I met Cormac McCarthy and he transcribed our conversation about Cities of the Plain:The author asked, Whad'ya think about the book? The last in the trilogy?That's it. It was alright, Jason said.What was alright?Cities of the PlainWhat specifically?The simple language and the economy of words and the lack of punctuation, quotations especially. How you made simple things like chores seem interesting and wonderful.That's fair. It's actually harder to write like that than you think.I bet.Was it better than the first two, the first two books I mean?No.Why?I thought the second book was better.The author shifted in his seat and lit a cigarette and picked musingly at a fingernail with a jag in it. He looked from the cargazón de espaldas of his house and toward the wall of scrub that marked the edge of some New Mexico wilderness. Do you like my polysyndeton? Polysynda what?Polysyndeton. It's where I use a lot of correlative conjunctions to string out sentences instead of using commas.Oh. I reckon.Only 3 stars. What could I have done better?Don't figure I'm the best person to ask about that.You count. I write for people like you.Still.No, lemme hear.Then, I guess you could of jazzed up some of the action especially toward the first half of the book. The story didn't draw you in?No sir it didn't.There was a theme I was huntin' for, that first half. I wanted life to seem timeless and I did that through the sustained description of routine life for several vaqueros.I understand.The author exhaled through both nostrils making an opaque column of smoke that stretched uniformly to the wooden cubierta. Were the characters likable?I liked Billy and John Grady and Mac. I liked the part when they saved them puppies in the traprock escarpment.That's a critical part. Those boys had to kill the adult dogs in order to save the pups. It was an exchange of life. Those pups woulda likely died out there for want of food.Yep. They kept having to kill calves to feed the pups. Once them calves got bigger, the dogs would've been outta food.That's exactly right.I liked the knife fight too and how John Grady was fallin' so in love with that whore. Good.She was very young.That's right.And I like when you mash up two words.You mean when I make one word out of an adjective and a noun?Yes.I do that quite often.You do it on almost every page.About.Hey, I understand your writing. It's just, I gave 3 stars because your second book had 4 stars and since I didn't think your third book was better than the second, I couldn't give the same rating.Okay.But I did really like the descriptions you made of the environment and the way the sky looked and how a man would have felt looking out across the llanos. And I even liked how you dropped a lot of spanish words in the book, almost as if you was searching for the right word and the absolute right word wasn't an english word but a spanish word. And then you used some big words that I had to look up.Uh-huh. I did that. He flipped the cigarette in a flection out into the dirt. Is there anything I wrote that you didn't like?The short dialogue. How's that?The dialogue was always so staccato.That's how they talk. It's realistic.Yes sir.But you said you liked my economy of words, earlier you said that.I know what I said.Well. That's how I wrote my dialogue.I reckon you did.Well, then, what about the dialogue you didn't like?Maybe it was the lack of quotations. Made it hard to read. I don't know.That's fair. I done that in most of my books. You know what Mr. McCarthy? I especially liked the very last part after Billy was grown up and met that vagabundo and he went into that bizarre tirade about the dream he had and what it meant to him and therefore what it meant for all of mankind.I only did that once in this book.I know.You liked that huh? You think I should have done that more?Yes sir I do.Hmmm.When you do that, when you make your characters get all fantastic, those are some good parts.I try to divine the essence of the human condition, Jason.Right.And you liked that?I liked it very much.But once wasn't enough?No. The second book was better.Because it had more episodes where my characters had fantastic tirades?That's right.Mr. McCarthy crossed his arms and put his boots on the barandilla and tipped his chair back on two legs. He looked at the skyline