/lit/ - Literature

>>21486587
I can't believe he wrote this shit lmao it's /lit/ shitpost tier.

>>21486587
That's what you get for fawning over a living American author. America hasn't had a culture conducive to good literature in like 50 years. I never see this shit in contemporary Asian lit or Latin American. Cesar Aira and Eka Kurniawan are still writing works that anyone from decades ago would recognize the value of.
McCarthy literally had his work made into a big budget Hollywood film, you're a pseud if you ever found him to be good.

>>21487082
You are retarded.

>>21486587
This does kinda read like a shitpost, albeit a very well written one

>>21486587
Is all of his writing “intentionally” written as the stream of consciousness of a mentally impaired person?

>>21486587
Fucking
L M A O
M
A
O
holy shit
hahahahaha
what's the title of the book, no country for trans men?

>>21486587
I don't care about the tranny stuff.
The real problem is that all the excerpts from this novel are atrocious wtf.

Guess I was right about McCarthy. I only started reading The Road and thought the way it was written was cringe and gay. I could tell right away that the man who wrote this was not gonna put anything worthwhile in my brain if I continued to give him time of my day.

>>21486587
You're all laughing but it's well-written. The cringe doesn't come from incompetence. It comes from CM buying into the whole trans thing and calling the guy "her" and so on.

>>21487215
>It's well-written
Is it though?

>>21487133
He doesn't do stream of consciousness, except sometimes in monologues.

>>21487227
What's bad?

>>21487100
He's right.

>>21487177
Late one evening he saw before him on the beach a small figure cloaked against the cold. He quickened his step but it was only an old woman walking the beach. Scarcely four feet tall. He passed her and wished her a good evening and then he stopped and asked if she was all right and she said that she was. She said that she was going to visit her daughter and he nodded and went on. He knew that he still hoped for that small and half forgotten figure to fall in beside him. Leaning into the salt wind with his hands in his pockets and his clothes flapping. He’d seen him one final time in a dream. God’s own mudlark trudging cloaked and muttering the barren selvage of some nameless desolation where the cold sidereal sea breaks and seethes and the storms howl in from out of that black and heaving alcahest. Trudging the shingles of the universe, his thin shoulders turned to the stellar winds and the suck of alien moons dark as stones. A lonely shoreloper hurrying against the night, small and friendless and brave.

He climbed into the loft and sat at the tower window wrapped in his blanket. Spits of rain on the sill. Summer lightning far out to sea. Like the flare of distant fieldpieces. The patter on the tarp he’d stretched over his bed. He turned up the wick of the lamp at his elbow and took the notebook from its box and opened it. Then he stopped. He sat for a long time. In the end, she had said, there will be nothing that cannot be simulated. And this will be the final abridgment of privilege. This is the world to come. Not some other. The only alternate is the surprise in those antic shapes burned into the concrete.

The ages of men stretching grave to grave. An accounting on a slate. Blood, darkness. The washing of dead children on a board. The stone laminations of the world with their fossil prints unreckonable in form and number. My father’s latterday petroglyphs and the people upon the road naked and howling.
The storm passed and the dark sea lay cold and heavy. In the cool metallic waters the hammered shapes of great fishes. The reflection in the swells of a molten bolide trundling across the firmament like a burning train.

He bent over his grammar in the light of the oil lamp. The straw roof hissing in the bellshaped dark above him and his shadow on the roughtroweled wall. Like those scholars of old in their cold stone rooms toiling at their scrolls. The lenses of their lamps that were made of tortoiseshell boiled and scraped and formed in a press and the fortuitous geographies they cast upon the tower walls of lands unknown alike to men or to their gods.

Finally he leaned and cupped his hand to the glass chimney and blew out the lamp and lay back in the dark. He knew that on the day of his death he would see her face and he could hope to carry that beauty into the darkness with him, the last pagan on earth, singing softly upon his pallet in an unknown tongue.

>>21487464
You are also retarded.

>>21487474
>He’d seen him one final time in a dream.
Who did he see? John or the Kid?

>>21487444
All of it

>>21487477
But they both are right

>>21486587
Cormac McCarthy is still fucking alive?

I'm gonna stop reading blood meridian over this. I can't believe this. This is outrageous.

>>21486587
That poor mother, but I'm not interested in a book from a tranny's point of view.

>>21487215
No; the writing is decent at best.

>>21487142
>no country for trans men?
LMAO

jesus christ

>>21486587
big ooooof

>>21487999
Shit taste is a chronic issue.

>>21488762
You're retarded.

>>21486587
Seethe and dilate, also picrel

genuinely sad to see great novelists stoop to the level of being topical and incorporating state-endorsed social values in their works

I'm 60 pages in, does the dialogue ever fucking stop? Either he's lost it or he really wants the book to adapted into a movie, maybe both.

>>21487082
>>21487464
>>21488762
Samefag.

