The road, the man, and life

Some belated thoughts on the road:

I listened to this while on the road from Vegas to SLC. It was a dreary day, and the landscape through Nevada is very post-apocalyptic. Then the whole family got sick. I had a temporarily deep voice, and found myself talking like the narrator's voice for the man.

It made me think how even in the face of death (you ARE dying), we strive to live. Why? I don't think it's the fear of death—I'm not really scared of death, but I do want to live. Mostly because I enjoy life. I don't know if I would have this same desire if life weren't enjoyable. Because I really believe the next life is a continuation of this, often I find myself thinking, "oh, it would be okay if I died." I'm sure I would feel differently if I were the only source of protection for my children. It seemed the man had a stronger desire to live. It sure wasn't for himself, it was definitely to take care of the boy.

But the movie looks too scary for me.

The Road less traveled (thank goodness)

I listened to this from start to finish on Saturday. It was a bit intense and fairly disturbing. Long ago I read The Running Man, by Stephen King writing as Richard Bachman. The Road brought back memories of Running Man, probably because of the sense of hopelessness that the author creates around his character. I was glad that this book had a happier ending than Running Man.

Thoughts, in no particular order:

• The thought that went through my head as I read about the bomb shelter with the food storage and other emergency supplies was, "I wonder if they were Mormon?" I look back and laugh that I actually thought that.
  
• When the father and son visited the childhood home of the father, the father mentions a Christmas passed. I expected the son to ask, "What's Christmas?" but he doesn't. Did that surprise anyone else? I can't envision them having had celebrated a post-apocalyptic Christmas.
• Speaking of religion, the topic comes up a few times in the book, especially towards the end. The man seems to have had some religious upbringing, but it didn't seem like he had passed on much in the way of doctrine to the boy, though his son certainly had a solid moral compass.
• Like Alvin, I pictured the boy being about 8 years old. I'm not sure how long it look them to get to the coast, but the boy seemed to mature during the coarse (intentionally misspelled) of their journey. He started getting uncomfortable with his did staring at him. He would be irritable or uncommunicative at times. To me this indicates either maturity accellerated by scenes and experiences that children shouldn't have to endure, or the approach of adolescence (10-12). This role has to potential to launch the career of the next Haley Joel Osmet. I just did an imdb search on the movie; I hadn't heard of Kodi Smit-McPhee, but I'm guessing Hollywood will see more of him int he future.
• The saddest/scariest part of the book for me was when the dad was trying to explain when/how to commit suicide. That should NOT be part of a father to son talk.
  

"The Road"

Finishing that book was like waking up from a bad dream. I'm not saying the book was bad, but quite the opposite. The writing style was very different than anything I've read before, even the lack of apostrophes and chapters. For whatever reason it sucked me in as if I was "the man" and I saw my own son was "the boy". Maybe that is way McCarthy left them unnamed; so that we could more easily see ourselves in their place.

Back in my high school wrestling days, I would often go three days without food and very little water to "make weight". During those days I remember my mind and body going into a catatonic state. I went through the motions of life, but I felt I had no life in me. I remember one winter night after practice sitting on our living room coach wrapped up in blankets zoned out in front of the TV. I was so cold, with no fat or calories to burn and dry cotton-mouth was my every day reality. That night a Sprite commercial came on and I watched as the cool refreshing beverage was poured over that delicious crystal ice. I was just about ready to give up everything in life just to have a sip of that. Anyway...this book brought me back into those same feelings.

I read the entire book in one sitting working my uneventful flooring customer service part-time job at RC Willey. I was compelled to eat my dinner early while reading because I couldn't bear to "go without" again. Maybe that's why I'm getting more and more on the hefty side. I just have a hard time going into that mental state of being without food and water, especially without a spiritual purpose to support me through it.

I enjoyed the father and son relationship shown in this book. I loved the goodness of the boy shown in his tenderness with with the man who called himself "Ely" and for the mercy he showed toward the thief at the beach. I sensed the boy's frustration with his father's apparent hypocrisy. The father told stories of good deeds, but when it came down to it, the man was more concerned with protecting his son's life than extending the kindnesses he preached.

The harsh possibilities of human nature are portrayed in horrific imagery...the suicide of the man's wife rather than face the futile struggle to live in such a world...the pregnant woman seen and then shortly after the headless baby cooking over the fire...the imprisoned people in the basement being cannibalized one body part at a time.

What it comes down to is the basic good versus evil. How would I be in this same situation? I would I carry the fire of goodness and hope or would I devour my fellow human beings and long for death.

At a Rest Stop On the Road

[Sorry about the accidental post of nothing, don't know what happened.]

I started listening to this book on a drive to NC. It was early evening when I started out, and as we drove it got darker and darker, while the book got creepier and creepier. When we eventually stopped at a rest stop, I had a conversation go on inside my head that was very similar to the one that takes place between the boy and his dad several times in the book.

Boy Me: [Looking at the Dirty, Dark Restroom feeling creeped out.] "I don't want to go in there."

Dad Me: "It'll be OK. We'll just go in really fast and be right back out."

Boy Me: "I don't really need to use the bathroom. I'm fine."

Dad Me: "We have to go in there."

Boy Me: "I really don't want to go in there."

Dad Me: [Grabbing imaginary pistol] "We have no choice. Let's go."

Note: I only listened to the book, and based on some comments I read online, I may have used a bit too much punctuation. Sorry.