just above the scrub in the distance. The world had a light gauzy dome of high cloud. The sun was getting low in that direction, but the color of the sky was as if it was still sizzlin', a couple of sun dogs on either side. The author asked, Did you like the whore?She was young.Yes.You made her sound pretty.Yes.I figure I wouldn't want to marry a whore.The others tried to stop him.But they didn't.No.I don't think I would have died for her.You aint John Grady.No sir.Would you recommend Cities of the Plains to your friends? He scratched his ankle deep down the inside of his boot.I would.Do you think the books can be read individually or should be read as a trilogy?Well, I can only answer for myself.I aint askin' anybody but you.What's the question?Can they be read separately or should they be read as a whole?As a whole. Altogether, I reckon.Do you think I should write a fourth book?Ever'body's old and dead now.Kind of a prequel.Kind of a prequel?Uh-huh.No.You don't think?No, it's just right now, especially that second book.Jason slapped the dust off his trouser thighs and stood for awhile lookin' out toward the sun. He took a final sip from the glass of ice lemonade and set it back on the paso among all the other water rings that sweated off the glass. Mr. McCarthy, he said.Cormac.Mr. McCarthy, sir, it's been a pleasure.Pleasure's mine.Alright, but it's been nice talkin' to you and learnin' what you put into them books.I appreciate the feedback.From me?Yes, you read all 3 books, makes you as close an expert as me.Uhh, I don't reckon I understand what you just said.Look, Jason, a writer spends an awful lot of time putting words on paper and figurin' and refigurin' how to change those words so it has an effect on the reader, someone like you.I understand.So if my writing doesn't have an effect, well, then...Then it don't mean nothing.No, it means something. But then it means something only to me.I see.Do you?Sure.If my writing doesn't affect you, then my writing is nothing more than a glorified journal entry. If it don't sell, then it stays with me.So you mean to share it with folks like me.Correct.Yes sir.What's that face your making?I still don't like the idea of a prequel.Don't worry 'bout that.You're not going to write one.No.Good.That story's over.That's how I feel about it.The author rose and took Jason's hand in his and shook it and shook it again and when they let go there was an understanding among men that cascaded through all the understandings between men and had arrived at this point firmly, and hung there, deep, like a great granite batholith. Take care reader.I will.Bye.Oh, one last thing.Anything.When you transcribe this discussion, would you send me a copy.For what?So I can put it on this computer Goodreads thing.I can do that.Much obliged.Take care then.Bye Mr. McCarthy.New words: dishabille, peened, niello, fard, replevin, ned, maguey, quirted, Cool sentences:There were grounds in the bottom of the cup and he swirled the cup and looked at them. Then he swirled them the other way as if he'd put them back the way they'd been.(p. 138)Billy flipped the cigarette out across the yard. It was already dark enough that it made an arc in the fading light. Arcs within the arc.(p. 147)When they reached the trail along the western edge of the floodplain the sun was up behind the mesa and the light that overshot the plain crossed to the rocks above them so that they rode out the remnant of the night in a deep blue sink with the new day falling slowly down about them.(p. 171)The ceiling of the room was of concrete and bore the impression of the boards used to form it, the concrete knots and nailheads and the fossil arc of the circlesaw's blade from some mountain sawmill. There was a single sooty bulb that burned there with a grudging orange light and a millermoth that patrolled it in random clockwise orbits.(p. 208)The word polysydeton was given to my by Isaiah H.
