So I’m finally reading Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.
I’ve been meaning to read the book for a few years but have resisted largely because of its grim plot. Typically, I have no interest in books built around violence and destruction.
And yet this book is different. For those of you who haven’t read it (and I hope you do), I won’t give away the apocalyptic story line. For me, I’m moved on a few levels. The writing is sparse and powerful. “There were times when he sat watching the boy sleep that he would begin to sob uncontrollably but it wasn’t about death. He wasn’t sure what it was about but he thought it was about beauty or about goodness.”
Beyond the pitch perfect writing, the story is so raw and primal that it has deeply unnerved me. I’m dreaming in vivid colors – black rage, red fear, purple anxiety. Last night I dreamt that I got arrested for stepping off the curb with the wrong foot. The previous night I had lost my way and was running, en route to my children, who were lost and waiting for me. My first husband was in the dream and also my stepson. I can’t quite make it all out but I woke to my own cry of “No.” Steve jumped.
For someone who usually can’t remember any aspect of her dreams, I find all of this fascinating.
I suppose I really shouldn’t read dark subjects before bed. Yet what lingers for me is that light and hope persist in the darkest of times. That is what moves me deepest.
Because I know, and I understand.