“It’s just a book.” “It didn’t really happen.” “It’s FICTION.” “The author made this up.” “It’s not real.”
As I read it, I had to keep reassuring myself that it was only a book, only a book, only a book.
Holy motherF*CKER that was one mind-f*ck of a book.
Thank God it was short.
My stomach cramped every time I picked it up. I had to keep skimming a couple of pages ahead to make sure that what was surely, surely about to happen didn’t ACTUALLY happen. I had to keep taking breaks and switching to other books, to keep from getting overwhelmed.
And yet I had to keep reading. I had to. I had to find out what happened to the man and the little boy, even though I was pretty sure that I already knew.
Cormac McCarthy does not tend to write happy endings.
I took it with me to a doctor’s appointment and sat reading slack-jawed in the waiting room, hoping they didn’t call my name right away, and yet hoping that they did, so I could stop reading.
I read and I read and I read and I feel awful that I read it. This book really, really upset me. I actually felt angry at Mr. McCarthy for writing it, it shook me so much.
And here’s the thing: They made a movie out of this. I cannot wrap my head around that. I cannot imagine that anyone, having read the book, would want to see the movie. I cannot even imagine what the movie itself must be like. I don’t ever, ever want to know.
Was it a bad book? No. It was extremely well-written; Mr. McCarthy is a lyrical author. But the subject matter was so awful …
So. I wish I’d never read it. I’m sorry that I did. I finished it a little while ago, and I am actually crying as I write this, thinking about The Road. I wish I could take the reading of it back.
Oh, and ~~Silk, you said that this book was an allegory, which from what I understand means that the characters and the plot are actually stand-ins for something else. So I’m trying to figure out what this book is an allegory for, and I’m kind of stumped. I’m not sure. And I’m sure as F*CK not going to read it again to try and figure it out.