For two thirds of the book I had no idea what was
going on. People were getting shot. People were getting scalped. There was a
kid, “the” kid, a judge, “the” judge, and a bunch of minor characters that all
meshed into one non-distinct blood-thirsty outlaw.
After a while the book started making sense, but
too late to actually attract my interest or give me any sort of emotion.
McCarthy’s prose remains unique, obviously, but that doesn’t mean that reading
hundreds of pages that all blur into one has to be an enjoyable experience...
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