{"id":19526,"date":"2024-04-05T01:16:23","date_gmt":"2024-04-05T01:16:23","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.writemyessays.app\/blog\/questions\/you-have-been-asked-to-read-the-attached-secondary-source-for-your-group-after-reading-the-source-in-no-more-than-300-words-explain-fully-how-this-secondary-source-offers-significant-insight-into-y\/"},"modified":"2024-04-05T01:16:23","modified_gmt":"2024-04-05T01:16:23","slug":"you-have-been-asked-to-read-the-attached-secondary-source-for-your-group-after-reading-the-source-in-no-more-than-300-words-explain-fully-how-this-secondary-source-offers-significant-insight-into-y","status":"publish","type":"questions","link":"https:\/\/www.writemyessays.app\/blog\/questions\/you-have-been-asked-to-read-the-attached-secondary-source-for-your-group-after-reading-the-source-in-no-more-than-300-words-explain-fully-how-this-secondary-source-offers-significant-insight-into-y\/","title":{"rendered":"You have been asked to read the attached secondary source for your group. After reading the source, in no more than 300 words, explain fully how this secondary source offers significant insight into your understanding of the novel."},"content":{"rendered":"

You have been asked to read the attached secondary source for your group. After reading the source, in no more than 300 words, explain fully how this secondary source offers significant insight into your understanding of the novel. Be sure to use specific quotations from both the secondary source and the novel to support your ideas (these quotations do not count in the word count). Respond to at least two other student discussion threads with an academic and appropriate response. This response should be no less than 150 words in length.<\/span>
Initial thread April 4 @11:59PM<\/span><\/p>\n

Cormac McCarthy’s novels are as innocent of theme and of ethical
\nreference as they are of plot. On the other hand, each of them constitutes a
\ndensely created world as authentic and persuasive as any that there is in
\nfiction. The worlds are convincing not because the people in them do normal
\nand recognizable things, or represent us metaphorically, or even inhabit
\nidentifiable time and space, but because McCarthy compels us to believe in
\nthem through the traditional means of invention, command of language,
\nand narrative art. To enter those worlds and move around in them effectively
\nwe are required to surrender all Cartesian predispositions and rediscover
\nsome primal state of consciousness prior to its becoming identified with
\nthinking only. There is a powerful pressure of meaning in McCarthy’s
\nnovels, but the experience of significance does not translate into com
\nmunicable abstractions of significance. In McCarthy’s world, existence
\nseems both to precede and preclude essence, and it paradoxically derives its
\nimportance from this fact alone. The vivid facticity of his novels consumes
\nconventional formulae as a black hole consumes light. He is Walker Percy
\nturned inside out?intuitive, unideological, oblivious to teleological fash
\nions, indifferent if not hostile to the social order, wholly absorbed in the
\nstrange heterocosm of his own making. Ethical categories do not rule in thisenvironment, or even pertain: moral considerations seem not to affect
\noutcomes; action and event seem determined wholly by capricious and
\nincomprehensible fates. His stories are lurid and simple; they seem oddly
\nlike paradigms without reference and are all the more compelling because of
\nthat, since the matter of the paradigm does not lose its particularity in
\nabstraction. The characters?without utilitarian responsibilities to well
\nmade plots and unrelated to our bourgeois better natures?are real precisely
\nto the degree that they resist symbolization.
\nAt the end of Outer Dark ( 1968) the road that Culla Holme is following
\nbrings him abruptly to a swamp, and absurdly ends there:
\nBefore him stretched a spectral waste out of which reared only the
\nnaked trees in attitudes of agony and dimly hominoid like figures
\nin a landscape of the damned. A faintly smoking garden of the dead
\nthat tended away to the earth’s curve. He tried his foot in the mire
\nbefore him and it rose in a vulvate welt claggy and sucking. He
\nstepped back. A stale wind blew from this desolation and the marsh
\nreeds and black ferns among which he stood clashed softly like
\nthings chained. He wondered why a road should come to such a
\nplace.l
\nThis is as close to a conventional paradigm as McCarthy usually comes, and
\nit, of course, is a paradigm of a dead-end, paradigmless world (and for its
\nnovel also a kind of gothic, self-referential joke). A more sophisticated
\nCornelius Suttree, in McCarthy’s most recent novel, Suttree (1979), dreams
\nin a delirium that his life is being voided into “a cold dimension without
\ntime without space and where all was motion.” When, past his crisis, he
\nspeaks with an attending priest he tells him that what he has learned close to
\ndeath is that God “is not a thing. Nothing ever stops moving.”2 This is
\nMcCarthy’s metaphysic: none, in effect; no first principles, no foundational
\ntruth; Heraclitus without logos. At the end of Child of God (1973), Lester
\nBallard, the logic of whose poignant, homicidal loneliness we have attended
\nstep by relentless step, is permitted in death a last socially redeeming value:
\nat the state medical school in Memphis
\nhe was preserved with formalin and wheeled forth to take his place
\nwith other deceased persons newly arrived. He was laid out on aslab and flayed, eviscerated, dissected. His head was sawed open
\nand the brains removed. His muscles were stripped from his bones.
