Amazon Link: The Road
The Road is a literary masterpiece, winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 2007. The back cover (inside and out) is littered with praise from reviewers the world over. More adulation is printed on the inside face, and on the first three leaves of the novel.
But... evidently, I am an uncouth illiterate who just doesn’t appreciate quality literature.
It’s a good read, but I don’t agree with all the hype. The writing is masterful, yes. The imagery challenging and hurtful, yes; and the story maudlin – but it didn’t eat at my heart; it didn’t corrode my senses; it didn’t make me weep as I thought it would.
Technically, the author’s exclusion of quotation marks for dialogue took some getting used to. In several places I had to re-read to judge who was speaking, boy or man. That annoyed me. I don’t like being annoyed when I read. I expect grammatical conformation, so that I may lose myself within the words, not be forced to fuss about the edges trying to figure out what the author meant.
The story seems… starved, somehow, bereft of meaning, of progression. From the first page to the last, the characters stayed the same: the man dying, the boy grieving. Then, at the end, when the father dies, another man comes along to miraculously save the child. Through the novel, every person they had met had meant, or caused them harm, yet here appears a saviour on the horizon before the father is even truly cold. Maybe I’m thick and this had some spiritual significance, but to me it seemed contrived.
I can appreciate that the author broke away from convention to craft this novel, and he is to be applauded for that, but as a moving piece of literature, a testament to the peril of our times, a measure of humanity… it didn’t work for me.
Rating: *** (out of *****)
But... evidently, I am an uncouth illiterate who just doesn’t appreciate quality literature.
It’s a good read, but I don’t agree with all the hype. The writing is masterful, yes. The imagery challenging and hurtful, yes; and the story maudlin – but it didn’t eat at my heart; it didn’t corrode my senses; it didn’t make me weep as I thought it would.
Technically, the author’s exclusion of quotation marks for dialogue took some getting used to. In several places I had to re-read to judge who was speaking, boy or man. That annoyed me. I don’t like being annoyed when I read. I expect grammatical conformation, so that I may lose myself within the words, not be forced to fuss about the edges trying to figure out what the author meant.
The story seems… starved, somehow, bereft of meaning, of progression. From the first page to the last, the characters stayed the same: the man dying, the boy grieving. Then, at the end, when the father dies, another man comes along to miraculously save the child. Through the novel, every person they had met had meant, or caused them harm, yet here appears a saviour on the horizon before the father is even truly cold. Maybe I’m thick and this had some spiritual significance, but to me it seemed contrived.
I can appreciate that the author broke away from convention to craft this novel, and he is to be applauded for that, but as a moving piece of literature, a testament to the peril of our times, a measure of humanity… it didn’t work for me.
Rating: *** (out of *****)
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1 comment:
Hee. Funny how a book can be so acclaimed yet be less than top-notch, eh? Sorta like that Harry Pothead guy. *wink*
I think you gave me one of Cormac's books, but I'll admit it's not high on my list of priorities. Especially not now. If a story isn't fast moving then it has to make me think or feel something, and I'm afraid I might get confused in all of Cormac's rule-breaking, literary drama. *shrug*
Thanks,
me
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