WINNER OF THE PULITZER PRIZE
The searing, post-apocalyptic novel about a father and son's fight to survive.
A father and his son walk alone through burned America. Nothing moves in the ravaged landscape save the ash on the wind. It is cold enough to crack stones, and when the snow falls it is gray. The sky is dark. Their destination is the coast, although they don't know what, if anything, awaits them there. They have nothing; just a pistol to defend themselves against the lawless bands that stalk the road, the clothes they are wearing, a cart of scavenged food—and each other.
The Road is the profoundly moving story of a journey. It boldly imagines a future in which no hope remains, but in which the father and his son, "each the other's world entire," are sustained by love. Awesome in the totality of its vision, it is an unflinching meditation on the worst and the best that we are capable of: ultimate destructiveness, desperate tenacity, and the tenderness that keeps two people alive in the face of total devastation.
A New York Times Notable Book
One of the Best Books of the Year
The Boston Globe, The Christian Science Monitor, The Denver Post, The Kansas City Star, Los Angeles Times, New York, People, Rocky Mountain News, Time, The Village Voice, The Washington Post
|Product dimensions:||5.30(w) x 6.70(h) x 0.50(d)|
About the Author
Cormac McCarthy is an American novelist, screenwriter, and playwright who has won the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Award, and the National Book Critics Circle Award. A number of his works have been adapted into films, including All the Pretty Horses, The Road, and the four-time Academy Award–winning No Country for Old Men.
Read an Excerpt
The Road (Movie Tie-in Edition)
By Cormac McCarthy
VintageCopyright © 2009 Cormac McCarthy All right reserved.
When he woke in the woods in the dark and the cold of the night he'd reach out to touch the child sleeping beside him. Nights dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than what had gone before. Like the onset of some cold glaucoma dimming away the world. His hand rose and fell softly with each precious breath. He pushed away the plastic tarpaulin and raised himself in the stinking robes and blankets and looked toward the east for any light but there was none. In the dream from which he'd wakened he had wandered in a cave where the child led him by the hand. Their light playing over the wet flowstone walls. Like pilgrims in a fable swallowed up and lost among the inward parts of some granitic beast. Deep stone flues where the water dripped and sang. Tolling in the silence the minutes of the earth and the hours and the days of it and the years without cease. Until they stood in a great stone room where lay a black and ancient lake. And on the far shore a creature that raised its dripping mouth from the rimstone pool and stared into the light with eyes dead white and sightless as the eggs of spiders. It swung its head low over the water as if to take the scent of what it could not see. Crouching there pale and naked and translucent, its alabaster bones cast up in shadow on the rocks behind it. Its bowels, its beatingheart. The brain that pulsed in a dull glass bell. It swung its head from side to side and then gave out a low moan and turned and lurched away and loped soundlessly into the dark.
With the first gray light he rose and left the boy sleeping and walked out to the road and squatted and studied the country to the south. Barren, silent, godless. He thought the month was October but he wasnt sure. He hadnt kept a calendar for years. They were moving south. There'd be no surviving another winter here.
When it was light enough to use the binoculars he glassed the valley below. Everything paling away into the murk. The soft ash blowing in loose swirls over the blacktop. He studied what he could see. The segments of road down there among the dead trees. Looking for anything of color. Any movement. Any trace of standing smoke. He lowered the glasses and pulled down the cotton mask from his face and wiped his nose on the back of his wrist and then glassed the country again. Then he just sat there holding the binoculars and watching the ashen daylight congeal over the land. He knew only that the child was his warrant. He said: If he is not the word of God God never spoke.
When he got back the boy was still asleep. He pulled the blue plastic tarp off of him and folded it and carried it out to the grocery cart and packed it and came back with their plates and some cornmeal cakes in a plastic bag and a plastic bottle of syrup. He spread the small tarp they used for a table on the ground and laid everything out and he took the pistol from his belt and laid it on the cloth and then he just sat watching the boy sleep. He'd pulled away his mask in the night and it was buried somewhere in the blankets. He watched the boy and he looked out through the trees toward the road. This was not a safe place. They could be seen from the road now it was day. The boy turned in the blankets. Then he opened his eyes. Hi, Papa, he said.