\nHis heart was taken out. His entrails were hauled forth and
\ndelineated and the four young students who bent over him like
\nthose haruspices of old perhaps saw monsters worse to come in their
\nconfigurations. At the end of three months when the class was
\nclosed Ballard was scraped from the table into a plastic bag and
\ntaken with others of his kind to a cemetery outside the city and
\nthere interred. A minister from the school read a simple service.3
\nAt about this same time the decomposing bodies of Lester Ballard’s victims
\nare discovered when a team of plowing mules falls through and into the
\ncave-mausoleum where the dead women are found arranged, “on stone
\nledges in attitudes of repose” (p. 195). They are hauled out one by one,
\ndripping rheum, and as the sheriff and his deputies drive with the bodies
\nback to town, “in the new fell dark basking nighthawks [rise} from the dust
\nin the road before them with wild wings and eyes red as jewels in the
\nheadlights” (p. 197). The hawks are an eidetic rendering of the eerie,
\ninexplicable beauty?and otherness?of McCarthy’s world.
\nBecause that world is one where “nothing ever stops moving” it is
\nrepresented by people who are, as he puts it in one place, “fugitive of all
\norder” or, in another, knowers “of things known raw, unshaped by the
\nconstructions of a mind obsessed with form.” Marion Sylder in The OrchardKeeper (1965) is a rakish, resourceful whisky-runner who not only defies the
\nauthorities but taunts them while scrupulously obeying the terms of his own
\nhuman code. His counterpart in the loose narration is Arthur Ownby who
\nlives alone in the mountains with his dog and year after year watches over an
\nabandoned peach orchard, on the one hand, and on the other, the de
\ncomposing body of a man Marion Sylder has killed in self-defense and thrown
\ninto the old orchard’s insecticide tank. Ownby runs afoul of the law when he
\ncarefully fires twelve partially circumcised shotgun shell casings into a
\nmysterious goverment tank which has appeared in his woodlands and which
\nhe knows to be the beginning of the end of his solitude. “Ever man loves peace
\nand an old man best of all,” he thinks later, after a shootout and capture,
\nremembering proudly what he has done.4 The boy who is the only link
\nbetween these two learns an austere integrity from them. His strangematuring is symbolized at the end when he returns to the courthouse in
\nSevierville to retrieve the dead sparrowhawk he had turned in for bounty
\nmonths before and then, ashamed and appalled, gives back the dollar when
\nhe learns that the authorities do not preserve the hawks for some worthy
\npurpose but instead burn them.
\nLester Ballard, the child of God, is abandoned by his mother after his
\nfather has hanged himself in their barn and his farm has been taken by the
\ncourts. He lives at first in an abandoned cabin which he shares unwillingly
\nwith wild animals (including once a pack of baying foxhounds); eventually,
\nwhen his house burns, he lives in caves which become a grisly necropolis, a
\nmakeshift human society populated by young women Ballard has
\nmurdered?mostly with their boyfriends in lovers lanes?and made love to.
\nHe is not motivated by anything that we can speak of; he lives beyond the
\npale both socially and psychoanalytically. Since his inner life is closed away
\nfrom us he seems like a dreadful unconscious, externalized into unreflective
\nand unironic action. When he does come to, so to speak, it is after seeing the
\nface of a boy on a school-bus who he realizes reminds him of himself as a boy,
\nand so he returns to the hospital from which he has escaped, saying only,
\n“I’m supposed to be here” (p. 192).
