I read all of Cormac McCarthy's The Road last night. Yeah... all of it. I bought it after a friend of mine was excited about finishing it and was wishing for someone to share it with. I just read Blood Meridian, so I was inclined to read it anyway.
It was a good book... a really good book.
Although, I have to admit, it was not at all what I expected it to be. Well, it may be what I expected, but somehow, it became much more. I related to the book. I connected with it. This point of my life.
I'm not even going to mention how much mental torment I've been in. I've put off a lot of important issues because I wasn't ready to commit to any one thing. At this point, I feel like I'm in the shelter (following me? Did you read The Road). I've got a comfortable place to live--although, it's not "home"--and plenty of food. It's definitely not going to last forever, that's for sure. So, like the father and son in The Road, I'm moving on. I'm not sure where, exactly, but I know I won't survive if I stay. I'm going to gather what I can carry and move on down the road. The Road.
I've been comfortable, but I haven't been happy at home. I've been yearning for something for a while. I know it's teaching now. I've been editing papers for teens (and Graduate students!) and looking forward to it. I've read a ton of books and can't wait to share them.
Unlike the father in the novel, I'm not going to die. As a matter of fact, as I think back, I'm not sure that I'd even be the father (for this analogy). No. I am the boy.
The ending of that novel was excellent. Here's the last paragraph:
"Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery."
The whole book was littered with dark and dank descriptions, and while nothing is certain, the "brook trout" surely are colorful and, in this sense, hopeful. I am too.
I can't wait to get teens to think about stories like this.
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