 ⭐ (Almeno era un po' più avvincente, anche se il fatto che l'unico tratto della personalità di John Grady sia l'innamorarsi di tutte quelle che incontra... Meh.)
Definitely not my cup of tea.
Eeeee... Niente, non è scattata la scintilla. Trovo la prosa di McCarthy sciatta in molti punti, piana e brulla, ed eccessivamente lirica in momenti che non ne vedrebbero alcuna necessità. I personaggi sono carta velina, e affermano ripetutamente di amare la natura incontaminata, quando in realtà questo dalla scrittura si percepisce a stento. Ciò che resta è una terribile confusione geografica, un'indefinitezza, un senso di incompiutezza di trama e di identità dei personaggi, dall'età risibile e la personalità inesistente, ed è del tutto assente anche la rocambolesca serie di avventure tradizionalmente caratteristica del genere. (E quando c'è, è ovviamente stereotipatissima e banale). Gli unici momenti che ho veramente apprezzato sono stati i racconti e le leggende narrati dai vari contadini e proprietari terrieri che John Grady Cole e Billy incontrano sul loro cammino.
Ah, altra cosa: chi ha pensato che lasciare le parti in spagnolo non tradotte fosse una buona idea???? Interrompono costantemente il fluire del romanzo costringendo a un'inutile decodificazione, quando sarebbe stata sufficiente una banale nota a piè di pagina. 🤦🏼♀️
Per riassumere:
Cavalli selvaggi: 3 ⭐
Oltre il confine: 1.5 ⭐ (Una noia mortale senza capo né coda. I personaggi non si parlano e gli avvenimenti accadono perché sì, senza alcuna logica soggiacente.)
Città della pianura: 3.5 ⭐ (Almeno era un po' più avvincente, anche se il fatto che l'unico tratto della personalità di John Grady sia l'innamorarsi di tutte quelle che incontra... Meh.)
Definitely not my cup of tea.
September 7, 2022
Cormac McCarthy è un fottuto visionario e una volta terminata La trilogia della frontiera, sono diventata una voyeur della sua vita.
Come fai ad inventarti un modo così, parallelo e distante, profondamente unico e suggestivo, e nello stesso tempo restare umano? Continuare a fare spesa? Leggere il giornale? Pagare le tasse?
‘Sulla superficie ricurva della terra buia e senza luce che sosteneva le loro figure e le innalzava contro il cielo stellato, i due giovani sembravano cavalcare non sotto ma in mezzo alle stelle, temerarie circospetti al contempo come ladri appena entrati in quel blu elettrico, come ladruncoli in un frutteto lucente, scarsamente protetti contro il freddo e i diecimila mondo da scegliere che avevano davanti a sé.’
Il Messico è colore e suggestione, un mondo di pura esteriorità che McCarthy raffigura nelle sue pagine in contrapposizione con il pallido impero degli USA.
Non mi sarei mai aspettata un estetismo estremo da un libro western. Nulla di stucchevole ma tutto ben calibrato, senza eccessi.
Il Messico ha un’anima antica. Oltre ad essere la frontiera, vista come una possibilità infinita di vita, diventa anche una possibilità infinita di morte. Le strade sterrate diventano tombe e il rosso del tramonto prende lo stesso sapore del sangue.
‘Sorrise. Parlava come uno che sembrava ritenere che la morte fosse la vera condizione dell’esistenza e la vita una semplice emanazione di quella.’
E prima di arrivare alla morte si passa per la natura selvaggia di animali poco inclini all’addomesticamento.
In Messico l’unica cosa che si riesce a tenere sotto controllo sono i ricordi, le storie narrate intorno al fuoco da viandanti senza meta. In Messico i ricordi hanno autorità e potere.
‘Come tutte le storie, anche questa nasce da una domanda. Le storie che ci parlano più intensamente hanno la capacità di sopraffare chi le racconta, e cancellare dalla memoria lui e le sue ragioni. Perciò la questione di chi stia veramente raccontando la storia è molto contingente.
Non è vero che tutte le storie nascono da una domanda.
Sì che è vero. Là dove ogni cosa è nota, non si da narrazione.’
Come fai ad inventarti un modo così, parallelo e distante, profondamente unico e suggestivo, e nello stesso tempo restare umano? Continuare a fare spesa? Leggere il giornale? Pagare le tasse?
‘Sulla superficie ricurva della terra buia e senza luce che sosteneva le loro figure e le innalzava contro il cielo stellato, i due giovani sembravano cavalcare non sotto ma in mezzo alle stelle, temerarie circospetti al contempo come ladri appena entrati in quel blu elettrico, come ladruncoli in un frutteto lucente, scarsamente protetti contro il freddo e i diecimila mondo da scegliere che avevano davanti a sé.’
Il Messico è colore e suggestione, un mondo di pura esteriorità che McCarthy raffigura nelle sue pagine in contrapposizione con il pallido impero degli USA.
Non mi sarei mai aspettata un estetismo estremo da un libro western. Nulla di stucchevole ma tutto ben calibrato, senza eccessi.
Il Messico ha un’anima antica. Oltre ad essere la frontiera, vista come una possibilità infinita di vita, diventa anche una possibilità infinita di morte. Le strade sterrate diventano tombe e il rosso del tramonto prende lo stesso sapore del sangue.
‘Sorrise. Parlava come uno che sembrava ritenere che la morte fosse la vera condizione dell’esistenza e la vita una semplice emanazione di quella.’
E prima di arrivare alla morte si passa per la natura selvaggia di animali poco inclini all’addomesticamento.
In Messico l’unica cosa che si riesce a tenere sotto controllo sono i ricordi, le storie narrate intorno al fuoco da viandanti senza meta. In Messico i ricordi hanno autorità e potere.
‘Come tutte le storie, anche questa nasce da una domanda. Le storie che ci parlano più intensamente hanno la capacità di sopraffare chi le racconta, e cancellare dalla memoria lui e le sue ragioni. Perciò la questione di chi stia veramente raccontando la storia è molto contingente.
Non è vero che tutte le storie nascono da una domanda.
Sì che è vero. Là dove ogni cosa è nota, non si da narrazione.’
August 27, 2013
All the Pretty Horses
My first impression was that this book just wasn’t quite as immediately striking as The Road (one of my two favourite books of all time). That is to say, there were significant pros, but also some cons, which leads me to a “good,” rather than “great,” rating.
The undeniable and significant pro is that the world McCarthy recreates is captivating and leaves you with a lasting impression and an understanding of its reality. It is a world of men and horses, of grave injustice that is almost expected as a matter of fact, and justice that is self-made. It is a world of youth and childhood cut short, of free wandering and adventure, long nights and longer days. I return to this world as I flip casually through the pages of the book.
Dialogue is authentic to a fault. It is laconic; it is clearly Southern, and it is not complicated. At the same time, a few casual sentences sometimes touch on topics on which people have written volumes. They offer a refreshing, unrestrained and valuable perspective of a person with much intellect, but also much simplicity:
Coyotes were yapping along the ridge to the south. Rawlins leaned and tipped the ash from his cigarette into the fire and leaned back.
You ever think about dyin?
Yeah. Some. You?
Yeah. Some. You think there’s a heaven?
Yeah. Don’t you?
I don’t know. Yeah. Maybe. You think you can believe in heaven if you dont believe in hell?
I guess you can believe what you want to.
Rawlins nodded. You think about all the stuff that can happen to you, he said. There aint no end to it.
You fixin to get religion on us?
No. Just sometimes I wonder if I wouldnt be better off if I did.
This authenticity is also one of the impediments, in my reading at least, to the flow of the book, since some of the dialogue is in untranslated Spanish. This dialogue is not key, of course, but I found it a little unsettling that I could not understand everything.
Authenticity of setting, action and description also, on occasion, interfered with my ability to visualize the settings and events. There were terms I did not understand, some of them Spanish, others particular to the locale (such as names of plants and animals) and others relating to horses. Some segments were bogged in what seemed to be technical details. In a way, the world McCarthy describes is alien to me, but there are also no cues to its comprehension that are made deliberately available, as they would be in a work of science fiction.
I found it most difficult, however, to get used to the writer’s style, which purposely relies almost entirely on run-on sentences. Some sentences would be a third of a page long or more, and my “inner speaker” would be out of breath by their end. This is not to say that the writing is not beautiful or thoughtful:
"She rode with her hat pulled down in the front and fastened under her chin with a drawtie and as she rode her black hair twisted and blew about her shoulders and the lightning fell silently through the black clouds behind her and she rode all seeming unaware down through the low hills while the first spits of rain blew on the wind and onto the upper pasturelands and past the pale and reedy lakes riding erect and stately until the rain caught her up and shrouded her figure away in that wild summer landscape: real horse, real rider, real land and sky and yet a dream withal."
But looking at pages and pages of such writing for me, became tiresome and difficult to understand, which would cause me to put the book down from time to time to rest. My reading pace was slowed dramatically. A third of the way into the second book, and I am still not completely attuned to this; I’m still having trouble connecting with the trilogy because of it.
That said, I understand the author’s choice. This style, I think, harks back to the language of the protagonists themselves. The sentences that all have a purpose but almost border on rambling somehow correlate with descriptions of sprawling expanses of lonely roads. Sentences seem to get a little choppier towards the end, as if to highlight the stark differences between the hopefulness of travel in the first part of the novel and the sinister, matter-of-fact injustice that abruptly punctuates it in the latter half.
This somewhat abrupt punctuation was another roadblock for me, because it came very late in the novel. The first part of the book is, to a point, a pleasant and detailed account of a journey, but this journey, within the novel’s constraints, lasted too long, as did the account of life at the journey’s destination. Again, I understand this artistic choice - the turbulent later events were all the more unexpected; the long, quiet, lonely days of riding became all the more real, and life with horses at the hacienda becomes all the more idyllic. Nonetheless, at times, I found myself waiting for something to happen.
