One
reviewer compared this piece to a "lyrical epic of horror", in which I must whole-heartedly agree. And I am tempted to leave it at that. The story itself is horrible; grisly, ghastly, inhumane, indecent, morose, decadent. The writing richly delivers this phantasm with a powerful vibrance - hence my strong reaction to it. The sharp detailed storyscape is punctuated by a lame dialogue consisting mostly of "keep moving", "I don't know" and "Okay"; make no doubt, the stark contrast between the two accentuates the narrative unbelievably well.
I also picked up the audiobook, read by Tom Stechschulte. At first I was worried, but the narrator's thick gravely voice fit perfectly to paint a brooding stark picture that flirts with disaster this side of death.
I have a hard time grasping the idea that Cormac dedicated this work to his son. True, the writing is phenomenal, but the story is black. I cannot put the innocent luminosity of childhood next to this thing. It is a thing that should not be done.
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