I didn’t dislike this book, but I didn’t enjoy it. It came on sound recommendation so I came in with high intent. Alas.

The book is one, long, “grey” description of an apocalypse we learn little about, as we walk its wreck-scattered pavement. McCarthy plays us a single note, over and over, and does create a pretty specific atmosphere. That atmosphere, it seems, is the whole point.

Barren, silent, godless.

The blackness beyond was sightless and impenetrable.

Each the other’s world entire.

The music is drowned out by the musician. We are always aware that someone is writing, the language is the experience, drawing attention to itself. Each sentence asks to be admired. McCarthy is more present than any other character. So conscious of the craftsmanship, it’s hard to achieve immersion.

The medium gets in the way of the message.

The relationship between father and son is touching, but fails to develop. As monotonic as the road and its surrounds.

I was surprised and disappointed. I think McCarthy achieved exactly what he set out to do. I simply don’t merit his aim. Three pages in, the bleak picture is clear. He wasted a chance, I feel, to use it to make a point.