I'm right here.
An hour later they were on the road. He pushed the cart and both he and the boy carried knapsacks. In the knapsacks were essential things. In case they had to abandon the cart and make a run for it. Clamped to the handle of the cart was a chrome motorcycle mirror that he used to watch the road behind them. He shifted the pack higher on his shoulders and looked out over the wasted country. The road was empty. Below in the little valley the still gray serpentine of a river. Motionless and precise. Along the shore a burden of dead reeds. Are you okay? he said. The boy nodded. Then they set out along the blacktop in the gunmetal light, shuffling through the ash, each the other's world entire.
They crossed the river by an old concrete bridge and a few miles on they came upon a roadside gas station. They stood in the road and studied it. I think we should check it out, the man said. Take a look. The weeds they forded fell to dust about them. They crossed the broken asphalt apron and found the tank for the pumps. The cap was gone and the man dropped to his elbows to smell the pipe but the odor of gas was only a rumor, faint and stale. He stood and looked over the building. The pumps standing with their hoses oddly still in place. The windows intact. The door to the service bay was open and he went in. A standing metal toolbox against one wall. He went through the drawers but there was nothing there that he could use. Good half-inch drive sockets. A ratchet. He stood looking around the garage. A metal barrel full of trash. He went into the office. Dust and ash everywhere. The boy stood in the door. A metal desk, a cashregister. Some old automotive manuals, swollen and sodden. The linoleum was stained and curling from the leaking roof. He crossed to the desk and stood there. Then he picked up the phone and dialed the number of his father's house in that long ago. The boy watched him. What are you doing? he said.
A quarter mile down the road he stopped and looked back. We're not thinking, he said. We have to go back. He pushed the cart off the road and tilted it over where it could not be seen and they left their packs and went back to the station. In the service bay he dragged out the steel trashdrum and tipped it over and pawed out all the quart plastic oilbottles. Then they sat in the floor decanting them of their dregs one by one, leaving the bottles to stand upside down draining into a pan until at the end they had almost a half quart of motor oil. He screwed down the plastic cap and wiped the bottle off with a rag and hefted it in his hand. Oil for their little slutlamp to light the long gray dusks, the long gray dawns. You can read me a story, the boy said. Cant you, Papa? Yes, he said. I can.
. . .
On the far side of the river valley the road passed through a stark black burn. Charred and limbless trunks of trees stretching away on every side. Ash moving over the road and the sagging hands of blind wire strung from the blackened lightpoles whining thinly in the wind. A burned house in a clearing and beyond that a reach of meadowlands stark and gray and a raw red mudbank where a roadworks lay abandoned. Farther along were billboards advertising motels. Everything as it once had been save faded and weathered. At the top of the hill they stood in the cold and the wind, getting their breath. He looked at the boy. I'm all right, the boy said. The man put his hand on his shoulder and nodded toward the open country below them. He got the binoculars out of the cart and stood in the road and glassed the plain down there where the shape of a city stood in the grayness like a charcoal drawing sketched across the waste. Nothing to see. No smoke. Can I see? the boy said. Yes. Of course you can. The boy leaned on the cart and adjusted the wheel. What do you see? the man said. Nothing. He lowered the glasses. It's raining. Yes, the man said. I know.
They left the cart in a gully covered with the tarp and made their way up the slope through the dark poles of the standing trees to where he'd seen a running ledge of rock and they sat under the rock overhang and watched the gray sheets of rain blow across the valley. It was very cold. They sat huddled together wrapped each in a blanket over their coats and after a while the rain stopped and there was just the dripping in the woods.