Listening to this book, I had no problem staying awake on the 6 hour drive, even though I was rather tired when we started. This was especially surprising because there were times when I felt the book was repetitive (starving, scary people, find food, starving, scary people, find food, etc.), and I just wanted them to get to the beach already.

The author was very effective in conveying a specific feeling, that of the darkness and the weight of a sometimes hopeless struggle. It's not necessarily a feeling that I want to feel often, but any time an author can not only make you think or keep you entertained but can make you feel something, I think that takes great skill. Plus, when you've really felt the darkness, then when the character get something of a respite (checkers and a hot bath) the relief and joy you feel is magnified. Relative to their (your) previous experience, simple pleasures become immensely satisfying.

I thought the author's choice to not explain what happened to cause the apocalypse was simultaneously artisitic genius and a cop-out. It's genius because it's not really relevant to the story, and any discussion of it would be unnecessary and distracting. Still, I kept thinking about possible scenarios and what was reasonable for the father and son to find and what wasn't. I'm not sure any explanation would have completely satisfied me. Thus, it was a cop-out because it was the easy way out, but it was genius because it was the only way out.

Still, does anyone have a good explanation why the father would never use his son's name? I suppose this makes it, so it could be any father and any son. Perhaps, it also adds to the bleakness of the situation. But really, what father never calls their child by name?

To Peter's points:

Provider vs. Protector: I agree that the hunger scenes were much more anxiety-ridden than the ones where they were attacked or threatened, but I think that says more the nature of the problem than about me. A physical attack gives you a rush of adrenaline, and your brain shifts into attack/defense mode. It can be almost an out of body experience. Very quick. Starvation, much like excessive debt, etc., is something that lingers and hovers over all of your other experiences. It weighs down on you, especially when you're not thinking of just yourself (ie fasting) but when you have to provide. (Or at least that's how the author effectively made me feel since I've never really experienced it myself.)

Skills: I don't have any skills that will be useful in the apocalypse, neither to face reality steely-eyed or to fix things, etc. ...unless someone else can think of an apocalyptic scenario in which UNO playing skills come in handy.

Father's Tragic Flaw: I really liked this insight, Peter. I didn't catch it when I read it, but I think you're right on. I think my 4 year old is about 6 months away from realizing how I'm a flawed mortal. (I think my final guess for the kid's age in the story was about 8.)

In the end, I wouldn't put this book on my favorites list, and I wouldn't recommend it to most audiences. That being said, it was a powerful and memorable book.

On the Road Again...

A few observations and a few questions:

I was most struck by McCarthy's color imagery. The only time color shows up, that I can recall, is in the scenes discussing fish at the very beginning and very end. Other than that, everything is black or gray. It's a device that I normally would find quite tedious, but McCarthy was able to do it without losing me. It gave the book a bleakness that was searing.

I wonder whether any of you identified more with the son than the father. Of course, it's probably easier to identify with the father, as the story is told from his perspective, and since that's the place most of us find ourselves in currently. On the second read I felt much less anxiety-ridden; I was practically a basket case my first time, most particularly during the scenes when they were running low on food. The more visceral scenes, like when they were running from bad guys, I didn't feel threatened; maybe that's because I see my role in my family as provider as more important (or perhaps more tenuous) than my role as protector.

One thing that kept coming back to me was from John Barleycorn. A criticism London made of milque-toast men who don't rage in behalf of lost causes. And here is McCarthy's hero, doggedly continuing in the face of utter hopelessness. Perhaps he doesn't mean for me to generalize about what it means to be a man, but between Barleycorn and the scene in The Road where his wife gives up, I'm struck by the concept that Real Men aren't Quitters. I was also reminded of "On The Beach," the film by Stanley Kramer of the onset of nuclear winter. The premise is a nuclear cloud is engulfing the earth, leaving none alive in its wake. The last place it covers is Australia. There's a brief time when the populace knows the cloud is coming and prepares for the inevitable. In the movie, Anothony Perkins plays a young father who must make the decision between a suicide pill for him, his wife and their young son, or the certainty of radiation sickness. In the movie, IIRC, it was the man who pushed the pill and the woman who refused. In this case, the manly virtue was being able to face reality steely-eyed. Obviously these two virtues (and I can believe both are virtues) are in tension. Personally, I don't feel I've sufficiently cultivated either of them to be of much use in an extreme situation.

One other thought was my admiration at the ability of the father to do simple things. Simple things that I wouldn't have known how to approach, like how to disassemble a propane stove, fix a wobbly shopping cart wheel, etc. Wilderness survival particularly adapted to the horrific wilderness in which he found himself. I guess it made me a little guilty of my inabilities; the softness of the modern man. It also reminded me a little of David O. McKay as an 85 year old man, standing out in the sun all day, pushing on a horse. There's a sense that's being lost in me at least, of how to work and live in a non-mechanized, non-computerized environment. Maybe that's necessary, but it's a loss nonetheless.

Last thought; the confrontation on the beach, with the man who had attempted to steal all their stuff. It's heart-breaking for me. The father exacts retribution, and as a result loses a measure of the respect (although not the love) that the son bore for him. His son was obviously overwhelmingly concerned with morality, and the question of whether they were good or bad. The father always made the "good" decision, until then. It was a moment, I guess, when the son saw the father as a flawed mortal, rather than the hero-god. Psychologically, I suppose that's an integral last step in growing up, which may be why McCarthy ended the novel so soon after. The son had learned all he needed to learn, and was ready for his apprenticeship. And needed to leave his father behind. But I still cried when the father died. Even on my second reading.