In reference to the work as a whole, then, though the pace was, at times, at a lull, and the style was, to me, a significant impediment, I do recommend All the Pretty Horses - its world is too different and vivid to pass by. When it comes to me personally, perhaps I am not as well suited a reader to this novel as others: I would feel much more at home if I had a better grasp of life in the American South.
As a final comment, I have heard a number of readers say that McCarthy’s work is depressing. Some avid readers shy away from him for this very reason. I’ve read two books of his, and his novels leave no room for rejoicing and much cause for disdain, to be sure. They may bring tears, and happy endings should not be expected.
I don’t find it depressing, however. Because I find that, ultimately, there is always some hope left.
Goodness does not persevere. But it persists.
The Crossing
A lot has changed since I’ve reviewed All the Pretty Horses. Another star was added to The Crossing, and yet another was added to the entire trilogy when I finished Cities of the Plain today (thoughts on that coming soon!). So, read, think, consider.
Some of the same limitations remained in this book as in the first, and I won’t expand on those here. There were run-on sentences, and lengthy technical scenes and Spanish. All the same, it felt like a different book.
First, the form. I’m not sure whether there was any distinct change in style, or whether this is a result of me becoming more accustomed to the rhythm of the novels, but The Crossing felt almost like a work of magical realism (at its best). There was no magic, but it seemed as though the novel was a fluid, and scenes and characters would flow naturally in and out of its fabric in the surreal way of legend. There were tales told by wise men and blind men and men searching for God. There was the tale of the mysterious bond between man and wolf, and man and horse, and there was a heroic quest to correct injustice.
I felt like The Crossing built on the world outlined in All the Pretty Horses and used it to probe the depths of the reader’s own consciousness. As I turned the pages, the book built in me a feeling of a sort of abstraction from the reality of the world. I felt like on its pages, the wise men and the blind men and the ways of this fictional world wanted to impart on me a truth about life and fate that I was not ready to understand, a truth concealed in legend and the ways of old, which obscured reality to the point of fiction. The overarching feeling I was left with is that there must be something more than the everyday we live, no matter how extraordinary that everyday may be. It seemed that these sages of Old Mexico I encountered together the characters knew some grand secret which they would only allude to in layers of metaphor and superstition and story.
I’m not sure exactly what this truth is. Perhaps The Crossing wants to show that there is some complexity and grand design to our existence that only an enlightened few can glimpse, and none can truly grasp. Billy and Boyd Parham (the main characters) appear to be destined to their life and their death by virtue of who they are, and their choice is but an illusion. As self-determined as the Americans think they are, it seems that damn near everyone except them feels like all that came was meant to be.
And in the end, all that was left of them or to them was their own story. McCarthy comes appears to come back repeatedly to the idea that only in being witnessed and recounted do events gain significance. The truth seems to be no more important or real than the legend it spawned. If anything, the legend holds more meaning.
At the same time, here is the eternal question present in any well-written book: does the author agree with what his characters say? Does he believe in fate and the power of the story, or does he just present a rumination of a people no longer relevant to modern lives? I couldn’t answer that definitively.
The novel’s very, very end was the most powerful. Everything done and said, after all that happened, all the pain and injustice visited on the Parhams was just a small part of the larger tapestry of events, a small part of the much larger story. I just can’t seem to get over the last sentence:
"He sat there for a long time and after a while the east did gray, and the right and godmade sun did rise, once again, for all and without distinction."
Cities of the Plain
The Border Trilogy grew on me in a way that I never expected it to. I’m happy that it took me a good few weeks to review it. In this time I’ve come to appreciate how much I really, genuinely loved it. It was one of those books that I think will remain with me for years. More than that, I think I may be falling in love with the idealization of the American South…
It is only after reading Cities of the Plain that I understood why The Border Trilogy is a trilogy. It is only after reading all three that you realize how deeply the novels complement each other, and how the ideas expressed take shape after you complete all three.
Stylistically, Cities of the Plain is, predictably, very similar to the first two novels I reviewed here and here. However, what before seemed like shortcomings and sources of confusion, becomes familiar, warm and dear. There is a sort of honesty, rawness, authenticity in the language as in the characters. I’ve grown accustomed to the idiosyncrasies and then grew to love them.
In substance, Cities of the Plain is a fitting end to McCarthy’s prior exploration. I think my ideas about the theme of fate were confirmed - the last sentence (above) is telling to that end. The events seem pre-ordained; some struggle in vain against the current, while others accept the eternal truth. Those who accept fate survive, yet the strugglers’ lives seem somehow more brilliant. The former life simmers, the latter - flames.
At the same time, I think that the entire trilogy highlights another point - the world is changing; the ways of old are being displaced, and with this, McCarthy seems to be saying, we are losing a piece of our collective wisdom and a certain beauty of a simpler life. I think I got a hint of that in The Crossing with the presence of "the sages of Old Mexico," who seemed to know a grander truth. This is echoed and expanded in Cities of the Plain, where we see cars subtly, almost imperceptibly, overtake horses, and see more and more ranches fade to black. We see an entire way of life crumble, as people become irrelevant and their values become outmoded. I fell in love with this life, however truthfully it may have been depicted. There is a goodness in it, a chivalry, principles that accept no compromise, no matter the personal cost.
The epilogue is a remarkably insightful end to the novel. It sees the process of displacement and irrelevance to completion. I won’t spoil it for you, but if you have or will ever read Cities of the Plain, I hope you consider what it made me think, and that is: we all have stories. Our own stories; our private stories that shape who we are and, unbeknownst to all, lead us to where we stand. That’s a powerful reason against judging people offhand…
We don’t know their stories.
My first impression was that this book just wasn’t quite as immediately striking as The Road (one of my two favourite books of all time). That is to say, there were significant pros, but also some cons, which leads me to a “good,” rather than “great,” rating.
The undeniable and significant pro is that the world McCarthy recreates is captivating and leaves you with a lasting impression and an understanding of its reality. It is a world of men and horses, of grave injustice that is almost expected as a matter of fact, and justice that is self-made. It is a world of youth and childhood cut short, of free wandering and adventure, long nights and longer days. I return to this world as I flip casually through the pages of the book.
Dialogue is authentic to a fault. It is laconic; it is clearly Southern, and it is not complicated. At the same time, a few casual sentences sometimes touch on topics on which people have written volumes. They offer a refreshing, unrestrained and valuable perspective of a person with much intellect, but also much simplicity:
Coyotes were yapping along the ridge to the south. Rawlins leaned and tipped the ash from his cigarette into the fire and leaned back.
You ever think about dyin?
Yeah. Some. You?
Yeah. Some. You think there’s a heaven?
Yeah. Don’t you?
I don’t know. Yeah. Maybe. You think you can believe in heaven if you dont believe in hell?
I guess you can believe what you want to.
Rawlins nodded. You think about all the stuff that can happen to you, he said. There aint no end to it.
You fixin to get religion on us?
No. Just sometimes I wonder if I wouldnt be better off if I did.
This authenticity is also one of the impediments, in my reading at least, to the flow of the book, since some of the dialogue is in untranslated Spanish. This dialogue is not key, of course, but I found it a little unsettling that I could not understand everything.
Authenticity of setting, action and description also, on occasion, interfered with my ability to visualize the settings and events. There were terms I did not understand, some of them Spanish, others particular to the locale (such as names of plants and animals) and others relating to horses. Some segments were bogged in what seemed to be technical details. In a way, the world McCarthy describes is alien to me, but there are also no cues to its comprehension that are made deliberately available, as they would be in a work of science fiction.
I found it most difficult, however, to get used to the writer’s style, which purposely relies almost entirely on run-on sentences. Some sentences would be a third of a page long or more, and my “inner speaker” would be out of breath by their end. This is not to say that the writing is not beautiful or thoughtful:
"She rode with her hat pulled down in the front and fastened under her chin with a drawtie and as she rode her black hair twisted and blew about her shoulders and the lightning fell silently through the black clouds behind her and she rode all seeming unaware down through the low hills while the first spits of rain blew on the wind and onto the upper pasturelands and past the pale and reedy lakes riding erect and stately until the rain caught her up and shrouded her figure away in that wild summer landscape: real horse, real rider, real land and sky and yet a dream withal."
But looking at pages and pages of such writing for me, became tiresome and difficult to understand, which would cause me to put the book down from time to time to rest. My reading pace was slowed dramatically. A third of the way into the second book, and I am still not completely attuned to this; I’m still having trouble connecting with the trilogy because of it.
That said, I understand the author’s choice. This style, I think, harks back to the language of the protagonists themselves. The sentences that all have a purpose but almost border on rambling somehow correlate with descriptions of sprawling expanses of lonely roads. Sentences seem to get a little choppier towards the end, as if to highlight the stark differences between the hopefulness of travel in the first part of the novel and the sinister, matter-of-fact injustice that abruptly punctuates it in the latter half.
This somewhat abrupt punctuation was another roadblock for me, because it came very late in the novel. The first part of the book is, to a point, a pleasant and detailed account of a journey, but this journey, within the novel’s constraints, lasted too long, as did the account of life at the journey’s destination. Again, I understand this artistic choice - the turbulent later events were all the more unexpected; the long, quiet, lonely days of riding became all the more real, and life with horses at the hacienda becomes all the more idyllic. Nonetheless, at times, I found myself waiting for something to happen.
In reference to the work as a whole, then, though the pace was, at times, at a lull, and the style was, to me, a significant impediment, I do recommend All the Pretty Horses - its world is too different and vivid to pass by. When it comes to me personally, perhaps I am not as well suited a reader to this novel as others: I would feel much more at home if I had a better grasp of life in the American South.
As a final comment, I have heard a number of readers say that McCarthy’s work is depressing. Some avid readers shy away from him for this very reason. I’ve read two books of his, and his novels leave no room for rejoicing and much cause for disdain, to be sure. They may bring tears, and happy endings should not be expected.
I don’t find it depressing, however. Because I find that, ultimately, there is always some hope left.
Goodness does not persevere. But it persists.