When it had cleared they went down to the cart and pulled away the tarp and got their blankets and the things they would need for the night. They went back up the hill and made their camp in the dry dirt under the rocks and the man sat with his arms around the boy trying to warm him. Wrapped in the blankets, watching the nameless dark come to enshroud them. The gray shape of the city vanished in the night's onset like an apparition and he lit the little lamp and set it back out of the wind. Then they walked out to the road and he took the boy's hand and they went to the top of the hill where the road crested and where they could see out over the darkening country to the south, standing there in the wind, wrapped in their blankets, watching for any sign of a fire or a lamp. There was nothing. The lamp in the rocks on the side of the hill was little more than a mote of light and after a while they walked back. Everything too wet to make a fire. They ate their poor meal cold and lay down in their bedding with the lamp between them. He'd brought the boy's book but the boy was too tired for reading. Can we leave the lamp on till I'm asleep? he said. Yes. Of course we can.
He was a long time going to sleep. After a while he turned and looked at the man. His face in the small light streaked with black from the rain like some old world thespian. Can I ask you something? he said.
Yes. Of course.
Are we going to die?
Sometime. Not now.
And we're still going south.
So we'll be warm.
Nothing. Just okay.
Go to sleep.
I'm going to blow out the lamp. Is that okay?
Yes. That's okay.
And then later in the darkness: Can I ask you something?
Yes. Of course you can.
What would you do if I died?
If you died I would want to die too.
So you could be with me?
Yes. So I could be with you.
He lay listening to the water drip in the woods. Bedrock, this. The cold and the silence. The ashes of the late world carried on the bleak and temporal winds to and fro in the void. Carried forth and scattered and carried forth again. Everything uncoupled from its shoring. Unsupported in the ashen air. Sustained by a breath, trembling and brief. If only my heart were stone.
He woke before dawn and watched the gray day break. Slow and half opaque. He rose while the boy slept and pulled on his shoes and wrapped in his blanket he walked out through the trees. He descended into a gryke in the stone and there he crouched coughing and he coughed for a long time. Then he just knelt in the ashes. He raised his face to the paling day. Are you there? he whispered. Will I see you at the last? Have you a neck by which to throttle you? Have you a heart? Damn you eternally have you a soul? Oh God, he whispered. Oh God.
They passed through the city at noon of the day following. He kept the pistol to hand on the folded tarp on top of the cart. He kept the boy close to his side. The city was mostly burned. No sign of life. Cars in the street caked with ash, everything covered with ash and dust. Fossil tracks in the dried sludge. A corpse in a doorway dried to leather. Grimacing at the day. He pulled the boy closer. Just remember that the things you put into your head are there forever, he said. You might want to think about that.
You forget some things, dont you?
Yes. You forget what you want to remember and you remember what you want to forget.
There was a lake a mile from his uncle's farm where he and his uncle used to go in the fall for firewood. He sat in the back of the rowboat trailing his hand in the cold wake while his uncle bent to the oars. The old man's feet in their black kid shoes braced against the uprights. His straw hat. His cob pipe in his teeth and a thin drool swinging from the pipebowl. He turned to take a sight on the far shore, cradling the oarhandles, taking the pipe from his mouth to wipe his chin with the back of his hand. The shore was lined with birchtrees that stood bone pale against the dark of the evergreens beyond. The edge of the lake a riprap of twisted stumps, gray and weathered, the windfall trees of a hurricane years past. The trees themselves had long been sawed for firewood and carried away. His uncle turned the boat and shipped the oars and they drifted over the sandy shallows until the transom grated in the sand. A dead perch lolling belly up in the clear water. Yellow leaves. They left their shoes on the warm painted boards and dragged the boat up onto the beach and set out the anchor at the end of its rope. A lardcan poured with concrete with an eyebolt in the center. They walked along the shore while his uncle studied the treestumps, puffing at his pipe, a manila rope coiled over his shoulder. He picked one out and they turned it over, using the roots for leverage, until they got it half floating in the water. Trousers rolled to the knee but still they got wet. They tied the rope to a cleat at the rear of the boat and rowed back across the lake, jerking the stump slowly behind them. By then it was already evening. Just the slow periodic rack and shuffle of the oarlocks. The lake dark glass and windowlights coming on along the shore. A radio somewhere. Neither of them had spoken a word. This was the perfect day of his childhood. This the day to shape the days upon.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
Excerpted from The Road (Movie Tie-in Edition) by Cormac McCarthy Copyright © 2009 by Cormac McCarthy. Excerpted by permission.
