Child of God

Few writers share McCarthy’s talent for abusing language to poetic effect. His distorted, crooked, broken syntax allowing for a literary experience which exudes as much cerebral as visceral power. Child of God, McCarthy’s third novel, can perhaps be read as the genesis-point of the author’s recognisable aesthetic: funnelling the pared down prose style of Faulkner, the dark lyricism of Poe and the gritty realism of Steinbeck, into a form which is unshakeably American.

Child of God is the tale of Lester Ballard, perhaps one of the darkest, most disturbed characters in McCarthy’s oeuvre. Ballard is an outsider, a loner, a character who is as much a creature as a man. Lurking in a dark, dank cave, and interacting primarily with the festering corpses with which he adorns underground lair, Lester is a disadjusted individual who, out-casted by his country-men, descends into paedophilia and necrophilia.

Child of God is a novel which perhaps more so than No Country for Old Men, or The Road, or even Blood Meridian, presents itself as a work of aesthetic potency. McCarthy’s use of antique words, which furnish the frame of his narrative, facilitate an unprecedented beauty, a dark, primordial lyricism, which lends Ballard an almost mythical stature. McCarthy creates in Child of God a narrative which stretches the very sinews of language with Shakespearean liberality, and in doing that, offers a haunting insight into the mind of a psychopath.    

...And They Have Escaped The Weight Of Darkness

There is only one phrase I can think of to aptly describe the new album from Ólafur Arnalds. 

And that is, as the soundtrack of a broken heart.

I have been a fan of Ólafur Arnalds almost since his initial arrival on the neo-classical scene in 2007 with his mindblowing debut, Eulogy for Evolution. I remember being astounded that a musician of only twenty years of age could produce something so emotively charged... something so mature. It is only recently that his second complete 'studio album' (for there are other projects of his out there) hit the streets. It does not dissappoint...

It is an album which is difficult to speak of in musical terms, but lends itself to description in terms of light and dark, of weights, maybe even colours, and, of course, emotions. Ólafur's musical task is different to that of many other contemporary classical composers, in that he often fuses indie, electro sounds into his work. Similarly, although his music centres around a solitary and desolate piano, you will find a variety of instruments incorporated such as drums, an agile strings section, and of course synth. Arnalds' has stated that his aim is to mix his classical sound with those contemporary in popular and indie music. This gives him a sound which I would be reticent to compare to that of any other groups, but in some ways seems in keeping with the contemporary musical output of his home country, Iceland, which has been the home of many post-rock-esque, neoclassical groups in the past.

Like his previous albums, ...And They Have Escaped The Weight Of Darkness is a work which is deeply melancholic, one could go as far as depressive. It is the sort of music which is capable of invoking a barrage of emotion which is sometimes hard to categorise and understand. Unlike Eulogy of Evolution, however, where the album spirals into a overwhelming and dizzying climax of emotion, it is clear that this new album is much more balanced. This, of course, can be interpreted as either a good thing or a bad thing depending on taste. The album takes a course which retains a sense of brooding sadness, but listeners will find that where they least expect it a wistful, and struggling light can be found in the music, which breaks through triumphantly causing the music to blossom and revel in its own beauty.

This sense of 'balance' does not just pervade the progress of the work as a whole, but also the individual tracks themselves, which are composed with utmost delicacy and attention to detail. The richness of the music is expressed through its cadences, its crescendos, and the timbre of sounds which resonate through the whole album giving it a cohesiveness which makes each track a single fragment in a much wider musical vision. Although the classical instrumentation of the album is top notch, surprisingly powerful bouts of musical climax are expressed through Olafur's carefully positioned use of drumming and (increasingly economical) use of synth, which really take tracks such as Tunglið and Þau hafa sloppið undan þunga myrkursins to a much higher level of musical complexity, and increase the depth of sound within a genre which is often criticised for its shallowness and minimalism. It is in these instances that the contemporary style that Ólafur aims for is most obvious.

Drowned in Sound have said that the album 'is not a sudden tidal wave of emotion laid on thick, but a glacial melting of mournfulness,' a statement I couldn't agree with more. The melancholy of the album, though intense, seems to wash over the listener and be replaced at times with fleeting glimpses of optimism. But regardless of this, it still remains one of the most melancholy and touching pieces of music I've ever heard. I'm not sure I'd rate it above his debut Eulogy for Evolution but it certainly gives it a run for its money. There are few people out there at the moment with the same vision as Ólafur Arnalds, a vision which works so well. The album is an incredibly rewarding listen, and one of the most emotionally resonant works of art I've had the pleasure of experiencing. It could even be my favourite album so far this year...

