My review of Cormac McCarthy's "The Road"

Interlude: Fraud of the Month Club

Cormac McCarthy is like a girl with AIDS - I will never give him a second glance again. I won't touch him with a ten foot pole. I'm open to everything, from James Joyce to Stephen King. Very rarely does a writer make me foam at the mouth. Cormac McCarthy is an exception.

I don't care how many people in my writers group say: "Forget about The Road! Read Blood Meridian! You'll love it!" I won't listen. While reading The Road I learned that Cormac McCarthy lacks what is most important to a writer: Integrity.

Even the title, The Road, is hackneyed. The entire book is a pastiche of stale cliches. If the cardinal rule is to "write what you know" then all McCarthy knows are stale t.v. cliches. The subject, plot, theme is hack. The very premise itself is as hackneyed as one could get. And speaking of Stephen King, Stephen King did a better job with "America as post-apocalyptic wasteland" in The Stand.

No wonder that horrendously stupid, stone-ignorant, uneducated know-nothing cunt Oprah (the greatest mediocratizer in the history of the world) recommended it. She wouldn't know a piece of art from the ponderous turds dropped from her fat, black ass.

Not only is McCarthy's novel cliche, but it is pretentious.

Here's an excerpt from the novel that I actually made up. You may ask me how I can "make up" an excerpt from a novel. Well, in this case it's not hard, anyone could do it:

He lit a fire. Warmth.
He lit the fire.
He gazed at the coals.
He thought.
Thought.
Cold.
Another morning.
Morning.

People get paid money to write this shit and a true genius like me goes through degradation after degradation? (At least I like degradation.)

A true artist like me is expected to work for a living?

And what really pisses me off is that other "literary" writers are now imitating this shit. There was a story in the New Yorker recently that was a wannabe of The Road.