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What People are Saying About This
"His tale of survival and the miracle of goodness only adds to McCarthy's stature as a living master. It's gripping, frightening and, ultimately, beautiful. It might very well be the best book of the year, period." —San Francisco Chronicle
"Vivid, eloquent . . . The Road is the most readable of [McCarthy's] works, and consistently brilliant in its imagining of the posthumous condition of nature and civilization." —The New York Times Book Review
"One of McCarthy's best novels, probably his most moving and perhaps his most personal." —Los Angeles Times Book Review
"Illuminated by extraordinary tenderness. . . . Simple yet mysterious, simultaneously cryptic and crystal clear. The Road offers nothing in the way of escape or comfort. But its fearless wisdom is more indelible than reassurance could ever be." —The New York Times
"No American writer since Faulkner has wandered so willingly into the swamp waters of deviltry and redemption. . . . [McCarthy] has written this last waltz with enough elegant reserve to capture what matters most." —The Boston Globe
"There is an urgency to each page, and a raw emotional pull . . . making [The Road] easily one of the most harrowing books you'll ever encounter. . . . Once opened, [it is] nearly impossible to put down; it is as if you must keep reading in order for the characters to stay alive. . . . The Road is a deeply imagined work and harrowing no matter what your politics." —Bookforum
"We find this violent, grotesque world rendered in gorgeous, melancholic, even biblical cadences. . . . Few books can do more; few have done better. Read this book." —Rocky Mountain News
"A dark book that glows with the intensity of [McCarthy's] huge gift for language. . . . Why read this? . . . Because in its lapidary transcription of the deepest despair short of total annihilation we may ever know, this book announces the triumph of language over nothingness." —Chicago Tribune
"The love between the father and the son is one of the most profound relationships McCarthy has ever written."
—The Christian Science Monitor
"The Road is a wildly powerful and disturbing book that exposes whatever black bedrock lies beneath grief and horror. Disaster has never felt more physically and spiritually real." —Time
"The Road is the logical culmination of everything [McCarthy]'s written." —Newsweek
"It's hard to think of [an apocalypse tale] as beautifully, hauntingly constructed as this one. McCarthy possesses a massive, Biblical vocabulary and he unleashes it in this book with painterly effect. . . . The Road takes him to a whole new level. . . . It will grip even the coldest human heart." —The Star-Ledger (Newark)
"McCarthy is a gutsy, powerful storyteller. . . . The writing throughout is magnificent." —Chicago Sun-Times
"Devastating. . . . McCarthy has never seemed more at home, more eloquent, than in the sere, postapocalyptic ash land of The Road. . . . Extraordinarily lovely and sad. . . . [A] masterpiece." —Entertainment Weekly
"His most compelling, moving and accessible novel since All the Pretty Horses. . . . McCarthy brilliantly captures the knife edge that fugitives in a hostile world stand on. . . . Amid this Godot-like bleakness, McCarthy shares something vital and enduring about the boy's spirit, his father's love and the nature of bravery itself." —USA Today
Reading Group Guide
Winner of the 2007 Pulitzer Prize in Fiction
National Book Critics Circle Award Finalist
One of the Best Books of the Year
The Boston Globe, The Christian Science Monitor, The Denver Post, The Kansas City Star, Los Angeles Times, New York, People, Rocky Mountain News, Time, The Village Voice, The Washington Post
"His tale of survival and the miracle of goodness only adds to McCarthy's stature as a living master. It's gripping, frightening and, ultimately, beautiful. It might very well be the best book of the year, period." San Francisco Chronicle
The introduction, discussion questions, suggestions for further reading, and author biography that follow are designed to stimulate your group's discussion of The Road, the tender, harrowing new novel of unfailing hope amid epic devastation by acclaimed writer Cormac McCarthy.