« La donna gli diede un colpetto su una mano. Era tutta nodi, cicatrici lasciate dalle funi, macchie impresse dal sole e dagli anni. Le vene in rilievo la legavano al cuore. C’era quanto bastava perché gli uomini vi scorgessero una mappa. C’era abbondanza di segni e meraviglie, da farne un paesaggio. Da farne un mondo. »Sfogliare l’ultima pagina, leggere le ultime righe, chiudere il libro e stringerselo forte forte contro il petto, con la stessa sensazione di quando si guarda rimpicciolire in lontananza l’ultimo vagone di un treno che porta via una persona che ci è cara. Una sensazione di indescrivibile solitudine, di solitudo: il sentimento del deserto e dell’essere disertati da storie, motivi, paesaggi, personaggi che ormai ci sono diventati così cari. Questo ultimo volume della Trilogia della Frontiera strappa al lettore qualcosa di ineffabile. Qualcosa gli è stato donato e qualcosa gli è stato sottratto durante il percorso. Le mani sono vuote. E dentro resta un dolore senza oggetto, ma fortissimo. Un grosso privilegio gli è stato concesso: vedere Billy Parnham e John Grady Cole agire e cavalcare sullo stesso sfondo, cacciare cani selvatici, mangiare e scherzare, essere amici. Gli è stato concesso di vedere a confronto due orizzonti mentali distinti che già aveva amato in “Cavalli selvaggi” e “Oltre il confine”. Gli è stato concesso di spiare le falle dell’uno e le falle dell’altro, di valutare i meriti, di criticare le intemperanze. E, infine, gli è stato concesso di assistere allo spettacolo impietoso di una tragedia annunciata, annunciata ai/dai personaggi e già intimamente nota al lettore. La scrittura di McCarthy si fa portavoce di una ineluttabilità dolorosa e cosmica. L’uomo pensa di avere il controllo del proprio destino, di poter scegliere da sé i propri orizzonti e valori, ma la sua storia è già scritta da quando è scritta la storia del mondo, perché la storia del mondo e degli uomini che lo abitano sono la medesima storia. Perciò, l’uomo è libero di tracciare la mappa della propria vita…« Proprio nel mezzo della mia vita, disse, tracciai il cammino della mia vita su una carta geografica e lo studiai a lungo. Cercavo di vedere il disegno che quella linea creava sulla faccia della terra, perché pensavo che se avessi potuto scorgere quel disegno e comprenderne la forma avrei saputo meglio come continuare. Avrei saputo dove indirizzare il mio cammino. Avrei visto nel futuro della mia vita. »… ma imparerà a vedere che…« questa tua vita alla quale dai tanta importanza non è opera tua, qualunque sia il nome che decidi di darle. La sua forma è stata imposta al vuoto fin dall’inizio del mondo, e tutto ciò che si può dire di come sarebbero potute andare altrimenti le cose è senza senso, perché non si dà nessun altrimenti. Di cosa potrebbe essere fatto? Dove potrebbe nascondersi? Come potrebbe fare la sua comparsa? La probabilità di ciò che è reale è assoluta. Il fatto che non abbiamo il potere di intuirlo prima che accada non lo rende meno certo e determinato. Il fatto che possiamo immaginare storie alternative non significa nulla. »Se l’ineluttabilità del destino è uno dei fili conduttori della Trilogia, altrettanta importanza hanno (almeno) due altri motivi: l’avventura/il viaggio e il racconto della propria storia. Nell’avventura, colorata, arida, fredda, mangereccia, il lettore è precipitato a capofitto in ciascuno dei libri. Lo si fa sedere a cavallo fin da principio e gli si insegnano i rudimenti lungo il percorso. Alla fine, quando lo fanno smontare da cavallo, scoppia a piangere come un bambino che chieda ancora “cinque minuti”. Il racconto della propria storia, la capacità di tracciare la mappa sono quello che resta alla fine, a Billy come a noi. Non abbiamo il controllo delle nostre scelte, ma possiamo raccontare la storia che ci ha condotto a esse. La nostra storia è tutto ciò che è abbiamo, l’unica merce di scambio con la vita, l’unico punto di connessione tra un essere umano e l’altro. La storia della nostra vita è un frammento della storia del mondo, ma è anche la storia di tutto il nostro mondo, un frammento e un intero, un paradosso inafferrabile. Imparare a raccontare la propria storia è salvarsi dalla dimenticanza, dalla finitudine della morte e guadagnare uno statuto di immortalità. Cormac McCarthy ha voluto raccontarci queste cose. Lo ha fatto in tre libri intessuti di splendore, tre splendidi libri filosofici, tre splendidi libri di avventura, sintesi difficilissima ma perfetta della vita stessa. Ringraziarlo sembra al lettore poca cosa. Farne tesoro è riduttivo. Solo rimettersi in viaggio, rileggerlo… questa gli sembra l’unica cosa da fare. Che farà.
Do You like book Cities Of The Plain (1999)?
