Bleak and Beckoning

McCarthy8217;s novel about a journey in post-apocalyptic times is strangely comforting

In cormac mccarthy8217;s new book, a man and his son are making a desperate trek, tattered maps in hand, for America8217;s southern coast. Apocalypse has passed and they must now forage their way through an ashen landscape to get to warmer lands before coldest winter sets in. On themselves they carry what minimum they need 8212; and can secure 8212; for bare survival, and sometimes not even that much. They must, in addition, arm themselves to be able to get past any marauding stragglers of survivors.

Initially, The Road brings to mind Margaret Atwood8217;s 2003 dystopian novel Oryx and Crake, with its fearful depiction of life in the aftermath of uncontrolled genetic manipulation. But for her it was, as with The Handmaid8217;s Tale, an inquiry into the depths humanity can touch when current problems are taken to their absolute extreme. McCarthy inverts that inquiry.

He begins against the backdrop of an unexplained catastrophe 8212; though of course, with the ashen vistas, it appears from the very start to be a nuclear disaster 8212; and simply tracks a man trying from the very beginning to keep his son8217;s life and his own secure and as decent as is possible in the circumstances.

What, alas, is it to be decent in such fraught circumstances? The father, unnamed throughout, has no idea what will be found at the journey8217;s end, if in fact it can even be assumed that there is a point in place or time that can be termed their destination. All he must do is keep his arms on the ready, be on the lookout for supplies, and keep his son human. That last endeavour is at the crux of the The Road. And the father must improvise the rules of decency, he must find a new balance between pragmatism and ethical explanation.

8220;Papa,8221; says the little boy, 8220;I8217;m afraid for that little boy8230; We should go get him, Papa. We could get him and take him with us. We could take him and we could take the dog. The dog could catch something to eat.8221; 8220;We cant.8221; 8220;And I8217;d give that little boy half my food.8221; 8220;Stop it. We cant.8221;

McCarthy8217;s writing is as bleak as the landscape, and as can be gauged from the excerpt above, even punctuation becomes a tool to mark character evolution. Even as the father keeps moving, shepherding his son away from acts of generosity that could add to their burdens and deplete their supplies, he keeps the child8217;s faith in 8220;good guys8221;. Much later, the child will ask strangers trying to help him if they are 8220;good guys8221;. And just an affirmative reply will win his trust.

The Road in effect ends a wonderful year for American fiction. McCarthy, whose novels have already marked him as one of the best contemporary novelists, has so far tended to describe violence unflinchingly. In this book he reorients his fiction and now lets the violence recede into the unspoken but understood background in order to find a way defining humanity 8212; and humanness 8212; at its most basic. Just as a marker, a year ago, Paul Auster too reoriented his fiction ever so subtly but engagingly. Both, ever so brilliantly, have kept alive the American tradition of big theme books.

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Read The Road. It catches Cormac McCarthy at his best so far.