1. Cormac McCarthy has an unmistakable prose style. What do you see as the most distinctive features of that style? How is the writing in The Road in some ways more like poetry than narrative prose?
2. Why do you think McCarthy has chosen not to give his characters names? How do the generic labels of "the man" and "the boy" affect the way in which readers relate to them?
3. How is McCarthy able to make the postapocalyptic world of The Road seem so real and utterly terrifying? Which descriptive passages are especially vivid and visceral in their depiction of this blasted landscape? What do you find to be the most horrifying features of this world and the survivors who inhabit it?
4. McCarthy doesn't make explicit what kind of catastrophe has ruined the earth and destroyed human civilization, but what might be suggested by the many descriptions of a scorched landscape covered in ash? What is implied by the father's statement that "On this road there are no godspoke men. They are gone and I am left and they have taken with them the world" [p. 32]?
5. As the father is dying, he tells his son he must go on in order to "carry the fire." When the boy asks if the fire is real, the father says, "It's inside you. It was always there. I can see it" [p. 279]. What is this fire? Why is it so crucial that they not let it die?
6. McCarthy envisions a postapocalyptic world in which "murder was everywhere upon the land" and the earth would soon be "largely populated by men who would eat your children in front of your eyes" [p. 181]. How difficult or easy is it to imagine McCarthy's nightmare vision actually happening? Do you think people would likely behave as they do in the novel, under the same circumstances? Does it now seem that human civilization is headed toward such an end?
7. The man and the boy think of themselves as the "good guys." In what ways are they like and unlike the "bad guys" they encounter? What do you think McCarthy is suggesting in the scenes in which the boy begs his father to be merciful to the strangers they encounter on the road? How is the boy able to retain his compassionto be, as one reviewer put it, "compassion incarnate"?
8. The sardonic blind man named Ely who the man and boy encounter on the road tells the father that "There is no God and we are his prophets" [p. 170]. What does he mean by this? Why does the father say about his son, later in the same conversation, "What if I said that he's a god?" [p. 172] Are we meant to see the son as a savior?
9. The Road takes the form of a classic journey story, a form that dates back to Homer's Odyssey. To what destination are the man and the boy journeying? In what sense are they "pilgrims"? What, if any, is the symbolic significance of their journey?
10. McCarthy's work often dramatizes the opposition between good and evil, with evil sometimes emerging triumphant. What does The Road ultimately suggest about good and evil? Which force seems to have greater power in the novel?
11. What makes the relationship between the boy and his father so powerful and poignant? What do they feel for each other? How do they maintain their affection for and faith in each other in such brutal conditions?
12. Why do you think McCarthy ends the novel with the image of trout in mountain streams before the end of the world: "In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery" [p. 287]. What is surprising about this ending? Does it provide closure, or does it prompt a rethinking of all that has come before? What does it suggest about what lies ahead?
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
The dark side of fiction is here in this interesting story. I really enjoyed reading it. Though I had to read this story as a reading assignment, I am glad I did. This fictional drama will stay with me forever. I highly recommend this story to anyone.
This was one of those literary works that I really didn't WANT to read but did beccause it was a Pulitzer winner - so often we get in a rut of reading just the genres that appeal to us most. Boy, was I glad I "branched out" with this one. I couldn't put it down and it stayed with me for days after I finished. While it's not exactly entertaining, it was a MUST read for everyone who appreciates characters with depth and a plot that will make you look inward. WONDERFUL book that I'm certain I'll read again in a few years and appreciate it just as much.
