See the child. He is pale and thin, he wears a thin and ragged linen shirt. He stokes the scullery fire. Outside lie dark turned fields with rags of snow and darker woods beyond that harbor yet a few last wolves. His folk are known for hewers of wood and drawers of water but in truth his father has been a schoolmaster. He lies in drink, he quotes from poets whose names are now lost. The boy crouches by the fire and watches him.
- Cormac McCarthy, in Blood Meridian, Or the Evening Redness in the West.
I find this book both fascinating and boring. Too much of it reminds me of the long interminable travelogues of The Crossing, which I couldn't even finish. Other parts are riveting action passages, and the character of the Judge fascinates me. His writing alternates between a just-the-facts-ma'am Hemingway prose with bouts of almost biblical descriptions - I'll post one of those some day. Regardless, there's not a hint of humor anywhere in the book. I'm about one-third in and have yet to decide if I like it or not.