Cormac McCarthy's The Road has been a poignant, painful journey to say the least. As an avid reader often inclined to get too involved inside a story, I have a tendency to fall headlong into the book as I were as much a part of the story as any character. Every time I open the book, I am the man or the boy. I suffer along with them, despair in the ruined world, hopeless.
An infant impaled on a stick, roasting over a fire. A scene I had never expected. Words with an effect on me that no other words have ever had. I didn't want to read on. I wanted to close the book and never read the horrible words again. I wanted to cry. (Perhaps too dramatic-sounding, this is all unfortunately 100% true).
From this I derive my final feelings of the novel. I see the literary worth. The writing is impeccable, moving, poignant, effective, and beautiful. The story is haunting, painful, incredible. It is the story of human nature when there is nothing else. The stripped down version of human vices and virtues. The core of all of us. I see the literary worth.
But this is not to say I have enjoyed reading this novel. At no point have I experienced enjoyment or pleasure. I'd like to think there is always some kind of hope, some kind of notion, something that can foster happiness, something to live for. McCarthy's story is crushing.
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