Cormac McCarthy's The Road speaks to the hopeful part of all humans; the part that whispers to us that we are not alone, that even in the bleakest of times, there is possibility and promise. Some see this book as a warning of a fast approaching post-apocalyptic time when all life as we know it will be turned topsy turvy and basic human kindness will be swept away as pockets of people strive to survive. And, I suppose, The Road could be described as such, but as the famed glass half empty or half full discussion, what you take from reading The Road surely will depend on what you bring to the reading. The boy in this poignant story is a waning ray of faith whose optimism is juxtaposed against the realistic father who has been hardened by devastation and loss. This is a story of love, loss, and life but whether you are left comforted or frustrated depends on your own belief of mankind and life after life. A litmus test of a book - you will find insight into your own beliefs.
Usually I am not a big reader of books and usually wait to see the movie first. I read this book as a English 12 assignment, and I could not get enough of this book. Cormac McCarthy is an amazing author; I can't wait to read his other work. McCarthy doesn't confuse you with many names, but instead uses "man" and "boy" as his main characters. While reading this book you can vividly picture what was going on with the characters. Even though this book is based on an untold tragedy, it makes the book an amazing story of a father and son. If you ever want to sit down and read a great book then "The Road" is you're best choice, guaranteed.
I know it's fashionable to love The Road. McCarthy is a high-brow writer of "literature". The gorgeous Viggo Mortensen and the stunning Charlize Theron are starring in the big-budget film. Big critics like the New York Times love The Road. But maybe he's not well read in the Horror and Sci-Fi genre. (Fancy critics eschew genre. It's not chic.) But if they would occassionally lower themselves to read genre, they'd realize The Road is nothing new or special. The shelves are full of much better post-apocalyptic stories. The People of Sparks by DuPrau, The Postman by Brin, Lucifer's Hammer by Niven and Pournelle. Just a few off the top of my head. The lone plot point of The Road is that things are pretty darn rough after the collapse of civilization. That's it. After McCarthy establishes his one point, he's done. The rest of the novel is simply driving this one point home over and over again ad nauseum. Except for grim descriptions of just how hard it is to survive.... the reader doesn't really learn anything else. If the idea of the end of the world fascinates you, try World War Z by Max Brooks. - - Mary Tills, Barnes and Noble, Frederick, Maryland.
This novel was an exceptional read; both intimate and horrifying. Any book that is difficult to put down automatically get's the thumbs up. It grabbed and held my attention in the first 10 pages, something even good books fail to do in the first 100. It is the first McCarthy novel that I have read and I enjoyed it more than I expected. It is the ominous and somewhat perilous journey of a father and son clinging to the hope that there is some good left in a raped and ravaged world. The story is about their continued journey down "the road" to find some sort of salvation in what used to be the United States but is now a cannibalistic, violent, and desperate, society of outlaws, nomads, rapists, murderers, and thieves. At times, The Road's disturbing imagery is difficult to stomach, although McCarthy never goes as far as it seems he will. This probably works in his favour since at several points in the book I almost put it down because I became so afraid of what would happen next. An author who can inject a reader emotionally like that is certainly not lacking in his craft. A tool that McCarthy uses throughout the book to do this is false foreshadowing; planting seeds for things the reader assumes will happen, but never do. This adds to the suspense and fear that McCarthy creates for his audience. It also contributes to the fear of the unknown, which is a major consideration of this story. The plot doesn't really thicken, which adds to the simplicity and nothingness that the book is supposed to make the reader feel. This book conveys more emotion than any other book I have ever read. McCarthy forces the reader to experience fear, sadness, and desperation alongside the main characters. There are a few things I didn't like. The dialogue is difficult to follow at times and can be repetitive. Also, the use of proper names is nearly non-existent, but this seems to serve a purpose. For example, the father and son (as well as the few other characters that come along in the story) have descriptive terms to identify them rather than names; i.e. the man and the boy. The few proper names that are found are mostly brand names. One example of this is Coca Cola, when they find one last can of Coke inside a beaten vending machine in a long abandoned and pillaged grocery store. Much of the book is description as McCarthy isn't just telling a story of loss, but also painting a picture about what post-apocalyptic America may look like. My interpretation of this book, aside from the message that the world is consuming itself to the point of complete extermination, is the true terror in the unknown. It is about the terror of being alone. It is also about the necessary attachment to god and faith when there is nothing else left to believe in. The Road is also an interpretation of raw human nature at the most desperate and destitute of times. The Road is definitely a new addition to some old favourites in post-apocalyptic literature. I look forward to reading more of McCarthy's work down the road.
