>Hack away you mean red nigger, he said, and the old man raised the axe and split the head of John Joel Glanton to the thrapple.
If you are alluding to McCarthy’s worst novels, then, indeed, I dislike intensely The Road and the ghastly Blood Meridian rigamarole. No, I do not object to soul-searching and self-revelation, but in those books the soul, and the sins, and the sentimentality, and the journalese, hardly warrant the tedious and muddled search. McCarthy’s lack of taste, his monotonous dealings with persons suffering with pre-Pavlovian complexes, the way he has of wallowing in the tragic misadventures of human dignity – all this is difficult to admire. I do not like this trick his characters have of ”killing their way to money” or, as an American author, Thomas Pynchon, put it more bluntly, ”spilling blood all over the place." Blood Meridian’s plot did not seem as incredibly banal in 1985 when the book was written as it does now when amoral judges are apt to be received a little cynically by experienced readers. McCarthy never really got over the influence which the North American western novel and the sentimental novel made upon him. The sentimental influence implied that kind of conflict he liked—placing amoral people in pathetic situations and then extracting from these situations the last ounce of pathos. Non-American readers do not realize two things: that not all Americans love McCarthy as much as Russians do, and that most of those Americans who do, venerate him as a mystic and not as an artist. He was a prophet, a claptrap journalist and a slapdash comedian. I admit that some of his scenes, some of his tremendous farcical rows are extraordinarily amusing. But his sensitive murderers and soulful prostitutes are not to be endured for one moment—by this reader anyway. McCarthy seems to have been chosen by the destiny of American letters to become America’s greatest playwright, but he took the wrong turning and wrote novels.
the true story, "my confession" mogs>Scotty joined in a four-handed game of Poker, and I sauntered from table to table, watching with interest. Oaths and cigar smoke filled the air, knives were drawn but no blood was spilt as friends would interfere before the disputants came to blows. At one smalltable sat two men playing Eukre for the drinks. One, who was quietly playing his hand in a mild timid way utterly at variance with his hardened desperate appearance, was short and thick set, his face bronzed by exposure to the hue of an Indian, with eyesdeeply sunken and bloodshot, and coarse black hair hanging in snake like locks down his back. His costume was that of a Mexican herdman, made of leather, with a Mexican blanket thrown over his shoulder. His opponent was a tall reckless, good looking young Ranger, dressed in a red shirt and buckskin leggings. A dispute arose, the short ruffian threw a glass of liquor in the tall one’s face, who sprang to his feet, drew his revolver, and placing the muzzle against the breast of the thrower, swore with fearful oaths “that if he did not apologize he would blow a hole through him a Rabbit could jump through!”>The threatened man did not move from his seat, but replied, “Shoot and be d — d, but if you miss, John Glanton won’t miss you!” When he mentioned his name, a look of fear passed over the Ranger’s face; he pulled the trigger, but only the cap exploded! Quick as a flash Glanton sprang up, a huge Bowie knife flashed in the candlelight, and the tall powerful young Ranger fell with a sickening thud to the floor a corpse, his neck cut half through. Glanton jumped over the table and placing one foot on his victim said,>“Strangers! Do you wish to take up this fight? If so step out, if not we’ll drink.” As no one seemed disposed to accept the challenge, all hands went with him to the Bar and touched glasses with him. The warm body was carried out, sawdust was sprinkled over the bloodstained floor, Glanton carefully wiped his knife on the leather sleeve of his jacket, and matters in the Bexar Exchange resumed their usual course.
>>25311033Magnificent
>There’s a game for ye, said Toadvine. Play monte in the dark with a pack of niggers
>>25311033>rigamaroleThere ya go again, on your own