The Crossing
A lot has changed since I’ve reviewed All the Pretty Horses. Another star was added to The Crossing, and yet another was added to the entire trilogy when I finished Cities of the Plain today (thoughts on that coming soon!). So, read, think, consider.
Some of the same limitations remained in this book as in the first, and I won’t expand on those here. There were run-on sentences, and lengthy technical scenes and Spanish. All the same, it felt like a different book.
First, the form. I’m not sure whether there was any distinct change in style, or whether this is a result of me becoming more accustomed to the rhythm of the novels, but The Crossing felt almost like a work of magical realism (at its best). There was no magic, but it seemed as though the novel was a fluid, and scenes and characters would flow naturally in and out of its fabric in the surreal way of legend. There were tales told by wise men and blind men and men searching for God. There was the tale of the mysterious bond between man and wolf, and man and horse, and there was a heroic quest to correct injustice.
I felt like The Crossing built on the world outlined in All the Pretty Horses and used it to probe the depths of the reader’s own consciousness. As I turned the pages, the book built in me a feeling of a sort of abstraction from the reality of the world. I felt like on its pages, the wise men and the blind men and the ways of this fictional world wanted to impart on me a truth about life and fate that I was not ready to understand, a truth concealed in legend and the ways of old, which obscured reality to the point of fiction. The overarching feeling I was left with is that there must be something more than the everyday we live, no matter how extraordinary that everyday may be. It seemed that these sages of Old Mexico I encountered together the characters knew some grand secret which they would only allude to in layers of metaphor and superstition and story.
I’m not sure exactly what this truth is. Perhaps The Crossing wants to show that there is some complexity and grand design to our existence that only an enlightened few can glimpse, and none can truly grasp. Billy and Boyd Parham (the main characters) appear to be destined to their life and their death by virtue of who they are, and their choice is but an illusion. As self-determined as the Americans think they are, it seems that damn near everyone except them feels like all that came was meant to be.
And in the end, all that was left of them or to them was their own story. McCarthy comes appears to come back repeatedly to the idea that only in being witnessed and recounted do events gain significance. The truth seems to be no more important or real than the legend it spawned. If anything, the legend holds more meaning.
At the same time, here is the eternal question present in any well-written book: does the author agree with what his characters say? Does he believe in fate and the power of the story, or does he just present a rumination of a people no longer relevant to modern lives? I couldn’t answer that definitively.
The novel’s very, very end was the most powerful. Everything done and said, after all that happened, all the pain and injustice visited on the Parhams was just a small part of the larger tapestry of events, a small part of the much larger story. I just can’t seem to get over the last sentence:
"He sat there for a long time and after a while the east did gray, and the right and godmade sun did rise, once again, for all and without distinction."
Cities of the Plain
The Border Trilogy grew on me in a way that I never expected it to. I’m happy that it took me a good few weeks to review it. In this time I’ve come to appreciate how much I really, genuinely loved it. It was one of those books that I think will remain with me for years. More than that, I think I may be falling in love with the idealization of the American South…
It is only after reading Cities of the Plain that I understood why The Border Trilogy is a trilogy. It is only after reading all three that you realize how deeply the novels complement each other, and how the ideas expressed take shape after you complete all three.
Stylistically, Cities of the Plain is, predictably, very similar to the first two novels I reviewed here and here. However, what before seemed like shortcomings and sources of confusion, becomes familiar, warm and dear. There is a sort of honesty, rawness, authenticity in the language as in the characters. I’ve grown accustomed to the idiosyncrasies and then grew to love them.
In substance, Cities of the Plain is a fitting end to McCarthy’s prior exploration. I think my ideas about the theme of fate were confirmed - the last sentence (above) is telling to that end. The events seem pre-ordained; some struggle in vain against the current, while others accept the eternal truth. Those who accept fate survive, yet the strugglers’ lives seem somehow more brilliant. The former life simmers, the latter - flames.
At the same time, I think that the entire trilogy highlights another point - the world is changing; the ways of old are being displaced, and with this, McCarthy seems to be saying, we are losing a piece of our collective wisdom and a certain beauty of a simpler life. I think I got a hint of that in The Crossing with the presence of "the sages of Old Mexico," who seemed to know a grander truth. This is echoed and expanded in Cities of the Plain, where we see cars subtly, almost imperceptibly, overtake horses, and see more and more ranches fade to black. We see an entire way of life crumble, as people become irrelevant and their values become outmoded. I fell in love with this life, however truthfully it may have been depicted. There is a goodness in it, a chivalry, principles that accept no compromise, no matter the personal cost.
The epilogue is a remarkably insightful end to the novel. It sees the process of displacement and irrelevance to completion. I won’t spoil it for you, but if you have or will ever read Cities of the Plain, I hope you consider what it made me think, and that is: we all have stories. Our own stories; our private stories that shape who we are and, unbeknownst to all, lead us to where we stand. That’s a powerful reason against judging people offhand…
We don’t know their stories.
Read
July 3, 2023Cormac McCarthy’s Border Trilogy consists All the Pretty Horses, The Crossing, and Cities of the Plain. It tops out at over 1,000 pages. Instead of discouraging or boring me, the 1,000 pages made me want more, more, more of John Grady Cole, more of Billy Parham, more of their relatives, friends, and loves, and more of McCarthy’s wonderfully economical, precise, and evocative writing. I have no particular interest in the fading days of cowboys in the southwestern U.S. and northern Mexico, but The Border Trilogy centers less on the Southwest than on timeless questions of friendships, loyalty, and growing up. Much as I enjoy McCarthy’s prose, I’m always leery of reading a McCarthy novel new to me: will there be more violence than I can stomach?; no such issue with The Border Trilogy. An American classic, which I look forward to reading again and again.
May 19, 2008
I first read All The Pretty Horses camping on the beach in Sonora, Mexico. I had never read McCarthy before and it blew me away. The rhythm of the prose mimics the gait of a horse on an open range, the lyrical descriptions of the Southwestern landscape dead-on. Well-crafted (and often humorous) dialogue with a careful ear for cadence and dialect.
However upon subsequent readings, and further exploring the Trilogy, I became less enthralled and more conflicted. In The Crossing, the prose becomes more over-blown, sometimes to a degree of absurdity.
But mostly I was just disappointed by the conclusion of Cities of the Plain - or rather my expectations. I'll admit I wanted a Hollywood ending. Which any reader of McCarthy understands is an exercise in futility.
However upon subsequent readings, and further exploring the Trilogy, I became less enthralled and more conflicted. In The Crossing, the prose becomes more over-blown, sometimes to a degree of absurdity.
But mostly I was just disappointed by the conclusion of Cities of the Plain - or rather my expectations. I'll admit I wanted a Hollywood ending. Which any reader of McCarthy understands is an exercise in futility.
June 16, 2012
Effettivamente questa trilogia della frontiera ha un respiro epico che la rende un po' diversa dagli altri libri di mcCarhty. Molta meno violenza, meno descrizioni, personaggi ben definiti che provano sentimenti. Sembra quasi che i due protagonisti rappresentino il cuore e la ragione, contrapposti. Manca per me per� l'ossimoro della bellezza della natura con la crudelt� della violenza che tanto mi fa amare questo autore.
February 21, 2015
Parafrasando un famoso titolo di McCarthy, questi non sono libri per persone impazienti. Tre storie indipendenti, di cui la terza è l’ideale proseguimento delle prime due, ma potrebbe anche essere letta da sola. Allora perché metterle insieme in un volume da oltre 1000 pagine? Perché per leggere queste storie serve un passo, un ritmo; e quando lo hai acquisito difficilmente te ne vuoi separare. Tre storie fatte di freddo, polvere, sangue, cavalli, alcool, notti all’aperto, dialoghi minimi e dialoghi sul senso del mondo, dove per pagine e pagine accadono fatti minimi, ma tutto ciò che accade è esattamente funzionale alla tragedia che puntualmente si compirà. Tragedie annunciate, epiloghi dichiarati, personaggi che non si sottraggono ad un destino cattivo, anzi lo cercano, convinti di fare la cosa più giusta. Una scrittura magistrale, che non si preoccupa di rendere la vita facile al lettore ma di lo getta letteralmente nel mezzo della storia. Nessuno ci spiega chi sono i personaggi, dove siamo, cosa è accaduto ieri, gli antefatti e le premesse. Noi siamo dentro, e osserviamo ciò che accade, ascoltiamo le parole, conosciamo i protagonisti per come agiscono e per ciò che dicono. Ci vuole pazienza per leggere questo libro, ma il premio per chi resiste è una cavalcata di libertà, un’immersione in un flusso narrativo maestoso, un assoluto appagamento dei sensi e della mente.
Read
August 10, 2018Well, I've finished it -- I read All the Pretty Horses more than a decade ago as a wide-eyed and baby-faced college freshman who thought he was going to be the next Raymond Carver, before realizing I didn't like most people enough to write about them empathetically, and as a teenager who believed in the paramount value of sincerity and authenticity in art.
So I re-read All the Pretty Horses (still loved it), before moving onto The Crossing -- which didn't quite hit me as much as I was hoping it would, except for the part with the fallen airplane at the end. Fuck me, that was a gorgeously painted scene (sidenote: my Spanish is rusty enough that I probably should have had a dictionary for most of the book). And then Cities of the Plain, which is where McCarthy's protagonists run headlong into the modern world, and it turns into a Southwestern version of Taxi Driver, with sad-eyed prostitute, nasty pimp, and a man who has difficulty confronting the world in which we find ourselves.
The whole thing was a lot to take in, and I'm not sure how I feel about reading all three as a single volume instead of spacing them out as I normally would. But hey, it's McCarthy, so can't really go wrong.
So I re-read All the Pretty Horses (still loved it), before moving onto The Crossing -- which didn't quite hit me as much as I was hoping it would, except for the part with the fallen airplane at the end. Fuck me, that was a gorgeously painted scene (sidenote: my Spanish is rusty enough that I probably should have had a dictionary for most of the book). And then Cities of the Plain, which is where McCarthy's protagonists run headlong into the modern world, and it turns into a Southwestern version of Taxi Driver, with sad-eyed prostitute, nasty pimp, and a man who has difficulty confronting the world in which we find ourselves.
