I wake frustrated.Īdding to the tension is McCarthy’s syntactical cadence. So have men-naked, dangerously erect, charging off cliffs, their bodies bursting into constituent parts on the way down, blood running after them in silken crimson ribbons of … But fuck, I can’t do it like him. It doesn’t help that the novel’s landscape is excitingly predatory: “The sun rose … like the head of a great red phallus until it cleared the unseen rim and sat squat and pulsing and malevolent behind them.” McCarthy’s pulsing, penile sun has been making its way into my dreams. Awaiting climax, I am in a state of constant tension. I am never sure when carnage might strike-when I might find men whose naked bodies have been “roasted until their heads had charred and the brains bubbled in the skulls and steam sang from their noseholes,” when I’ll come across a “charred coagulate” of bodies or a decapitated man whose severed neck “bubbles gently like a stew.” While reading, my muscles stay flexed. I’ve given in, and the epic Western is, predictably, blowing my mind, and, perhaps less predictably, my groin. This is why, for years, I stayed away from his favorite book, Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian. My first real lover was dumb, virile, hilarious-I didn’t trust a word he said. Internet Archive Book Images, No restrictions, via Wikimedia Commons.
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