The album can be bought at Erased Tapes

Spotify users can listen to his first album, and his musical 'experiment' Found Songs here

And here's a little taster of the new album for all of you.

Darkness Implacable - Cormac McCarthy's 'The Road'

"No lists on things to be done. The day providential to itself. The hour. There is no later. This is later. All things of grace and beauty such that one holds them to one's heart have a common provenance in pain. Their birth in grief and ashes"

After having seen Cormac McCarthy's name bouncing around for the last few years, on numerous lists of 'best 21st century novels', award winning fiction, and perhaps most tellingly lists of 'modern classics', I began to pay attention. Not to mention after hearing about the recent film adaptation of The Road and seeing the adaptation for film of No Country For Old Men in 2008. So, when I came face to face (numerous times) with cheap editions of The Road in charity shops and online, I figured it was meant to be. It was almost as if the book were following me, begging me to read it. (Okay maybe that's bullshit, I just saw it a few times and thought why not?). But all I can say is thank you phantom stalking book. I think I could safely say that The Road has become a new favourite, and is certainly a keeper. One which will remain on my bookshelf for a long time (and which I already have an itching desire to re-read).

As I've come to realise, after reading No Country for Old Men and All The Pretty Horses, The Road marks a departure from McCarthy's usual nouveau-'wild-west' topical field. The Road, then, somewhat uncharacteristically is a dystopian and post-apocalyptic vision of a new America. The novel contains only two main characters, who are referred to as simply 'man' and 'boy'. We follow them on their journey for survival across a barren palimpsestic America, never gaining knowledge of the events whose aftermath cause an annihilation of almost the whole population of America, and for a perpetual snow of ash to rain over the country. As well as simply finding food and clothing remaining from 'old' America, the duo must also face the challenge of avoiding and fighting off other human beings who, in desperation, have resorted to cannibalism. The novel bleakly details the journey of a man and his son along the road. A never-ending road which must be travelled for sustenance and safety.Though do not be mistaken, the bleakness of this journey is not completely overwhelming. Amongst the hopelessness and wretchedness of the post-apocalyptic monochrome America that McCarthy creates, both man and boy show a tenderness towards each other which (astoundingly) defies their awful situation. The massive contrast between outer darkness and inner warmth makes The Road a novel which is capable of creating for itself an air of being in some way 'epic' and a depth of emotional charge which is often surprising considering the minimal character development.

The Road is a novel which could be argued to be much more socially and politically 'contemporary' than McCarthy's other novels, in its capitalisation upon the post 9/11 mindset and the 'era' of terror. Although the fear of mutually assured destruction and the tradition of post-apocalyptic literature reaches back some sixty-five years now, since the first use of the atomic bomb, the arms race that followed, and the Cuban missile crisis in '62. The Road's warning of a barren, empty post-apocalyptic America, as we sit on the brink of a second nuclear era, seems to have become increasingly relevant in the last four years since it was published. As previously stated The Road is somewhat an anomaly in Cormac McCarthy's otherwise testosterone filled tales of life in the deep south. What starts out as a simple tale of two men travelling along a road, gradually blossoms into an emotionally intense and shatteringly beautiful piece of literature.

The text itself is wonderfully crafted in a way which is reminiscent of both Beckett and Coetzee in style and tone (and maybe even content with Beckett). What is striking about McCarthy as an author is the economy with which he utilises his words. It is a text, which in true Coetzee-an style, can at times seem deceptively plain and simple, but is constructed in a way that it expresses a lot more than it can ever be said to let on. Whilst using these frugally concise-yet-complex sentences, McCarthy uses two of Beckett's (arguably) most characteristic literary traits, these being the one word sentence, and his re-arranged syntax, which manipulates the manner and the order in which meaning is released, and constructed. We are confronted with this particular trait in the second sentence of The Road where McCarthy remarks upon the "nights dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than what had gone before". The style works well, for McCarthy’s purpose, and serves to highlight the disorder of the 'new life' deserving of a new modified language, and also increases a feeling of uneasiness and vulnerability in the reader, firstly from reading disjointed thoughts, and secondly for the perilous position of ‘man’ and ‘boy’. McCarthy’s one word sentences complement this occasional awkwardness of syntax by creating this punchy 'that’s all there is' feeling. It would be unfair, though, to deride McCarthy's own creation by apportioning his literary achievement to those who have come before him, and not giving him credit for his own endeavouring individuality of style. (A style which rather strangely results in the omitting of apostrophes and speech marks, which can be confusing). Whilst the novel could be labelled as Beckettian in tone, and Coetzee-an in style, it retains a sense of distinct 'American-ness' in a way which seems to function far beneath the text, but is somehow unplaceable.

