Doomsday

“The Road” is an irritating read.  I’m not partial to this (post?) modern, pared-down style, with barely a comma or quotation mark in sight, missing apostrophes, and in general, almost stream of consciousness style that makes it hard to make sense of who is talking.  I gather this is the point of such writing.  It leaves a dry, bitter aftertaste.  This probably means the book’s affect is effective.  If the form gnaws, then the content bites.

The content of the novel, though, is not particularly sensational.  Simply, it’s a listing of the everyday lives of father and son as they make their way to the south:  Breakfast.  Lunch.  Supper.  Sleep and repeat.  Every detail of their existence is painfully amplified – or reduced – to the small tasks: build a fire, warm the food, find the cart. Each is rendered as though each decision will determine whether they will live or die.

These acts of survival are carried out by two unnamed people, trekking through a wildnerness amid traces of a civilization past.  The anonymity creates distance.  But these nameless, faceless people could also be me, this could be you.  This could be the story of the Others — the Bad People.  But in this climate it is every man for himself — and his child, maybe.

The conversation in the novel is reduced to the essentials, and it’s often  ambiguous who is talking.  The father is constantly concerned that the boy is not talking. It’s as though speech/communication is the last quality that allows them to hold on to some humanness.  Much of this conversation revolves around questions of mortality.  The boy is always afraid they are going to die. At the same time, he sometimes wishes he were dead and reunited with the mother. (Freud would have a field day!)  Why do they want to stay alive when there is nothing left? In a way I was angry at the wife for abandoning her family but maybe she was right after all.  If they have each other, do they have enough?

This seems to be a theme in apocalyptic narrative: the idea that humanity is worth saving for the few worthwhile human connections that exist.  We’ve seen this in Watchmen with Dr. Manhattan and in The Albertine Notes.  And I don’t mean this  in terms of the Elect, though that is a likely source for the idea.

I do not entirely dislike the novel.  There were tender moments and images of beauty against the stark, bleak background.  This too is probably a feature of the novels themes.  But again I return to the question: against such devastating nothingness, no redeeming ending, a forever stretching out endlessly — of what purpose are these tiny connections, who cares and what does it all mean?  This novel cries out for this type of reflection. It seems needy.  I haven’t yet finished it (I’m halfway through) and am looking forward to blogging about the END.