\nCornelius Suttree in Suttree has chosen his own exile from his own wealthy
\nfamily and from his wife and child to live in Knoxville along the river in his
\nhouseboat among derelicts, thieves, drunks (like himself), whores, and
\nbootleggers. Living beneath the bridges and viaducts of the city, they form a
\nrenegade anti-community, a Jaycee’s nightmare, which Suttree takes to
\nembody the truth, or at any rate, not falsehood. The slum district sur
\nrounding this community is called McAnally Flats, and as Suttree is
\nrecovering from an illness and eventually decides to leave, the area is being
\ntorn down to make way for the new Knoxville expressway (the time is the
\nmiddle 1950’s). Suttree thinks of the wreckers, cynically, as “gnostic
\nworkmen who would have down this shabby shapeshow that masks the
\nhigher world of form” (p. 464)?thus allying the novel with psychoanalytic
\nnotions of the modern city as a flight from nature. Suttree is carefully
\nconstructed to express its anti-metaphysical vision. Where all of life is
\nmotion, rich episodes follow upon one another with chaotic improvidence,
\nthe time-spans between them?their temporal relationships unmarked. The
\nlargest units?of time that we are conscious of are the seasons, and this is
\nmainly because the extreme seasons challenge the ingenuity and survival of
\nMcAnally’s down-and-out residents. The river is the novel’s metaphoric
\nground of being, a new rendering of Williams’s “filthy Passaic.”The main characters of McCarthy’s four novels, because of their rural
\nisolation and poverty, or because they have chosen isolation and poverty, live
\na daily hermeneutic adventure, their simple objectives leading them through
\nmystifying disclosures of meaning with which they become continuous.
\nThey exist in isolated pockets of experience, intersect with each other briefly,
\nbecome involved in, or remain auditors of, baroque, wonderful stories of
\nhuman ingenuity and hardheadedness or of grotesque cruelty. By this
\nstrategy human life is revealed through anecdote and incident rather than
\nthrough thematic patterns, in particulars rather than through types. Rinthy
\nHolm in Outer Dark is a prototype of the character who knows things raw,
\n“unshaped by the constructions of a mind obsessed with form.” We do not
\nknow where she and her brother, Culla, live when the novel opens; we know
\nvirtually nothing about her parents, and neither does she. The two of them
\ninhabit an austere, rural void. When Culla, leaving her for a brief period,
\ntells her not to take strangers in, she replies, “They ain’t a soul in this world
\nbut what is a stranger to me” (p. 29). When she sets out in search of her
\nnewborn child, which Culla, its father, has left to die in the woods, she
\ndoesn’t know whether she is headed toward town or away from it because
\nshe’s never been there. When she is asked by a suspicious farmer whether she
\nhasn’t run off from somewhere she says, “No … I ain’t even got nowheres to
\nrun off from” (p. 101). She says to a doctor later, “I don’t live nowhere no
\nmore. . . I never did much. I just go around huntin my chap” (p. 156).
\nHunting her “chap” entails hunting a malicious tinker who has in fact found
\nand taken the abandoned baby. But she has never seen the tinker and he has
\nnever seen her, and she does not even know, until a storekeeper tells her, that
\nthere is “more than one kind.” She has no reason to choose one road over
\nanother since the tinker could be anywhere. Her quest proceeds in a vacuum,
\nintermittently filled by the sympathetic rural people who help her out but
\nseem somehow, though they have homes and families, no less wandering in
\nspace than she. She is shrewd and strong and humorous, but she is virtually
\nwithout thoughts, driven on and sustained by the simple meaning that she
\nmakes. She remains unaware of the appalling facts which transpire in the
\nnovel’s parallel narrative. In that opposing narrative an evil surrealism
\nprevails, the dark inversion of Rinthy’s simpleminded, maternalistic grace.
\nFarmers and towns-people are gratuitously murdered, found hung from
\ntrees; corpses are dug up from their fresh graves and robbed of their clothes.
\nAll of this is phlegmatically perpetrated by three lawless, sadistic night
\nriders. The last of victims are the tinker and Rinthy and Culla’s child, whose
\nthroat the bearded leader slits, before Culla’s eyes, as dispassionately as if he
\nwere lighting a pipe.In the beginning o? Outer Dark Culla has had a strange dream of a prophet
\nwho promises cures to all the diseased, lame, and blinded assembly of
\n“human ruin” who attend him, once the sun has gone into and through an
\neclipse. But in the dream the sun goes into eclipse and does not return, and
\nthe crowd waits restlessly in the cold darkness for the promise to be fulfilled.