Nevertheless what is striking about The Road is the sparseness of anything, be it within the actual events of the novel, or within the speech of the characters, (the majority of speech between the boy and man comes in one word entries), or even in the punctuation of the novel, commas reserved for special occasions. McCarthy favours the dead full stop, creating a sense of emptiness and desolation which can be physically portrayed in the text itself, in contrast to the lengthy comma-less sentences which seem in some way to be physically representative of the never-ending road which the duo must travel. It has been a long time since a novel has been capable of making me feel so many things with seemingly so little effort. There were times when I was scared, tense, and even just plain upset. What McCarthy has created on retrospect in The Road is incredibly impressive, considering the plain, dark and empty style. For something so flat on the surface to create something so emotionally contoured on the inside has surprised me. And it is because of this, and its deliciously dark bouts of description that it is a novel which I am sure to re-read soon. And indeed, one deserving of a hearty 5 stars in my books.

This country will kill you in a heartbeat and still people love it.

My new friend. His name? Cormac McCarthy. I am addicted.

I've only read The Road and No Country For Old Men, but they we're both really very good. Gonna be searching for cheap editions of his novels in the next few weeks. Maybe I'll pick up a new one tomorrow - perhaps Blood Meridian or All The Pretty Horses. His novels are so readable and page-turnery but also good, not shit, no no, good. Really gripping, with punchy speech, and highly plot driven, but also very American. I ended up making pages of quotes and notes on The Road. It is so deliciously dark. Maybe I will bombard you with some of the quotes here, you unsuspecting little things. Hehehe. Okay, here are my favourites. I'll only put two in. Just want to share the love. (I would try and persuade everyone around to how great NCFOM was as well by doing this if it wasn't completely and utterly unquotable- n.b. the title of this post is actually a quote from the book. Maybe I exaggerated the truth a little there. There is one quote of worth. Enjoy it.)

This first quote is the first three sentences of the novel
"When we woke in the woods in the dark and the cold of the night he'd reach out to touch the child sleeping beside him. Nights dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than what had gone before. Like the onset of some cold glaucoma dimming away the world."

Numero Duo!
He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it."

Maybe I’ll write a review of it soon, and then put a shiny hyperlink right here (____here it is____) when it’s done so people can click away. I think I will. Yeah, I’ll do that.

Feel like I haven't posted on here in a long time. Can't say there's any reason for that. Apathy perhaps? Or maybe I've realised I simply have. nothing. to. say. I don't think it's that though. I think in reality I've been too absorbed in reading things to give a second thought to this blog, or its function of keeping me sane over the holidays. I think all the reading has done me good though. It's made me feel relaxed. Maybe too relaxed. In fact I don't think I've read this many books in such a short period of time since my imprisoning holiday in France two years ago, where the only alternative to complete and utter boredom was complete and utter escapism.

In the last week I've read The Road, and No Country For Old Men. Zeitoun by Dave Eggers - a non-fiction book about one man's experience of Hurricane Katrina told in the style of a novel. It was kinda strange reading non-fiction events in that style. But it worked well. I also read All My Friends are Superheroes, by Andrew Kaufman. I think I spoke about it in my last post. It was complete and utter rubbish. Enjoyable enough to get to the end of, but still undeniably rubbish. Too cutesy. I'm currently three chapters away from finishing Watchmen by Alan Moore. Though I have to admit that my interest is waning. Surely it should be peaking about now? Oh well. As one of Time's best 100 novels I thought I'd better check it out. But it's been disappointing so far. I guess I've not finished it yet though, perhaps I shouldn’t judge. Trying to make myself believe that slowness of plot = deeper character development which will then make the climax even more valuable. Ready to read next I have Bret Easton Ellis' new novel Imperial Bedrooms, let's hope it isn't as awful as his last novel Lunar Park. I threw my copy away it was that bad. Blegh. Part of me is beginning to believe that he is past it now. The novel is supposedly a sequel to his first novel Less Than Zero, I just think that by writing this sequel he might end up shitting all over the success that was Less Than Zero, or inviting a negative comparison between the now aging Bret and the early, creative, teenage Bret.

No other news to report. Until I have to resurface, complete escapism will be the order of the day...


Along with pushing John Milton and that fucking shitting ridiculously painful neverending poem, Paradise Lost to the back of my mind for as long as is humanly and hopefully sensibly possible.