The whole thing was a lot to take in, and I'm not sure how I feel about reading all three as a single volume instead of spacing them out as I normally would. But hey, it's McCarthy, so can't really go wrong.
October 4, 2018
Cavalli Selvaggi
(finito il 12 luglio 2010)
✰✰✰✰✰
Parafrasando Leopardi, "Canto notturno di un cowboy errante in Messico". Il cielo stellato, il crepitare del fuoco, il silenzio dei deserti, la possente bellezza dei mustang che sciamano per le sterminate distese; la poesia di McCarthy si dischiude selvaggia come un fiore di cactus...
La storia di John Grady e il suo compare Rawlins nel violento e polveroso Messico post-rivoluzione è tremendamente verosimile, e leggendo senti il respiro dei cavalli, la pioggia calda sulla pelle, provi dolore ad ogni ferita. McCarthy ti strappa dalla poltrona come pochi altri scrittori sanno fare, la sua prosa è seducente e incalzante, nitida, calda e struggente come il tramonto sopra la mesa, pungente come i mescales.
Libro straordinario, si accosta senza esagerazioni né il minimo timore reverenziale ai migliori Steinbeck e Fante.
Oltre il Confine
(finito il 26 luglio 2010)
✰✰✰✰✰ (con lode)
Laddove il mio cuore esultava per Cavalli Selvaggi, preso dall’emozione forte di un poema tortilla-western, qui mi trovo a lasciar decantare i sussulti e considerare l’altra faccia di McCarthy. Quest’uomo non è solo un bovaro taciturno dal cuore caldo e la penna felice; quest’uomo è un letterato, un filosofo, e per certi versi un fine teologo.
Oltre il Confine (imperfetta traduzione per The Crossing, che rende meglio il senso di attraversamento continuo, giacché non si tratta affatto di un unico e definitivo passaggio di frontiera) è fuor di dubbio il grosso calibro di questa trilogia; il racconto epico dell’inquieto Billy Parham tra Vecchio e Nuovo Messico è un romanzo di iniziazione alle asperità di un mondo ormai in declino. Ed in questa cornice struggente e crepuscolare, McCarthy si affranca decisamente da ogni etichetta di faciloneria stilistica, non è affatto easy-western, proietta con sapienza ed efficacia gemme filosofiche dentro i suoi dialoghi serrati, semplici e senza punteggiature. Luci maestose in una terra brulla, proprio come il gioco dei tramonti sopra il vecchio Messico.
In un alternarsi di incontri indimenticabili, da quello con la lupa (echi di Jack London) al vecchio ranchero, il prete con i suoi gatti e la storia dell’eremita, la giovane messicana col suo misero fagotto, il cieco della Revoluciòn, il patriota ubriaco col petto decorato dal piombo, i gitani con le loro storie affascinanti sulla ricerca del biplano nelle montagne primordiali, Billy Parham è l’ultimo testimone di un mondo magico y tragico, senza redenzione e affollato di fantasmi.
L’ "essere testimoni", questo potrebbe essere in ultima analisi il quid di questo straordinario romanzo; neanche Dio esisterebbe senza testimoni, afferma il prete in una chiesa abbandonata e semidistrutta dal terremoto. Il testimone rende ai posteri una realtà che altrimenti andrebbe dimenticata. Come le foto color seppia appese al carrozzone degli zingari, ultima testimonianza di vite senza eredi che ne coltivino il ricordo.
Così Billy Parham da Cloverdale é testimone di un mondo antico, personaggio semplicemente glorioso; Billy di poche parole, gran cuore, curiosità intelligente, varca quel confine più volte, e la meta non la conosce. Billy, icona del coraggio, che non teme di essere ammazzato, che non ha bisogno di ammazzare per essere un eroe.
Città della Pianura
non finito
s.v.
Otra vez! - dice Billy Parham quando vuole offrire un altro giro di whisky.
Leggere il terzo della Trilogia è un po' cedere a quell'invito.
Ma con Città della Pianura mi sono arenato a un quarto di lettura scarso. Non è all'altezza degli altri due lavori, secondo me; manca l'ingrediente più gustoso, il viaggio solitario di un gringo e il suo cavallo.
Se posso essere utile, vi consiglio di prendere i primi due volumi separatamente.
(finito il 12 luglio 2010)
✰✰✰✰✰
Parafrasando Leopardi, "Canto notturno di un cowboy errante in Messico". Il cielo stellato, il crepitare del fuoco, il silenzio dei deserti, la possente bellezza dei mustang che sciamano per le sterminate distese; la poesia di McCarthy si dischiude selvaggia come un fiore di cactus...
La storia di John Grady e il suo compare Rawlins nel violento e polveroso Messico post-rivoluzione è tremendamente verosimile, e leggendo senti il respiro dei cavalli, la pioggia calda sulla pelle, provi dolore ad ogni ferita. McCarthy ti strappa dalla poltrona come pochi altri scrittori sanno fare, la sua prosa è seducente e incalzante, nitida, calda e struggente come il tramonto sopra la mesa, pungente come i mescales.
Libro straordinario, si accosta senza esagerazioni né il minimo timore reverenziale ai migliori Steinbeck e Fante.
Oltre il Confine
(finito il 26 luglio 2010)
✰✰✰✰✰ (con lode)
Laddove il mio cuore esultava per Cavalli Selvaggi, preso dall’emozione forte di un poema tortilla-western, qui mi trovo a lasciar decantare i sussulti e considerare l’altra faccia di McCarthy. Quest’uomo non è solo un bovaro taciturno dal cuore caldo e la penna felice; quest’uomo è un letterato, un filosofo, e per certi versi un fine teologo.
Oltre il Confine (imperfetta traduzione per The Crossing, che rende meglio il senso di attraversamento continuo, giacché non si tratta affatto di un unico e definitivo passaggio di frontiera) è fuor di dubbio il grosso calibro di questa trilogia; il racconto epico dell’inquieto Billy Parham tra Vecchio e Nuovo Messico è un romanzo di iniziazione alle asperità di un mondo ormai in declino. Ed in questa cornice struggente e crepuscolare, McCarthy si affranca decisamente da ogni etichetta di faciloneria stilistica, non è affatto easy-western, proietta con sapienza ed efficacia gemme filosofiche dentro i suoi dialoghi serrati, semplici e senza punteggiature. Luci maestose in una terra brulla, proprio come il gioco dei tramonti sopra il vecchio Messico.
In un alternarsi di incontri indimenticabili, da quello con la lupa (echi di Jack London) al vecchio ranchero, il prete con i suoi gatti e la storia dell’eremita, la giovane messicana col suo misero fagotto, il cieco della Revoluciòn, il patriota ubriaco col petto decorato dal piombo, i gitani con le loro storie affascinanti sulla ricerca del biplano nelle montagne primordiali, Billy Parham è l’ultimo testimone di un mondo magico y tragico, senza redenzione e affollato di fantasmi.
L’ "essere testimoni", questo potrebbe essere in ultima analisi il quid di questo straordinario romanzo; neanche Dio esisterebbe senza testimoni, afferma il prete in una chiesa abbandonata e semidistrutta dal terremoto. Il testimone rende ai posteri una realtà che altrimenti andrebbe dimenticata. Come le foto color seppia appese al carrozzone degli zingari, ultima testimonianza di vite senza eredi che ne coltivino il ricordo.
Così Billy Parham da Cloverdale é testimone di un mondo antico, personaggio semplicemente glorioso; Billy di poche parole, gran cuore, curiosità intelligente, varca quel confine più volte, e la meta non la conosce. Billy, icona del coraggio, che non teme di essere ammazzato, che non ha bisogno di ammazzare per essere un eroe.
Città della Pianura
non finito
s.v.
Otra vez! - dice Billy Parham quando vuole offrire un altro giro di whisky.
Leggere il terzo della Trilogia è un po' cedere a quell'invito.
Ma con Città della Pianura mi sono arenato a un quarto di lettura scarso. Non è all'altezza degli altri due lavori, secondo me; manca l'ingrediente più gustoso, il viaggio solitario di un gringo e il suo cavallo.
Se posso essere utile, vi consiglio di prendere i primi due volumi separatamente.
September 5, 2012
When I finished Blood Meridian a couple of months ago I felt convinced that I had read Cormac McCarthy's most important book: the key to his oeuvre, the lynchpin of his thought, the vehicle for his profoundest reflections on life, death and what it means to be human. Now, I'm not so sure. Among McCarthy's many talents is his ability to give the reader the impression that each of his novels is just as deep as the last, if not deeper, no matter what order you read them in. In The Border Trilogy, McCarthy weaves a stunning tale combining the trademark artistry of his prose with a more direct narrative style (particularly in the first and third books) that lends the arc a real sense of adventure and momentum. Set in the desolate landscapes on either side of the USA's border with Mexico, All the Pretty Horses (1992), The Crossing (1994) and Cities of the Plain (1998) are about much more than the dividing line between two countries. Tracing the journeys of the young American cowboys John Grady Cole and Billy Parham and their ultimate convergence in the final book, McCarthy delivers a powerful and characteristically beautiful exploration of the blurred lines between man and the wild, of what divides good and evil, of the tenuous line between life and death, of the boundary between two souls, and of what passes between them. All three books are a joy to read, and as with all of the author's other novels I'm keen to come back to them again in future. Many reviewers have called the trilogy an "epic" with good reason - though even that label hardly does justice to these remarkable books. No single word can.
April 4, 2010
All the Pretty Horses and Cities of the Plain are far and away the most lucid, and therefore tolerable novels of the trilogy. The Crossing, however, is almost insurmountably tedious. It contains, in spades, what is worst about all three novels, and in my opinion, Cormac McCarthy's style in general -- namely, the laughably pretentious, brooding, self-serious prose; the noxiously ponderous cast of needless characters who pontificate over pages and pages on the souls of men, wolves, and horses; and all of it couched in some sort of vague, parochial pseudo-spiritualism.
