It was a long time coming. Mr. McCarthy will surely get a Nobel Prize one day to honor a body of literary output that is very arguably second to none in American letters, past or present.
Here is a snippet from The Road
He loaded the flarepistol and as soon as it was dark they walked out down the beach away from the fire and he asked the boy if he wanted to shoot it.
You shoot it, Papa. You know how to do it.
Okay.
He cocked the gun and aimed it out over the bay and pulled the trigger. The flare arced up into the murk with a long whoosh and broke somewhere out over the water in a clouded light and hung there. The hot tendrils of magnesium drifted slowly down the dark and the pale foreshore tide started in the glare and slowly faded. He looked down at the boy's upturned face.
They couldn't see it very far, could they, Papa?
Who?
Anybody.
No. Not far.
If you wanted to show where you were.
You mean like to the good guys?
Yes. Or anybody that you wanted them to know where you were.
Like who?
I don't know.
Like God?
Yeah. Maybe somebody like that.
None are too busy to squeeze in a little time to read this novel, which is a fast-paced read. Once committing to the undertaking, Harrogate promises, ye won't easily recover from it.
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