I want to start off by saying that a book by Cormac McCarthy is automatically like a bazillion times better than 99% of the other books I could be reading. But I didn't love this one (hence the 3 stars), and here's why. It didn't really surprise me or take me anywhere new, at least as far as its plot was concerned. This is a novel about a cowboy (John Grady Cole, of All the Pretty Horses) who falls in love with a Mexican prostitute and tries to free her so he can marry her. As soon as this plotline was made clear, I thought, gee, this can't end well. And guess what? It does not end well. In exactly the way I had anticipated. So, the story wasn't really doing it for me. However, let me backtrack and say that the way the story was executed is masterful, as in all McCarthy's work. The narrative structure, the prose. No one can evoke a landscape like him; his descriptions take my breath away. In fact, that probably cut against this book, as the vast landscapes of the first two books of the Border Trilogy were mostly missing here, as were the wonderful passages on a cowboy's life in the saddle that were front and center in the other installments of the trilogy. And his symbolism and allegory were more heavy-handed. Cities of the Plain is just not as good as All the Pretty Horses or The Crossing (which in retrospect I wish I had given 4 stars instead of 3, despite my emotional trauma after reading it). But like I said before, the worst book in a Cormac McCarthy collection stands head and shoulders above the best books of most other authors writing today.
—Becky
John Grady Cole and his good friend (and spiritual brother) Billy are the last of a dying breed, young cowboys hanging onto the life of a rancher in Texas. This tale is deliciously and slow, with dialogue as simple and true as a home cooked meal. There are no quotations around the dialogue and the frequent use of Spanish is emblematic McCarthy, but I got used to it quickly. The souls of horses and the workings of their brains is a frequent topic amongst the boys and the older men. The desolate plain and the life it evokes is beautiful. There is an assortment of father figures aplenty, older gents who've seen war and lots of change in life, who are comforting to the boys as they find their way on our lonely planet. Ultimately this is a rumination on destiny, especially when the 19 year old John becomes enamored with a young Mexican prostitute in Juarez, whom he plots to rescue and take away to his idyllic home readied on the ranch. But it is never that simple, and the girl is marred and in the clutches of a strangely philosophical and slightly diabolical nemesis, the pimp Eduardo. The book is in quarters, and chapter 4 leads into the ultimate conflict, a protracted knife fight where John and Eduardo debate the merits of love and free will and destiny as they slash each other slowly to death. McCarthy is in his element here, as man argues with God about love and loss and pain and futility and meaning. Violence here is not stylized, it is literal, with the metal smell of blood and the gray tube of intestine in his hand, the painless agony and thirst associated with final sentience. The finale is presented as an epilogue and includes the rambling of the aged Billy, homeless and still seeking his friend amongst the ghosts of fellow travelers. A mysterious traveler reveals a dream sequence and a dream within a dream where the "ageless" old man recounts his observation of a dreamer in a place of sacrifice, where man dies over and over again. This evokes the inevitability of fate (there are no choices, only events that unfold from actions, irrevocable and eternal, past and present inseparable), and the life of dreams is an experience of discovery equal to the real world. I don't do it justice here, but it is typical McCarthy and may leave you, like me, thrilled with the clean prose and authentic depiction of young men in a time and place, and scrupulous attention to the tools and techniques of cowboys, horses, old woman cooks, Mexicans of many stripes, and the landscape of 1950's Texas and Mexico. This is a book to savor, and a great finale to the trilogy.
—Ned Mozier
McCarthy captures something magical in Cities of the Plain. He captures a fleeting moment in time in the American West right before the slowly creeping forces of the industrial revolution finally found their way into this vast but remote landscape. Right before the time when the traditional roles of cowboys and their horses became obsolete. It is this theme, all good things..., that McCarthy writes about in Cities of the Plain, in so many words, in direct and indirect ways.It's a beautiful story that McCarthy writes, filled with the pure beauty of places that now only partially exist in our modernized world. There are wide fields of grass and sage, distant mountains, and cattle not in pens but grazing on the land until they need to be rounded up. There are beautiful sunsets and moonless skies filled with so many stars that they too shed a faint light upon the ground. It's not that these things do not presently exist. They indeed happen now if you can find the right place, but they certainly do not happen with the innocent knowledge that they are an endless commodity of life.McCarthy also writes about honesty that is so true it can kill, and he writes about love. In addition to his beautiful story, there is McCarthy's style of writing. It's not enough for McCarthy to simply let his readers read his tale. He wants them engaged and thinking about what he has to say. He starts strings of dialogue by only giving the name of the first speaker, all the while eliminating the use of quotation marks. He initiates scenes in which the identification of the main character is only provided through their characteristics. The result of this style of writing is the feeling that I had imagined this story as opposed to ever having read it.
—Daniel Villines