Really, how he's considered a serious novelist (by anyone but himself) is a mystery to me.
Really, how he's considered a serious novelist (by anyone but himself) is a mystery to me.
June 11, 2017
Wow. Devo lasciar sedimentare un paio di giorni questa epopea grandiosa.
Wow.
Paesaggi splendidi, una scrittura scarna e allo stesso tempo intensa, personaggi memorabili.
McCarthy si conferma uno dei miei preferiti di sempre.
http://nonsempreiosonodelmiostessopar...
Wow.
Paesaggi splendidi, una scrittura scarna e allo stesso tempo intensa, personaggi memorabili.
McCarthy si conferma uno dei miei preferiti di sempre.
http://nonsempreiosonodelmiostessopar...
July 31, 2017
Mi mancheranno i fagioli con tortillas di questi cowboy, nonché l'amore per i cavalli di John Grady <3
February 12, 2023
Reading this trilogy has been something of an act of endurance. There is little joy to be found, plenty hardships and myriad characters with strong jaws, cold hearts and few means. Each of these books shares something at its core and while I don’t struggle to find it while exploring the trilogy, I do have a hard time defining it. The biggest theme I find here is desolation and the need to complete one’s journey, regardless of the obstacles and the people (sometimes the selfsame) that prevent you from finding that Final Place. Even if the place isn’t a location.
God has a presence here, but gives little sympathy or relief, if those are the kinds of things they offer or have ever offered. Prayers are often lifted, myths are often bandied from one to the next, though despite the rumors of their existence, there is never a manifesting of its hand. On myths as well, the country and land of Mexico often feels like it is revered with a simultaneous malice and wonder, as if stepping over the border engulfs you in the timeless history of a land ruled by the frontiered lawlessness, the anarchy and chaos of a realm ruled by none and populated by spirits long deceased but ever watchful, ever vengeful. Things seem to be governed by a different set of supreme laws, ones which its inhabitants discover by in meters, measuring vengeance and prosperity by seconds and with little grace.
In these books, we revisit the theme of things coming that are bigger than us, greater than us, and absolutely unstoppable. This is something that shows up again in No Country For Old Men, a theme that feels like it’s one that reveals itself to people who age with a constant sense of observation, a sense of what lies before them in compare to what they have passed. In the Epilogue of the third book, we really dig deeper into the scale, the scope of all things as they come before us, as they come unto us, and we find there is little by way of redeemer. We find the sum of all of our actions becomes forfeit to the larger fate at hand, that all eventualities sustain beyond the ways in which we try to overcome. The ways that we are is often muted by the eventualities we eventually must face.
--All the Pretty Horses--
Rarely do I read books twice. There are just so many books out there, not only on my TBD list, but also physically on my shelves, that it’s hard to justify coming back to a book and spending the time it takes to get through a book and using it to reexperience something I’ve already done. Cormac McCarthy’s is an author I’ve done this with twice, once with The Road which I read back to back and then again with this book, All the Pretty Horses (I believe the only other novels I’ve read twice are Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy and The Hobbit). In ways, thinking back to it, this book reminds me a lot of Kerouac’s On the Road. While I was reading it, I don’t think it felt that way to me, but the more I think back to it, the more I have the same sense of fresh experience, of coming-of-age and of being ill-prepared for the world ahead of us, but attempting to devour it anyway. In so many ways, this is a journey that shows its characters wading knee deep into the unknown, trying to find a version of themselves which they know exists but are unsure how to define. In Kerouac’s road story, there is fun, excitement and free-wheeling mania, utter joys that cannot be contained in a single heart, a fairy tale bewilderment that sees its protagonists swallowing the enchanting air in drowning gulps, unable to breathe for all the lust, all the love, all the adventure and all the youth. Instead, as is the standard with McCarthy, we see the boys here (Grady, Rawlins and even Blevins) get turned against and then into a darkness which they cannot turn away from. They bear witness to a frontier and a reality so desolate, sparse and expansive that they learn, along with us, that there is little they can do to escape its gaze. They must meet it, always, with the acceptance that their destiny’s undertow will always be stronger than the gait and range of their will.
This book does a lot for setting the tone of McCarthy’s west, and especially its romantic, mystic and violent vision of what lies beyond the border, of what McCarthy’s Mexico is comprised of.
The youths in this book seem to face more than I could ever imagine withstanding at their age, and the violence they witmess and engage in is something that will change you as you step through the prism. We are introduced to a trio of boys who are standing at the foot of a world which is primed to dim them in its shadow. When we come out the other side, one has given their life, one has taken a life, and one seems to have thrown in the towel, willing to accept whatever dull wit the earth and its timeline has in store for them.
There is a romance to be found in this book, one that sets the tone for one of its main characters and illustrates a major comprisal of his heart and the way in which he chooses to frame the world. There’s a naivety he shows, a hopelessness in his romanticism that feels somewhat out of place this word, but also one that speaks deeply of the way he chooses to engaeg with it, and also explores so much of the depth of what McCarthy’s vision of romance can withstand. Despite the darkness, despite the bleak and narrow view of all that can demean us, there is still a beating heart within it all, a grip on a lifeline that can be used to follow in the blackest of night.
Of all three individual books, I would say this is the one which I would recommend highest. I think this works well as a good introduction to Cormac McCarthy’s style and in certain ways expects the least of the reader. The writing style is indicative of a master, without any doubt, and I think its story holds the most water of all three stories. You won’t need to know it’s part of a trilogy to feel satisfied by the end of it, and I think all of the characters you meet, those that exist through the entire vein of it, and also those that only stand out on the promentories, will be highly memorable.
--The Crossing--
This book, following Billy Parham, feels like one where McCarthy wanted to try to reconnect with the epic of The Journey From Home, one where we come of age and become something bigger on the other side of where we began. But in …Horses, we see clear pacing and identity being gained by the lessons that lie before us. But here, failure becomes a commonplace event. I think we learn a little bit more about what it means to bite off more than we can chew and what the results of that can be.
What stands with me most in this story is the first big conquest, something that feels a little bit like trying to lasso a tornado. Billy Parham tries to trap a wolf, something he eventually succeeds in and then we follow him trying to set this wolf free back in Mexico. Returning to this deadly and unforgiving place, we learn lessons that are as bleak and as foul as ever. As this juncture of the book ramps up, peaks, and ends, these are some of the most emotionally connected I’ve felt to a conflict in this entire trilogy. It all feels way more helpless, way more desperate, and way more impactful than many of the events that play out. I think this campaign feels like it illustrates just how raw and hostile these places are. It also shows how stark the world can be. How silent it can be in response to one’s prayers. How little it shows remorse (or contempt, for that matter) towards one’s desires.
A bigger chunk of the book details what happens after the experiences with the wolf, once Billy comes back home and discovers that his family has been murdered, survived by his younger brother Boyd. Here, the story turns to a journey of trying to reclaim the horses that they’d lost in the invasion at their homestead. Through this portion of the story, we learn more about Bily’s experience in the world and a bit more of the way he has hardened during his first crossing into the other land. Even though he knows so little, the way he imparts the wisdom onto his younger brother feels stoic and seasoned, which I think reflects a little bit upon how much of an impact his first experience had on him. Boyd (his brother) is quiet and a bit rocked from watching the murder of his parents, but even still is accepting and tolerant of the new trail that the brothers are on. When they rescue a new companion, Boyd’s fortitude is mustered as he takes a stronger role in the protection of her. In his dialog, he also still remains as steadfast and ornery as ever when he is up against the odds of some major ranchers who are in possession of the stolen horses. In desperation, we see the main characters at the end of their ropes, but still maintain a forward trajectory, something that feels doomed from the start, but they remain resistant to defeat.
Billy’s crossing ends alone, which is another theme which seems to pervade the trilogy. We find that although companions are gained and family links in and out of the sojourns, the internal dialogs and the intentions of all characters remain mostly set in some solitary tunnel meant only for the protagonists themselves. Great strides are made to showcase just how alone we are in the world, no matter how surrounded we are by those who gravitate towards us.
This book is not necessarily one I would recommend unless you’re invested in the trilogy or interested in McCarthy’s style. Despite being part of a trilogy, this book does not require you to read the book previous in the series. It stands alone as a story about Mexico and its bordering states and while the themes tend to blend together, you can start here just as easily as in All the Pretty Horses and get the same experience. I would say that this one feels a little less populated by villainy, but almost twice as bleak. I think too, the book is longer than the other two, but feels a little less natural, as many of the conversations can feel a little bit more like soliloquoys from nameless bystanders, stories told by people that Parham stumbles across than they do natural expositions.
--Cities of the Plain--
This book acts as something of a Super Smash Bros. of the Border-verse, combining the characters of Billy Parham and John Grady and the pasts that you have become well acquainted with. Once more there is no storyline that trails its way across the three novels, only the same march of time across these two characters lives, only the changing landscape of the United States and its state of affairs and the impervious nature of Mexico and its stalwart ability to remain unchanged, unfazed and ancient in all its avenues.
Here, we are reintroduced to Grady’s inherent talent of speaking with and understanding horses, his ability to soothe them and observe them through the interspecies obstacles and discover ways to break them, to engage with them on a more natural level than other cowboys on the ranches he works within. There is a way that he believes in the way he speaks the truth to them, something about the way he tames them that initiates a deeper trust in him. The way it’s described makes one feel familiar with it, even though you may not be able to pinpoint a person or an instance where someone has been able to commune with animals, there is something that feels like a mystic communication at hand, where an animal absorbs the language more than from others. This, and the naive and romantic energy of John Grady Cole is the biggest of all themes throughout this book. One of the main plot points here is how he has fallen in love with a prostitute south of the border and is ready to give up all that he owns, all that he loves, all that he’s built, in order to marry her and live the rest of his life with her. This is something that feels like a revisitation from the first book.
