34 of 52 in my 2011 book blogging challenge.
I don’t know why I’m just now getting around to reading The Road. I’ve had a copy of it sitting on my shelf for several years. I knew it would be wonderful. I knew it would be terribly and beautifully memorable. I also expected it to be nearly unbearably intense. I thought it would be the kind of book I’d read a little at the time, savoring the language in digestible portions over days or weeks.
I picked it up yesterday morning intending to read the first chapter, and I had finished it before I went to bed last night. I couldn’t put it down.
This is the kind of language to savor. It’s lyrical and haunting, lovely in every way. Considering that we’re talking about an apocalyptic novel in which a father and son travel on foot across a desolate in which there is no more sunshine and no more food beyond what can be scavenged from the homes of dead people, you might expect that kind of beautiful language to make for difficult reading. It doesn’t. The Road is exceptionally readable while still being exceptionally profound.
This is a story about hope where there is no hope. It’s a story about a father’s love for his son. It’s a story about what it takes to survive even just a little while longer when you know that life itself will not survive much longer in world in which the sun is blocked by layers of ash. It’s a story about what relationships become when two people are the only two people in their world. It’s a story about where compassion comes from when everything and everyone is dying.
This book is wise and tender. I’m in awe of it. That’s all. I’m in awe.