\nFinally the crowd grows mutinous and turns not upon the prophet but the
\ndreamer, who himself has asked to be cured, and the dreamer is unable to
\nhide, even in the darkness. The dream is a parable of the promise of
\nlife?that we may be cured?and the perverse issue ofthat promise in misery
\nand deprivation. The dreamer is set upon as if he were God, whose broken
\ncovenant is grotesquely inverted by those who, rejected, reject him and in
\ndoing so make their own darkness. Rinthy represents a fragile human
\nbeauty?a promise of sorts?which is merely parallel to the ugliness and
\ninhumanity which prevail elsewhere; this harsh contrast underscores the
\nnovel’s pervasive concern with the mystifying discontinuities of experience.
\nWhen they had done in the kitchen she followed the woman down
\nthe passageway at the rear of the house, the woman holding the
\nlamp before them and so out into the cool night air and across the
\nboardfloored dogtrot, the door falling to behind them and the
\nwoman opening the next one and entering, her close behind, a
\nwhippoorwill calling from nearby for just as long as they passed
\nthrough the open and hushing instantly with the door’s closing,
\n(pp. 61-62)
\nShe opened t?ie door and the night air came upon them again
\nsweetly through the warm reek of the room, the whippoorwill
\ncalling more distant, the door closing and the woman’s steps fading
\nacross the dogtrot and the bird once again more faintly, or perhaps
\nanother bird, beyond the warped and waney boards and thin yellow
\nflame that kept her from the night, (p. 62)
\nThe whippoorwill had stopped and she bore with her now in
\nfrenzied colliding orbits about the lamp chimney a horde of moths
\nand night insects, (p. 63)
\nShe put the lamp on the shelf and sat on the bed. It was a shuck tick
\nand collapsed slowly beneath her with a dry brittle sound and a
\nbreath of stale dust. She turned down the lamp and removed her
\ndress and hung it over the brass bedpost. Then she unrolled the
\nshift and put it on and crawled into the bed. . . . When they were
\nall turned in they lay in the hot silence and listened to one anotherbreathing. She turned carefully on her rattling pallet. She listened
\nfor a bird or for a cricket. Something she might know in all that
\ndark. (pp. 64-65).
\nRinthy is not threatened here. She, in fact, has been taken in by
\nresponsive, if laconic, strangers. Nevertheless, the five pages that it takes to
\nget Rinthy from washing up to bed are dense with alternating signals of
\nstrangeness, uncertainty, and reassurance. The command of the nuances of
\nspeech and narrative rhythm, of sounds and of visible objects, and even of
\nsilence, is unfaltering. The un-lurid, almost pastoral occasion is a subtle
\nmicrocosm, and the whole of the novel is the sum of such occasions. Each
\nepisode, the novel as a whole, and the texture of the prose itself express
\nrepeatedly a sense of the interwoven beauty and terror of life which is the
\nunassuming beginning and end of McCarthy’s vision. What meaning there
\nis remains inseparable from the sensation of experience.
\nRisking portentousness, one might characterize McCarthy’s nihilism as
\nnot simply ambiguous but dialectical. There is Rinthy on the one hand, and
\nthe evil Magi on the other, the whippoorwill’s song and the silence when it
\nceases, her dreamed child and the real one. There is Lester Ballard’s helpless
\nloneliness and hunger for love and the remains of the victims of it, “covered
\nwith adipocere, a pale gray cheesy mold common to corpses in damp places,
\nand scallops of light fungus [growing] along them as they do on logs rotting
\nin the forest” (p. 196; the gothic element in McCarthy refers us to what we
\ncontrive to avert our senses from in normal life). During one idle journey
\nalong the river, Cornelius Suttree witnesses at one point a peaceful baptism
\nceremony?”total nursin” one of the participants calls it?and hears talk of
\nbeing saved; at another point he remembers from his own childhood being
\ninstructed in killing, near the same spot, by an old turtle hunter and
\nwatching a turtle’s skull being blown away ” in a cloud of brainpulp and
\nbonemeal”: “the wrinkled empty skin hung from the neck like a torn sock”
\n(p. 119). At the end of the novel, as Suttree hitchhikes out of Knoxville, he is
\napproached and offered a dipper of cold water by a boy who is carrying water
\nfor a road-construction crew (they are building the new expressway): “Suttree
\ncould see the water beading coldly on the tin and running in tiny rivulets and
\ndrops that steamed on the road where they fell”; he sees himself for an instant
\nin the blue of the child’s eyes (p. 470). Then moments later, after he has been
\npicked up, he looks back and the child is gone. In his place has come an
\n“enormous lank hound. . . sniffing at the spot where Suttree had stood” and
\nhe recalls the hounds of the huntsman of one of his feverish dreams,
\n“slaverous and wild and their eyes crazed with ravening for souls in thisworld” (p. 471). Such juxtapositions are calculated, but they are suggestive
\nrather than schematic. Their disturbing effect is condensed in a story told to
\nSuttree by an old railroad man. Back in the days when he had “used to hobo a
\nright smart” he had been passing through the mountains in Colorado in a
\nslatsided boxcar crouched in a corner against the winter wind. But the car
\ncatches fire from a match he has flipped away, and when he is unable to stamp
\nout the flames he leaps from the ascending train into a snowbank; “and what
\nI’m going to tell you you’ll think peculiar but it’s the god’s truth. That was
\nin nineteen and thirty-one and if I live to be a hunnerd year old I don’t think
\nI’ll ever see anything as pretty as that train on fire going up that mountain
\nand around the bend and them flames lightin up the snow and the trees and
\nthe night” (p. 182). This could not seem very peculiar to Suttree, since it is
\nthe minimal point of his experience that we dwell inescapably in paradox and
\nshould learn to be willing to do so, since things could be a lot worse.