Parham plays a bit of a lesser role in this book, though his presence is one that feels robust throughout. He feels a little bit lighter, a little bit less tied to any particular course. He keeps Grady light and he keeps him honest. We see him a little bit more as a sidekick character, one who throws a little bit more commentary into the mix along with the other ranch hands.
This book feels a little bit less engulfed in the occulted and ancient land of Mexico and shines a bit more light on the personalities and peoples that exist outside of it, though always standing in its shadow, each of them with stories to tell of their trials there, none willing to share the details from their time within it.
The plot here feels a bit more brief, a bit more direct. And even in their obtuse and peripheral affairs, they seem more like old-timers, more weathered in their direction. And while Billy’s been more worn out by the world, while he feels a bit more tired and a bit more contented to wile away his days as long as the ranch will have him, his buddy John Grady lets his bleeding and yearning romantic heart drag him into consequence in the end. This is the core of the story, and throughout the entire trilogy, probably the most passionate and dedicated discourse we’ll see in its 1020 pages. While it doesn’t take up a ton of real estate in the narrative on the page directly, all things are moving in that direction and towards the inevitable climax.
I think of the three of the books, I would say this is the only one that requires a reading of the other two that came before it, and also the one that feels the most unnecessary of the three. It was great to have the story of these two characters carry on into a conclusion, but I think in the true nature of McCarthy, I did love that each of the books prior left things as open as we wanted it to be, and wasn’t necessarily vague, but instead could be considered indefinite and horizonless. I think if you’ve read both of the other books in the trilogy, I’d say it might be worth seeing it through, though I don’t think I’d be as eager to follow through.
The writing on each of these books is exemplary of an absolute master of the language, a clear reason why he is one of, if not my absolute favorite writer. Despite some of my commentary halting the recommendation on checking these books out, if you can fall in love with the written word, and aren’t hesitant to read about a time and a place that feels like the waning days of “the west”, I would one hundred percent give these a look. There are passages in here that give me wretched pause, things that simultaneously make me never want to write again, but also inspire me to work on the craft endlessly.
God has a presence here, but gives little sympathy or relief, if those are the kinds of things they offer or have ever offered. Prayers are often lifted, myths are often bandied from one to the next, though despite the rumors of their existence, there is never a manifesting of its hand. On myths as well, the country and land of Mexico often feels like it is revered with a simultaneous malice and wonder, as if stepping over the border engulfs you in the timeless history of a land ruled by the frontiered lawlessness, the anarchy and chaos of a realm ruled by none and populated by spirits long deceased but ever watchful, ever vengeful. Things seem to be governed by a different set of supreme laws, ones which its inhabitants discover by in meters, measuring vengeance and prosperity by seconds and with little grace.
In these books, we revisit the theme of things coming that are bigger than us, greater than us, and absolutely unstoppable. This is something that shows up again in No Country For Old Men, a theme that feels like it’s one that reveals itself to people who age with a constant sense of observation, a sense of what lies before them in compare to what they have passed. In the Epilogue of the third book, we really dig deeper into the scale, the scope of all things as they come before us, as they come unto us, and we find there is little by way of redeemer. We find the sum of all of our actions becomes forfeit to the larger fate at hand, that all eventualities sustain beyond the ways in which we try to overcome. The ways that we are is often muted by the eventualities we eventually must face.
--All the Pretty Horses--
Rarely do I read books twice. There are just so many books out there, not only on my TBD list, but also physically on my shelves, that it’s hard to justify coming back to a book and spending the time it takes to get through a book and using it to reexperience something I’ve already done. Cormac McCarthy’s is an author I’ve done this with twice, once with The Road which I read back to back and then again with this book, All the Pretty Horses (I believe the only other novels I’ve read twice are Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy and The Hobbit). In ways, thinking back to it, this book reminds me a lot of Kerouac’s On the Road. While I was reading it, I don’t think it felt that way to me, but the more I think back to it, the more I have the same sense of fresh experience, of coming-of-age and of being ill-prepared for the world ahead of us, but attempting to devour it anyway. In so many ways, this is a journey that shows its characters wading knee deep into the unknown, trying to find a version of themselves which they know exists but are unsure how to define. In Kerouac’s road story, there is fun, excitement and free-wheeling mania, utter joys that cannot be contained in a single heart, a fairy tale bewilderment that sees its protagonists swallowing the enchanting air in drowning gulps, unable to breathe for all the lust, all the love, all the adventure and all the youth. Instead, as is the standard with McCarthy, we see the boys here (Grady, Rawlins and even Blevins) get turned against and then into a darkness which they cannot turn away from. They bear witness to a frontier and a reality so desolate, sparse and expansive that they learn, along with us, that there is little they can do to escape its gaze. They must meet it, always, with the acceptance that their destiny’s undertow will always be stronger than the gait and range of their will.
This book does a lot for setting the tone of McCarthy’s west, and especially its romantic, mystic and violent vision of what lies beyond the border, of what McCarthy’s Mexico is comprised of.
The youths in this book seem to face more than I could ever imagine withstanding at their age, and the violence they witmess and engage in is something that will change you as you step through the prism. We are introduced to a trio of boys who are standing at the foot of a world which is primed to dim them in its shadow. When we come out the other side, one has given their life, one has taken a life, and one seems to have thrown in the towel, willing to accept whatever dull wit the earth and its timeline has in store for them.
There is a romance to be found in this book, one that sets the tone for one of its main characters and illustrates a major comprisal of his heart and the way in which he chooses to frame the world. There’s a naivety he shows, a hopelessness in his romanticism that feels somewhat out of place this word, but also one that speaks deeply of the way he chooses to engaeg with it, and also explores so much of the depth of what McCarthy’s vision of romance can withstand. Despite the darkness, despite the bleak and narrow view of all that can demean us, there is still a beating heart within it all, a grip on a lifeline that can be used to follow in the blackest of night.
Of all three individual books, I would say this is the one which I would recommend highest. I think this works well as a good introduction to Cormac McCarthy’s style and in certain ways expects the least of the reader. The writing style is indicative of a master, without any doubt, and I think its story holds the most water of all three stories. You won’t need to know it’s part of a trilogy to feel satisfied by the end of it, and I think all of the characters you meet, those that exist through the entire vein of it, and also those that only stand out on the promentories, will be highly memorable.
--The Crossing--
This book, following Billy Parham, feels like one where McCarthy wanted to try to reconnect with the epic of The Journey From Home, one where we come of age and become something bigger on the other side of where we began. But in …Horses, we see clear pacing and identity being gained by the lessons that lie before us. But here, failure becomes a commonplace event. I think we learn a little bit more about what it means to bite off more than we can chew and what the results of that can be.
What stands with me most in this story is the first big conquest, something that feels a little bit like trying to lasso a tornado. Billy Parham tries to trap a wolf, something he eventually succeeds in and then we follow him trying to set this wolf free back in Mexico. Returning to this deadly and unforgiving place, we learn lessons that are as bleak and as foul as ever. As this juncture of the book ramps up, peaks, and ends, these are some of the most emotionally connected I’ve felt to a conflict in this entire trilogy. It all feels way more helpless, way more desperate, and way more impactful than many of the events that play out. I think this campaign feels like it illustrates just how raw and hostile these places are. It also shows how stark the world can be. How silent it can be in response to one’s prayers. How little it shows remorse (or contempt, for that matter) towards one’s desires.
A bigger chunk of the book details what happens after the experiences with the wolf, once Billy comes back home and discovers that his family has been murdered, survived by his younger brother Boyd. Here, the story turns to a journey of trying to reclaim the horses that they’d lost in the invasion at their homestead. Through this portion of the story, we learn more about Bily’s experience in the world and a bit more of the way he has hardened during his first crossing into the other land. Even though he knows so little, the way he imparts the wisdom onto his younger brother feels stoic and seasoned, which I think reflects a little bit upon how much of an impact his first experience had on him. Boyd (his brother) is quiet and a bit rocked from watching the murder of his parents, but even still is accepting and tolerant of the new trail that the brothers are on. When they rescue a new companion, Boyd’s fortitude is mustered as he takes a stronger role in the protection of her. In his dialog, he also still remains as steadfast and ornery as ever when he is up against the odds of some major ranchers who are in possession of the stolen horses. In desperation, we see the main characters at the end of their ropes, but still maintain a forward trajectory, something that feels doomed from the start, but they remain resistant to defeat.
Billy’s crossing ends alone, which is another theme which seems to pervade the trilogy. We find that although companions are gained and family links in and out of the sojourns, the internal dialogs and the intentions of all characters remain mostly set in some solitary tunnel meant only for the protagonists themselves. Great strides are made to showcase just how alone we are in the world, no matter how surrounded we are by those who gravitate towards us.
This book is not necessarily one I would recommend unless you’re invested in the trilogy or interested in McCarthy’s style. Despite being part of a trilogy, this book does not require you to read the book previous in the series. It stands alone as a story about Mexico and its bordering states and while the themes tend to blend together, you can start here just as easily as in All the Pretty Horses and get the same experience. I would say that this one feels a little less populated by villainy, but almost twice as bleak. I think too, the book is longer than the other two, but feels a little less natural, as many of the conversations can feel a little bit more like soliloquoys from nameless bystanders, stories told by people that Parham stumbles across than they do natural expositions.
--Cities of the Plain--
This book acts as something of a Super Smash Bros. of the Border-verse, combining the characters of Billy Parham and John Grady and the pasts that you have become well acquainted with. Once more there is no storyline that trails its way across the three novels, only the same march of time across these two characters lives, only the changing landscape of the United States and its state of affairs and the impervious nature of Mexico and its stalwart ability to remain unchanged, unfazed and ancient in all its avenues.
