0
The bad
Posted by HuiHui
on
9:21 PM
Between the abstract descriptions and suffocating amount of big words, I can only deduce that the whole book is about a dreary journey of an identity-less father and his nameless son. They walk, starve, hide, walk, starve, hide and drop dead. The writing style is so unconventional that it's almost as painful as reading a classic literature. With each page turned; more questions gathered. Why? When? How? What? Where? You will be in for a huge disappointment if you are waiting for the climax to disperse all the dark clouds that had since gathered in your head.
The disturbing…
pg73
Then he went back. There was nothing there. Dried blood dark in the leaves. The boy’s knapsack was gone. Coming back he found the bones and the skin piled together with rocks over them. A pool of guts. He pushed at the bones with the toe of his shoes. They looked to have been boiled. No pieces of clothing. Dark was coming on again and it was already very cold and he turned and went out to where he’d left the boy and knelt and put his arms around him and held him.
The guessing…
pg 91
The dog that he remembers followed us for two days. I tried to coax it to come but it would not. I made a noose of wire to catch it. There were three cartridges in the pistol. None to spare. She walked away down the road. The boy looked after her and then he looked at me and then he looked at the dog and he began to cry and to beg for the dogs life and I promised I would not hurt the dog. A trellis of a dog with the hide stretched over it. The next day it was gone. That is the dog he remembers. He doesn’t remember any little boys.
The bombastic language…
pg 307 (final page, final paragraph)
Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming… maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
The disturbing…
pg73
Then he went back. There was nothing there. Dried blood dark in the leaves. The boy’s knapsack was gone. Coming back he found the bones and the skin piled together with rocks over them. A pool of guts. He pushed at the bones with the toe of his shoes. They looked to have been boiled. No pieces of clothing. Dark was coming on again and it was already very cold and he turned and went out to where he’d left the boy and knelt and put his arms around him and held him.
The guessing…
pg 91
The dog that he remembers followed us for two days. I tried to coax it to come but it would not. I made a noose of wire to catch it. There were three cartridges in the pistol. None to spare. She walked away down the road. The boy looked after her and then he looked at me and then he looked at the dog and he began to cry and to beg for the dogs life and I promised I would not hurt the dog. A trellis of a dog with the hide stretched over it. The next day it was gone. That is the dog he remembers. He doesn’t remember any little boys.
The bombastic language…
pg 307 (final page, final paragraph)
Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming… maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
