In his review of Cormac McCarthy's The Road, Alan Warner is way off beam with his "we can divide the contemporary American novel into two traditions, or two social classes" nonsense. But towards the end of his review, his affirmation of McCarthy's latest -- "it makes the novels of the contemporary Savants seem infantile and horribly over-rated" -- half-convinces me. Moreover, a friend sent me a text telling me it was wonderful, and that doesn't happen that often, so ... perhaps.

But, no! I remain unconvinced. Steven Shaviro seems nearer the money with this:

The prose is polished to a point of minimalist perfection; blinding in its clarity and yet (or, I should say, and therefore) almost devoid of metaphorical or metaphysical resonance. There’s no splendor here; echoes are muffled, even as the sky is a perpetual gray ... I suppose that this extreme closure, this more-than-granite hardness and power, is one definition of the sublime. But for me, it is something that ultimately limits the novel. I read the book with avidity and intense attention; but once I finished, it almost entirely slipped from my mind. I do not brood over it ...

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