Here, we are reintroduced to Grady’s inherent talent of speaking with and understanding horses, his ability to soothe them and observe them through the interspecies obstacles and discover ways to break them, to engage with them on a more natural level than other cowboys on the ranches he works within. There is a way that he believes in the way he speaks the truth to them, something about the way he tames them that initiates a deeper trust in him. The way it’s described makes one feel familiar with it, even though you may not be able to pinpoint a person or an instance where someone has been able to commune with animals, there is something that feels like a mystic communication at hand, where an animal absorbs the language more than from others. This, and the naive and romantic energy of John Grady Cole is the biggest of all themes throughout this book. One of the main plot points here is how he has fallen in love with a prostitute south of the border and is ready to give up all that he owns, all that he loves, all that he’s built, in order to marry her and live the rest of his life with her. This is something that feels like a revisitation from the first book.
Parham plays a bit of a lesser role in this book, though his presence is one that feels robust throughout. He feels a little bit lighter, a little bit less tied to any particular course. He keeps Grady light and he keeps him honest. We see him a little bit more as a sidekick character, one who throws a little bit more commentary into the mix along with the other ranch hands.
This book feels a little bit less engulfed in the occulted and ancient land of Mexico and shines a bit more light on the personalities and peoples that exist outside of it, though always standing in its shadow, each of them with stories to tell of their trials there, none willing to share the details from their time within it.
The plot here feels a bit more brief, a bit more direct. And even in their obtuse and peripheral affairs, they seem more like old-timers, more weathered in their direction. And while Billy’s been more worn out by the world, while he feels a bit more tired and a bit more contented to wile away his days as long as the ranch will have him, his buddy John Grady lets his bleeding and yearning romantic heart drag him into consequence in the end. This is the core of the story, and throughout the entire trilogy, probably the most passionate and dedicated discourse we’ll see in its 1020 pages. While it doesn’t take up a ton of real estate in the narrative on the page directly, all things are moving in that direction and towards the inevitable climax.
I think of the three of the books, I would say this is the only one that requires a reading of the other two that came before it, and also the one that feels the most unnecessary of the three. It was great to have the story of these two characters carry on into a conclusion, but I think in the true nature of McCarthy, I did love that each of the books prior left things as open as we wanted it to be, and wasn’t necessarily vague, but instead could be considered indefinite and horizonless. I think if you’ve read both of the other books in the trilogy, I’d say it might be worth seeing it through, though I don’t think I’d be as eager to follow through.
The writing on each of these books is exemplary of an absolute master of the language, a clear reason why he is one of, if not my absolute favorite writer. Despite some of my commentary halting the recommendation on checking these books out, if you can fall in love with the written word, and aren’t hesitant to read about a time and a place that feels like the waning days of “the west”, I would one hundred percent give these a look. There are passages in here that give me wretched pause, things that simultaneously make me never want to write again, but also inspire me to work on the craft endlessly.
September 10, 2010
A very special thank you to Josh, for getting me a beautifully bound edition of this trilogy. Happy Birthday to me indeed. It even has one of those nice golden tassle bookmarks? Love it.
ALL THE PRETTY HORSES
Just an excellent book. Read like it might be an earlier work of McCarthy's, come to find out it's from 1992 (Blood Meridian is 1986). Victoria made the valid justification that McCarthy's frantic burgeoning prose complements its protagonist, 16 (then 17) year-old John Grady. I wrote Dane Alicandro a letter immediately after weeping while reading a passage of this in the Coca-Cola Northampton Factory's Men's Room. McCarthy really gets in touch with his heart here...I learned something about this luminary that I wouldn't have had I only read Blood Meridian. The Road shows a love that resides in Cormac's heart, but it isn't this love, not the love between Grady and Alejandra. Victoria and I got into an animated discussion outside of her Love Nest (the name of her house in Amherst), and passersby must've assumed we were arguing, and it was great. She probed me for my thoughts on Alejandra's leaving John Grady Cole. She lamented at her choice, why did Alejandra not go with this young cowboy? I played devil's advocate and said she didn't have a choice, that the tradition of her family and her country were bigger than this young couple. I think my point has some evidence too, when looking at the faux confessional between John Grady and the judge (no, not the Judge, just the judge. No overlap, although Blevins could be the Kid maybe? hmm investigate further). John Grady explains all he's done, and the judge keeps accepting him, even though they are things John Grady regrets. They are done, and he made them because he felt he was doing what he must. So too, I think, does Alejandra. The scene with the priest who preaches on the radio is quite poignant I think, although seemingly out of place upon first glance. The wife says that they can even hear the priest on Mars, as the new age of technology is ushered in and the old life that the old-souled-John-Grady cannot let go of appears to be receding. I think the preacher is a sort of perversion of John Grady, whom through whose eyes we've truly glimpsed God (should he exist). God, if god is beauty and truth and solemnity and joy and sorrow, IS Alejandra, IS las yeguas. But God isn't on Mars, he is here. He is in Mexico.
THE CROSSING
Yet again, I wept at work while reading this trilogy. Covered face at a Coca-Cola plant, I shook with rage and woe...emotions I didn't know I had but McCarthy had been building unbeknownst to myself the time entire. McCarthy's confidence that he'll arouse his intended reader response is unmatchable...what is it about placing a single solitary pole in a pit for a mother wolf carrying her pups to retreat to causes the reader (me at least) to lurch in sickened despair for her? I cried again breathlessly relaying this scene to Victoria (and AGAIN to Dad, Barbara, and Caleb over pizza at a Manchester pizza joint), who nodded knowingly and empathetically, tears coming out as I tried to paraphrase the beauty and horror of a wolf and boy knowing no one else in this godforsaken land and relying on each other but simultaneously completely unable to know one another, as we as men cannot fully know wild beasts nor they us. I jotted down at work that "McCarthy's prose is isolating. It needs to be heard, but it is loathe to be relayed and paraphrased". You MUST read this to understand why this book can do this to the reader, so gradual and subtle is McCarthy's layering of emotional attachment simply through his diction and syntax. I think McCarthy, wittingly or unwittingly, describes this best on page 413 when he says "there is writ a message that can never be spoken because time would always slay the messenger before he could even arrive". The ending was absolutely perfect in a book so cyclical, and is blatantly an ode (or at least to me, having read them both in one summer and knowing McCarthy's affinity for Melville) to Moby Dick...except McCarthy lights a votive candle for the Land, rather than the Sea. Second only to "Blood Meridian" for McCarthy's work. I will forever carry Billy Parham y el lobo en mi corazon! And, as a sidenote, what a wonderful way to brush up on my high school Spanish! And to connect with the employees at Coca-Cola, when I don't have a Spanish-English dictionary close at hand. Thanks Javier and Robert Camacho!
CITIES OF THE PLAIN
John Grady meets an older Billy Parham. McCarthy ties it altogether here, but this was my least favorite of the three. Still made me cry. To reference another conversation of Victoria and my, when JGC dies in Billy's arms and Billy stoically just sort of says Goddammit it reflects the journey the reader has made with Billy, where tragedy is no less tragic but we are better prepared for it perhaps. When Billy is forced as a 78 year old man to the side of the highway and McCarthy describes a highway overpass I think we see a glimmer of The Road, the beauty that is no less evaporated in today's environment just because it's less apparent than in the lands of JGC and Billy's youths. Billy refers to both Boyd and JGC simply as "the best" at different points. The ending is lovely, describing Billy's aged hands as a sort of microcosm for the journey of his life, and I've had the same thoughts looking at McCarthy's author picture and those grizzled veiny forearms. Victoria has often asked me if I get sad when I finish a book, and I've replied that no, I feel a sense of accomplishment. I can, after all, go update my GoodReads. When I finished this book, on the last day of summer vacation, I lay with this beautifully bound edition of the most beautiful book(s) I've ever read, and my heart welled. This book solidified my belief in the existence of a soul. I am a different man having read these books, and I don't believe that newly acquired knowledge alone can explain this transition. I'll never look at death, at my loved ones, at the world, the same. Thanks Josh, thank you Mr. McCarthy.
ALL THE PRETTY HORSES
Just an excellent book. Read like it might be an earlier work of McCarthy's, come to find out it's from 1992 (Blood Meridian is 1986). Victoria made the valid justification that McCarthy's frantic burgeoning prose complements its protagonist, 16 (then 17) year-old John Grady. I wrote Dane Alicandro a letter immediately after weeping while reading a passage of this in the Coca-Cola Northampton Factory's Men's Room. McCarthy really gets in touch with his heart here...I learned something about this luminary that I wouldn't have had I only read Blood Meridian. The Road shows a love that resides in Cormac's heart, but it isn't this love, not the love between Grady and Alejandra. Victoria and I got into an animated discussion outside of her Love Nest (the name of her house in Amherst), and passersby must've assumed we were arguing, and it was great. She probed me for my thoughts on Alejandra's leaving John Grady Cole. She lamented at her choice, why did Alejandra not go with this young cowboy? I played devil's advocate and said she didn't have a choice, that the tradition of her family and her country were bigger than this young couple. I think my point has some evidence too, when looking at the faux confessional between John Grady and the judge (no, not the Judge, just the judge. No overlap, although Blevins could be the Kid maybe? hmm investigate further). John Grady explains all he's done, and the judge keeps accepting him, even though they are things John Grady regrets. They are done, and he made them because he felt he was doing what he must. So too, I think, does Alejandra. The scene with the priest who preaches on the radio is quite poignant I think, although seemingly out of place upon first glance. The wife says that they can even hear the priest on Mars, as the new age of technology is ushered in and the old life that the old-souled-John-Grady cannot let go of appears to be receding. I think the preacher is a sort of perversion of John Grady, whom through whose eyes we've truly glimpsed God (should he exist). God, if god is beauty and truth and solemnity and joy and sorrow, IS Alejandra, IS las yeguas. But God isn't on Mars, he is here. He is in Mexico.