\nThe clear, good water that recurs in the novels is a simple representation of
\nwhat is desired of the world but is a provisional image only, not a symbol of
\nredemption. When Gene Harrogate, Suttree’s hilarious young neighbor, is
\nrescued by Suttree after days of being trapped under debris and sewage in a
\nvast cave under the city, his lunatic plan to blast his way through the
\nfoundation of a bank disastrously thwarted, he says first of all, “I hate for
\nanybody to see me like this” and then, “I’d give ten dollars for a glass of
\nicewater. . . . cash money”?thus comically uttering a serious refrain, the
\nstory of anyone’s life in McCarthy’s world (p. 277). One of the mysteriously
\naffecting moments in Outer Dark comes when Rinthy and the farm family
\nthat has taken her in stop along the hot road to town to drink from a spring.
\n“That’s fine water, the man said. Fine a water as they is in this country. She
\ntook the cup from him and dipped it into the dark pool, raised it clear and
\ndrank. It was sweet and very cold.” Such images and episodes rhyme with
\neach other meaningfully. They also ground and reinforce episodes of greater
\napparent import. One such is Suttree’s wholesomely erotic interlude with
\nthe young daughter in a family of mussel-shell gatherers which ends when
\nshe is killed beneath a landslide of slate. The small moments are subtly
\nforegrounded and achieve significance because they form a whole with the
\notherwise dominating spirit in the novels of violence and perversity. The
\nvague dialectic is one point; its irresolution is the other.
\nIn this context something grander Yeats wrote comes to mind: “The
\nhuman soul would not be conscious were it not suspened between contraries,
\nthe greater the contrast the more intense the consciousness.” In McCarthy’s
\nnovels intensity of consciousness is not that of any given character. His
\ntechnique is to represent characters who are strikingly devoid of consciousness, insofar as we are permitted to see. The intensity of consciousness
\nis the novelist’s?or that of the novel itself?and then ours as we are
\ncompelled to cross over from our world into his. His daring range of styles is
\nessential to this effect. On the other hand, all of McCarthy’s novels are
\nunusual for the high degree of unassimilated raw material they accomodate.
\nHis world stands forth vividly. His scrupulous reproduction of detail
\n(reflected in the precision of his language), his casual command of the right
\nnames for things?for parts of things, for aspects of various processes, and
\nhow things get done?his respect for the taxonomic specificness of the
\nnatural world, are like Joyce’s in that they give his work a deep cohesion that
\nmere shape and plot cannot. And this method has its point, too?that the
\nraw materiality of the world is both charismatic and overpowering: the ego is
\nas fragile and as transient, and perhaps as illusory, as any imagined form.
\nThe negotiations between the ego and the contary world are a main issue
\nin Suttree, since for its protagonist the nature of identity is a primary,
\nconsuming mystery. It is, however, through his friend Harrogate that the
\npoint is most affectingly conducted. Known also as country mouse and city
\nrat and?for good reason?as the moonlight melonmounter, Harrogate is
\noblivious to such morbid distractions as ontological insecurity. He is a
\nresourceful survivor for whom poverty is an exhilarating game. Yet when he
\nis arrested finally, trying to rob a store, and is sent to the state penitentiary,
\nhe is made by McCarthy, in a passage of remarkable originality and insight,
\nto seem virtually to disappear. On the train to Brushy Mountain Prison
\nHarrogate is without thoughts; he merely watches from his window, sees
\nthings as they pass: a cornfield and the dark earth between dead stalks; flocks
\nof nameless birds; winter trees against a winter sky; a woman tossing a
\ndishpan of water into the yard and wiping her hands on her apron; a little
\nstore at a crossing; a row of lighted henhouses; a lighted midnight cafe.