An absolutely amazing tale! I picked up "The Road" solely based on the fact that it was written by the author who wrote "No Country for Old Men", which I havent read, but the movie was outstanding! I had no pre-judgement about the book, or author. I wasn't too thrilled about the "Oprah's Book Club" sticker on the front though. I figured I would crack the book open, read the 1st chapter to feel it out and toss it aside had it been a weak read. Wow, was I wrong. I've never read a book faster in my life. The book has no chapters, the characters have no names, it's just a straight read all the way through! The story is amazing, the characters are amazing, your drawn to every page, constantly cheering them on and worrying about them at the same time. I found myself unable to put the book down, constantly wondering whats next? The book is about hope and the love between a father & son after the apocalypse, in a savaged land where no plants and animals exist, everything is covered in black ash and cannibals roam the streets, highways and cities. Everyday they struggle with starvation, the weather and the fear that they may never see tomorrow! Great book, highly recommend to everyone!
This book was amazing to me. I typically stay with writers like Patterson, King, and Connelly but I took a chance on this book. Of all of the books I have read this ranks in the top 5. It is gripping, emotional, and thrilling without being too far out there. This is a modern masterpiece.
A dreary, obsolete world, survived only by cannibal hordes and their hapless victimes, would at first glance be the antithesis to a tale of a tender, amorous relationship between father and son. But as the unnamed man and boy trek across the barren land, the sheer love that exists between the two becomes apparent. They are "each the other world's entire." In their hostile enviroment, they bond, strengthened by the trials of starvation, terror, and the bleak outlook of the future. The two exemplify what every parent and child could ever strive to be.
McCarthy's writing is both minimal and eloquent, terse and articulate. The world is described in fractured syntax, expressing the broken thoughts that must have crossed the characters' minds. But in the abrupt narration, simply poetic writing comes forth, making this book an absolute joy to digest.
McCarthy also possesses the mastery of suspense. Interactions with the unlawful bands of survivors present the terror felt by the characters is bared in raw terms to the reader. Paired with the desolate yet intriguing imagery of the post apocalyptic world, The Road grips and seldom lets go.
Extremely worthy of its Pulitzer, The Road encompasses hope and dread, simplicity and fluency. It is a standing triumph in 21st century literature.
Starting out, I had really high expectations for this book, and I wasn¿t disappointed. While the destination itself is meaningless, the events and small details along the way are very revealing. For example, none of the characters are given names, as names have no significance in the post-apocalyptic wasteland. Initially, however, none of this was apparent to me. I was almost aggravated by the dull, desperate monotony prevalent on each page. But as the story progressed, it hit me that the dull, desperate monotony was exactly how the man and the boy felt everyday. I can¿t recommend this book enough, but only to some people. There are a lot of grueling, cringe-inducing scenes, and a lot of death. If these things don¿t bother you, you owe it to yourself to read The Road.
This book is WONDERFUL...I didnt put it down once I started reading it until there where no more pages to read!!!
I listened to this book on audio tape and fell in love with the narrator's voice, Tom Stechschulte. The book was so good, that about 1/2 way through, I checked out the written version from the library so I could enjoy it whenever I was able. Well, after a few pages, I missed the narrator so much that I returned the book and continued with the audio version. I could just hear him saying "It's okay, it's o-kay."
The Road tells the story of a father and son in a post-apocalyptic world. The bond between them is evident from the beginning. The hope that the father is able to instill in the son in this seemingly hopeless and dire environment is amazing.