THE CROSSING
Yet again, I wept at work while reading this trilogy. Covered face at a Coca-Cola plant, I shook with rage and woe...emotions I didn't know I had but McCarthy had been building unbeknownst to myself the time entire. McCarthy's confidence that he'll arouse his intended reader response is unmatchable...what is it about placing a single solitary pole in a pit for a mother wolf carrying her pups to retreat to causes the reader (me at least) to lurch in sickened despair for her? I cried again breathlessly relaying this scene to Victoria (and AGAIN to Dad, Barbara, and Caleb over pizza at a Manchester pizza joint), who nodded knowingly and empathetically, tears coming out as I tried to paraphrase the beauty and horror of a wolf and boy knowing no one else in this godforsaken land and relying on each other but simultaneously completely unable to know one another, as we as men cannot fully know wild beasts nor they us. I jotted down at work that "McCarthy's prose is isolating. It needs to be heard, but it is loathe to be relayed and paraphrased". You MUST read this to understand why this book can do this to the reader, so gradual and subtle is McCarthy's layering of emotional attachment simply through his diction and syntax. I think McCarthy, wittingly or unwittingly, describes this best on page 413 when he says "there is writ a message that can never be spoken because time would always slay the messenger before he could even arrive". The ending was absolutely perfect in a book so cyclical, and is blatantly an ode (or at least to me, having read them both in one summer and knowing McCarthy's affinity for Melville) to Moby Dick...except McCarthy lights a votive candle for the Land, rather than the Sea. Second only to "Blood Meridian" for McCarthy's work. I will forever carry Billy Parham y el lobo en mi corazon! And, as a sidenote, what a wonderful way to brush up on my high school Spanish! And to connect with the employees at Coca-Cola, when I don't have a Spanish-English dictionary close at hand. Thanks Javier and Robert Camacho!
CITIES OF THE PLAIN
John Grady meets an older Billy Parham. McCarthy ties it altogether here, but this was my least favorite of the three. Still made me cry. To reference another conversation of Victoria and my, when JGC dies in Billy's arms and Billy stoically just sort of says Goddammit it reflects the journey the reader has made with Billy, where tragedy is no less tragic but we are better prepared for it perhaps. When Billy is forced as a 78 year old man to the side of the highway and McCarthy describes a highway overpass I think we see a glimmer of The Road, the beauty that is no less evaporated in today's environment just because it's less apparent than in the lands of JGC and Billy's youths. Billy refers to both Boyd and JGC simply as "the best" at different points. The ending is lovely, describing Billy's aged hands as a sort of microcosm for the journey of his life, and I've had the same thoughts looking at McCarthy's author picture and those grizzled veiny forearms. Victoria has often asked me if I get sad when I finish a book, and I've replied that no, I feel a sense of accomplishment. I can, after all, go update my GoodReads. When I finished this book, on the last day of summer vacation, I lay with this beautifully bound edition of the most beautiful book(s) I've ever read, and my heart welled. This book solidified my belief in the existence of a soul. I am a different man having read these books, and I don't believe that newly acquired knowledge alone can explain this transition. I'll never look at death, at my loved ones, at the world, the same. Thanks Josh, thank you Mr. McCarthy.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
January 3, 2021
Er ist einfach großartig
Diese Sprache ist so knapp und präzise, kein anderer Autor kann da mithalten
Ich verliere mich oft so in den Gedanken, ich verliere die Geschichte
Diese Sprache ist so knapp und präzise, kein anderer Autor kann da mithalten
Ich verliere mich oft so in den Gedanken, ich verliere die Geschichte
September 17, 2024
Probably the most I’ve struggled with of all McCarthy’s works. First novel is absolutely wonderful, the second is crushing. The third was okay, and McCarthy’s writing doesn’t mesh well with the amount of characters he has on the page. It devolved into some strange exponential growth of dreams that I just couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of.
September 17, 2010
‘Things separate from their stories have no meaning.’
The first two novels in The Border Trilogy feature different protagonists and are set roughly a decade apart. Both protagonists: John Grady Cole, in ‘All the Pretty Horses’; and Billy Parham in ‘The Crossing’, are young cowboys and each travels between the US southwest into northern Mexico. The third novel, ‘Cities of the Plains’, opens in the early 1950s with Cole and Parham together at a ranch in New Mexico, just north of El Paso.
‘It was vaquero country and other men’s troubles were alien to it and that was about all that could be said.’
Of the three novels, my favourite is ‘The Crossing’: Billy Parham’s doomed attempt to take a trapped female wolf ‘home’ to Mexico. Billy’s fight to save this wolf is heroic but like so much else in Billy’s life does not succeed. In ‘All the Pretty Horses’ John Grady Cole’s search to find the owner of Jimmy Blevins’s horse is also a doomed quest. And yet, the story itself is a masterpiece and a tribute to a way of life – a culture - fast disappearing. In ‘Cities of the Plains’, the way of life John Cole and Billy Parham are familiar with is coming to an end. The Army will be taking over the land. John has fought – and lost - his own battle to extricate his beloved from her life as a prostitute, and Billy Parham is alone. Again. Or still.
The fates of Billy Parham and John Grady Cole are inescapable. Their existence is simply an infinitesimal part of an infinite whole: the journeyers are less important than their journeys.
‘Our privileged view into this one night of this man’s history presses upon us the realization that all knowledge is a borrowing and every fact a debt.’
I am haunted by these stories. There is a power in the writing quite separate from the events being described that had me enthralled for hours. And yet there is nothing neat and tidy about the prose, nothing polished and complete about the journey. The people are in most ways far less important than the landscape they occupy and the times they live in – at least in my reading.
‘The world was made new each day and it was only men’s clinging to its vanished husks that could make of that world one husk more.’
Jennifer Cameron-Smith
The first two novels in The Border Trilogy feature different protagonists and are set roughly a decade apart. Both protagonists: John Grady Cole, in ‘All the Pretty Horses’; and Billy Parham in ‘The Crossing’, are young cowboys and each travels between the US southwest into northern Mexico. The third novel, ‘Cities of the Plains’, opens in the early 1950s with Cole and Parham together at a ranch in New Mexico, just north of El Paso.
‘It was vaquero country and other men’s troubles were alien to it and that was about all that could be said.’
Of the three novels, my favourite is ‘The Crossing’: Billy Parham’s doomed attempt to take a trapped female wolf ‘home’ to Mexico. Billy’s fight to save this wolf is heroic but like so much else in Billy’s life does not succeed. In ‘All the Pretty Horses’ John Grady Cole’s search to find the owner of Jimmy Blevins’s horse is also a doomed quest. And yet, the story itself is a masterpiece and a tribute to a way of life – a culture - fast disappearing. In ‘Cities of the Plains’, the way of life John Cole and Billy Parham are familiar with is coming to an end. The Army will be taking over the land. John has fought – and lost - his own battle to extricate his beloved from her life as a prostitute, and Billy Parham is alone. Again. Or still.
The fates of Billy Parham and John Grady Cole are inescapable. Their existence is simply an infinitesimal part of an infinite whole: the journeyers are less important than their journeys.
‘Our privileged view into this one night of this man’s history presses upon us the realization that all knowledge is a borrowing and every fact a debt.’
I am haunted by these stories. There is a power in the writing quite separate from the events being described that had me enthralled for hours. And yet there is nothing neat and tidy about the prose, nothing polished and complete about the journey. The people are in most ways far less important than the landscape they occupy and the times they live in – at least in my reading.
‘The world was made new each day and it was only men’s clinging to its vanished husks that could make of that world one husk more.’
Jennifer Cameron-Smith
December 7, 2007
I love these books! I first read All the Pretty Horses in high school, and liked it so much I started reading his other books. These are my favorites of his, by far. I enjoy his writing style, and the southwest setting always makes me feel some sort of wanderlust...it would be nice to have a lifestyle so free of possessions and responsibility, but then again, I do like the comforts of modern society. These books are all rather violent, but if you can get past it, you'll appreciate one of the greatest authors ever.
March 20, 2022
L'amore fino alla morte
E' una trilogia bellissima. Che parla dell'amore in tutte le sue forme: nel primo libro l'amore dell'amicizia, nel secondo l'amore fraterno, nel terzo l'amore per una donna. E in tutti la durerzza della vita.
E' un'opera molto triste,dura e drammatica,che si svolge in una natura fatta di paesaggi bellissimi. Ci sono dei passaggi davvero crudi,ed altri davvero commoventi,ma tutti insieme formano una grande avventura dove le descrizioni di una natura selvaggia e incontaminata insieme,ci fanno sognare la libertà di una corsa senza ostacoli.
E' una trilogia bellissima. Che parla dell'amore in tutte le sue forme: nel primo libro l'amore dell'amicizia, nel secondo l'amore fraterno, nel terzo l'amore per una donna. E in tutti la durerzza della vita.
E' un'opera molto triste,dura e drammatica,che si svolge in una natura fatta di paesaggi bellissimi. Ci sono dei passaggi davvero crudi,ed altri davvero commoventi,ma tutti insieme formano una grande avventura dove le descrizioni di una natura selvaggia e incontaminata insieme,ci fanno sognare la libertà di una corsa senza ostacoli.
September 9, 2013
What can I add to over 3000 ratings and nearly as many reviews all adding to a high 4? I loved the format of The Crossing, called a picaresq style by the experts. It was very challenging of my expectations about what a novel should be. But it was totally engaging and full of thought provoking philosophy. Quite apart from the philosophical depths of Mr McCarthy, he tells a ripping story. The grande finale is the knife fight, complete with McCarthy gore and brilliant prose. Give me a poet who writes prose any day! There, do you want to read it now?
November 28, 2014
The title could have been "Never go to Mexico".
Nothing new about the dangers of traveling and the usual corruption, bad chance, blood, evil man that kills young boys and co scenario's. I feel exactly the same emotions when I watch the news.
I could adapt to his different writing style but not to his passion for suffering and crualty and I had the feeling that when he got ennoyed with one of his characters he just found a thrilling way to get them out of his book.
For me it was like driving for hours to get to a dead-end...
Nothing new about the dangers of traveling and the usual corruption, bad chance, blood, evil man that kills young boys and co scenario's. I feel exactly the same emotions when I watch the news.
I could adapt to his different writing style but not to his passion for suffering and crualty and I had the feeling that when he got ennoyed with one of his characters he just found a thrilling way to get them out of his book.
For me it was like driving for hours to get to a dead-end...
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