\nThen, abruptly, as the train moves into the dark rainy country, the windows
\nbecome tear-stained, black mirrors: ” and the city rat could see his pinched
\nface watching him back from the cold glass, out there racing among the wires
\nand the bitter trees, and he closed his eyes. ” To think of Harrogate dispersed
\ninto the world and then to remember him free, contriving his endless,
\nbaroque schemes, is to perceive the real and metaphorical horror of prison
\nlife, of passivity and inaction, and to consider how it is that schemes and
\nscheming hold the world at bay. This long, saddening account of Har
\nrogate’s journey has begun with the observation?his or the narrator’s: “It is
\ntrue that the world is wide” (p. 439). The dreadful reality within the
\nclich??that we are not the world nor the world us?would not be likely to
\noccur to Harrogate as a thought, but it has entered his mind, and weexperience it his way.
\nSuttree himself is an educated and reflective character, the anthithesis of
\nfreewheeling Harrogate, and he is paralyzingly aware of everything that
\nHarrogate’s industry and simplicity shield him from: the true horror of
\ndeath; the sure corruption and end of all friends, all love, all singular,
\ncherishable things; the impersonal relentlessness of time; the cruel absence of
\nGod from the world. He is obsessed also with the arbitrariness of identity, of
\nhow even that minimal coherence erodes when reassuring reflectors or the
\nconventions of social roles or homes and families fail. (He is haunted by
\ndoppelg?ngers, especially that of a twin brother who died at birth.) Living
\non the river off of his trotlines seems to be saturation therapy for him, a way
\nof confronting head-on and dealing with the chaos and violence that he both
\nidentifies with and fears, a choice to endure authentically at the risk of both
\nhis selfhood and sanity. Insofar as McCarthy’s vision and technique allow for
\nanything like an epiphany, a small one seems to issue from Suttree’s
\nexperience when he irreverently tells the priest who has come to attend his
\ndeath (Suttree is a genuinely lapsed Catholic, not a fake Burgessite one): “I
\nlearned that there is one Suttree and one Suttree only” (p. 461). This means
\nof course that there is only one Suttree lifespan, complete in itself; but it also
\nappears to signify not a realization about identity but a choice?that a
\nSuttree of the many possible in a world of antiform must be made to be. In its
\nminimal way, this is also an affirmation. Not long before his grisly contest
\nwith typhoid fever and its accompanying allegorical derangement, Suttree
\nhas himself attended the death of the old ragpicker who is the novel’s oracular
\nvoice of nihilism’s despair, cursing life and God, and himself as well (he has
\ntried to contract with Suttree to be soaked in coaloil and burnt on the spot
\nwhen he dies). Looking upon his body Suttree is moved by his own residual
\nexistential stamina to think about him for the first time and to reject him.
\n“You have no right to represent people this way, he said. A man is all men.
\nYou have no right to your wretchedness” (p. 422). This intellectual gesture
\nimplies a tenuous hold upon purpose and it seems to be a stage in the same
\nsubterranean process by which becoming one Suttree becomes a rational
\ngoal. It is a product of experience rather than naive faith, since for all the
\natrocity and deformity, alienation, bone-deep physical pain, and violent
\ndeath Suttree witnesses and suffers, his various undejected friends have borne
\nhim care and have embodied for him a heartening, hell-raising stoicism. So
\nthe as yet inchoate one Suttree is fully conscious of the two symbolic acts at
\nthe end, drinking the water and fleeing the hounds. Wrenchingly conflicted
\nas this amazing world of McCarthy’s is, from which logos has been borne
\naway, even an illusory choice, an illusory transcendance gets one through tothe next place in one’s life where something bizarre or exhilarating or
\nmoving?worth surviving for?obscurely waits. In Cormac McCarthy’s
\nnovels, adjusting a notion of the self to an understanding of the nature of the
\nworld is a baffling and precarious enterprise, since it is the essence of that
\nworld, in all the novels, that form and meaning refuse to coincide. Experi
\nence, meanwhile, continues to insinuate questions while supplying no
\nanswers, leaving the articulate and the inarticulate alike fatefully free.
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