Though place names are not mentioned, they are following a map, and it seems they are going through the mountains to the ocean - so I pictured heading west to the Pacific. Along the way they are able to stay one step ahead of the 'bad guys' and with the boy's insistence, help others whenever they are able. People are few and far between, and food and supplies are even scarcer.
With every step traveled, every tin of food found or lost, every imagined and unimagined danger, I was kept on the edge of my seat. Travel with the boy and his Papa on their search for any good that is left in the world as the continue to carry The Light.
I just discovered that this book has been made into a movie to be released this year! This will be a must see for me!
OK, I guess my headline is a little misleading. If you like page-turner fiction with a happy ending then you probably won't like this. However if you like beautiful and horrifying prose describing an apocalyptic wasteland, this book will not disappoint. Take this from someone who expected a light read with the stereotypical father-son relationship story: Prepare yourself for some hard-hitting imagery and startling encounters. The book chronicles a son and his father who have survived some world-ending event, and they are left only with each other, the memories of the family they once had, and strangers who want to kill them for their food and clothes. This book is so different from other post-apocalyptic novels I've read because Cormac McCarthy does not worry himself or the reader with the trivialities of how the world ended, or how humanity will attempt to rebuild. He focuses instead on the only things that matter immediately after after an apocalypse, and that is survival and loving whomever survived with you. The bleak imagery of this world can only be surpassed by the love the boy and his father have for each other. And the ending will leave you sweating, crying, and wanting to find all your loved ones and give them a big hug.
This is one of my favorite books. I have read it at least four times.
This book is just wonderful, with it's dark ominous feeling of suspense. It will keep you on the edge of your seat until you finish.
Solid book. Cormac is da bomb. his book is so good i would read it again, but why would I do that when I just read it. This book is a 4 star book because I loved the plot of a post apocalyptic world. The downside that made this book lose a star was that the author lacked quotations marks. I have this fine work before but i could not understand who was talking and when a conversation ended or when one began. It confused me greatly and I think Cormac should read this and accept this helpful advice. To all you haters out there, read this book because it will change your life. I know it changed mine.
Really want this book but not 11.99 no way!
IT WAS SAD ! also it was really really good ,i cried when i finished it
Ranked as one of the greatest reading experiences of my life, The Road is both an emotional and thrilling journey that will leave you asking many questions about yourself and humanity as a whole.
Never saw the movie, and fashionable or not... this was and still is my tops in fav books!
This book kept me on the edge of my seat the entire time. McCarthy's unique writing style adds to development of the characters through out the book.
At 117 pages, it's worth it. A story of survival in post apocolyptic america; a father and son journey through desolate and destroyed, land encountering frightening circumstances and a world no longer recognizeable. You will be moved through several emotions.
SPOILER ALERT!!!!! I really loved this book. I've always like apocolyptic type books/movies, and this is the one that really hit me. I feel like it was such a good book, but the ending is sort of what ruined it for me. I mean happy endings are always good , but I feel like it would have been better if the book just ended with the son walking off into the distance and then it ended. I feel like that would have been a really good ending. Overall though, I really enjoyed this read. I really liked the suspense that was in it, and everytime they found relief I actually felt joyous for them. I felt like I had to keep reading just to keep the characters alive. Also, about the moments of relief they had. I loved them. Especially when they found the underground bunker, I thought that was amazing. I was just sad that they didn't get to stay there. The ending was very sad though. Before the son found the man that rescued him, I felt really bad that his dad died on him. Overall, I thought it was a very good book. The plot may have been jumpy at times and the ending wasn't how I planned it to end out, but overall I thoughouly enjoyed this book!
Positivly one of histories greatest peices of human written word. Look past the theam. Look past setting. And focus on the the passion and feeling. Then lay back that theam. Lay back that setting. In past hearings of Cormac writeings, ive only just had recommendations. So i looked. To be honest i hate when a producer or publisher writes the back discribtion of a story. "A poast apocylyptic world with father and son" dose no just. How many teen books have that setting now a days. It takes opening and really, gluttony consumes you with this wonderful peice. Mr. Cormac McCarthy... Thank you