>>21486587
>NNNNNOOOOOOO YOU CANT WRITE ABOUT THAT
chuds didn’t mald as bad when we had this thread last time
I wonder what changed

>>21486587
Cormac perfectly captures the psychopathic hollowness of the tranny. >muh materialism
>hee hee, my mom is concerned, her baby boy is shattered and reassembled as a freak, i want to eat something
this is no sob story, this is a frank portrayal of the odious.

seriously, is this not a villain he depicts? a cold and vapid monstrosity whose mind flits along islands of hedonism and mundanity, that's what i read. a weeping mother rendered ridiculous, exposed and meek, still pierced with love for a freak of a child who would rather play pranks than confer with their own immortal soul.

>>21487215
I wouldn't call it well-written.

Daily reminder there is a tranny in War and Peace and Tolstoy uses the male pronoun for him

>>21491800
How's it bad?

Judge Holden is a trans icon. Cormac will never really replace her with whoever this is.

>>21486587
Isn't the point of a contemporary writer to write about the current or recent situation? Americans are currently obsessed with trannies

>>21486587
That's very obviously not by McCarthy.

>>21491849
In this one >>21487474 it is immensely purple without giving any proper imagery. Like literally almost nothing concrete. What color is the loft? The water? How much daylight is left in "late evening", if any? Obviously, tastes vary, but compare this to Nabokov where you have a vivid image of the light levels and the colors of everything in the scene plus a good sense of geography or topography. In >>21486587 the short snippy sentences are annoying because it's just mccarthy over and over again saying "my character is thinking things as they happen, aren't they pithy and droll?". I can't remember who else uses this style but it's grating and wears thin very quickly as the author keeps going "look at how detached my character is, having all these thoughts in these short staccato bursts! this is real people!".

>>21492039
>What color is the loft? The water? How much daylight is left in "late evening", if any?
Are you fucking stupid? This is not criticism, this is whining. This is the end of the book, why would he waste words to get those marginal things in there? It would unironically kill any sense of longing in the ending by writing out the hierarchy by recording the color of water and sunset. This is no objective metric by which it can be called badly written. What is the shape of the roof of Kinbote's house where he is locked up and writing? What does Hazel's face look like? What was Shade wearing when he died? Nabokov had 300 pages yet he never sketched them, therefore he was an amateur writer!
>look at how detached my character is, having all these thoughts in these short staccato bursts! this is real people!
This is not thought. It is dialogue. The character is in an emotional heavy moment as she speaks. The snippy sentences represent the spontaneous speech. This depends entirely on whether you have had enough interaction with people to know how they behave in such situations. So no comments. Your dislike wouldn't make it bad writing.

>>21486587
Why is the writing reminiscent of what a middle schooler would write for one of their classes? Is this the standard for professional American authors?

>>21492039
>it is immensely purple without giving any proper imagery. Like literally almost nothing concrete.
Are you illiterate?
>He bent over his grammar in the light of the oil lamp. The straw roof hissing in the bellshaped dark above him and his shadow on the roughtroweled wall. Like those scholars of old in their cold stone rooms toiling at their scrolls. The lenses of their lamps that were made of tortoiseshell boiled and scraped and formed in a press and the fortuitous geographies they cast upon the tower walls of lands unknown alike to men or to their gods
You can always be petty and say there is not enough imagery here, but the point stands. Besides, who said all ornate prose has to be imagistic? That's stupid as hell. It is also obvious that these passages aren't put in the book to describe the landscape, they are here to provide a sense of closure to the book.
>The ages of men stretching grave to grave. An accounting on a slate. Blood, darkness. The washing of dead children on a board. The stone laminations of the world with their fossil prints unreckonable in form and number. My father’s latterday petroglyphs and the people upon the road naked and howling.

Moreover
>compare this to Nabokov where you have a vivid image of the light levels and the colors of everything in the scene plus a good sense of geography or topography.
Blood meridian mogs Nabokov at his own game then. But this is not BM and even its detractors would agree that BM is not the only way to write prose.

>>21492201
Trannies talk like this when they are sentimental.

I'm >>21491900 and just checked that it actually is by McCarthy.
Having read only Blood Meridian eight years ago, I must say I could not recognise the author.
It's good that he managed to change style at an older age, but sometimes it's better to just repeat yourself.

>>21492161
Stupid frogposter.

>>21492274
Stupid frogposter poster.

>>21487082
>America hasn't had a culture conducive to good
Just stop there lol

>>21490415
Board entropy

>>21487133
It's dialogue. Transperson is talking to main character.

>>21492039
>because it's just mccarthy over and over again saying "my character is thinking things as they happen, aren't they pithy and droll?". I can't remember who else uses this style but it's grating and wears thin very quickly as the author keeps going "look at how detached my character is, having all these thoughts in these short staccato bursts! this is real people!".
it's dialogue

>>21488781
He's like 90 years old now.

>>21487082
Indog retard, kys.