Whew. A slog. I wearied of the no-punctuation/dialogue tags and was distinctly grumpy about it until I realized it was a masterful ploy to make the reader slow down, feel confused, add uncertainty. So so clever for this disturbing book.

That said, much of the book seemed to be rants about pet subjects- I particularly could have done without the lengthy section on the Kennedy assassination. It is never explained why the feds are following Western- and his road trip is written out in such detail with entire paragraphs given to opening a rucksack, for example, that I felt this was more of a self-aggrandizement project than a story.

I’m not a fan of his work in general- far too needlessly dark and violent for me- but there were things I quite loved in the book- phrases that grabbed at my heart, the undercurrent of grief, the descriptions of underwater salvage, etc. Too much time spent walking along beaches or sitting and contemplating man’s existence for me. Especially since the discussion was so unrelentingly grim.

People on this discussion seem to hurl abuse at people who don’t like the book… please don’t bother. We are all entitled to our opinions.

( )

I don't think I can judge this accurately without having read the companion piece. It definitely felt incomplete, and presumably/hopefully [b:Stella Maris|60526802|Stella Maris (The Passenger, #2)|Cormac McCarthy|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1658241766l/60526802._SX50_.jpg|95478000] is the puzzle piece that's missing.

Otherwise this felt like one of the most approachable McCarthy novels. It's a deep dive into character, with more comedic chops than his usual fare, even as it delves into some leaden topics of death, suicide and the meaning of life.

Reread: Having read Stella Maris I'm just more confused because The Passenger melds the narratives jarringly to start with and Stella Maris seems like it could excerpt the relevant parts and stand entirely alone at twice the length. They're thematically tied more than narratively tied. ( )

This is a difficult review because this book is a beautiful mess. Some of the writing is beautiful, but part of it is frustrating such as one particular conversation between two characters that felt like a writer having a rhetorical conversation with himself. Parts of this book left me asking big questions about what McCarthy was asking us and the nature of life and why we are here, which I think makes for great literature. Yet, there are also a lot of unanswered plot questions that are frustrating, but maybe that is the point. We are all here going through life and searching for meaning, but there is always something missing. Maybe the unanswered plot points are the point. I'm unsure. If definitely left me thinking after I finished it, which is a good thing, but it also left me frustrated, which may have been intentional on McCarthy's part. Hopefully, Stella Maris, which I haven't read yet, will help clarify things. ( )

There's a temptation to give this book much more credit than it deserves. I had hoped to get away with never reading the final work of a favorite though aged writer. I sensed that his closeness to the grave and the vast silence since his last publication would combine to create an atmosphere of exceptional yet unreachable expectation. The richness of prose that I love about BM or AtPH or even TR is not to be found here. There is such an overemphasis on dialogue, in fact, that it might as well be a script. Here, I don't even pick up on McCarthy's typical genius for providing a vivid sense of time, place, and character; most of the dialogue is generic, perfunctory, static. Indeed, some of the conversations seem to be recycled (e.g. Western's exchanges with Josie) and, again, the novel just feels like it is pedaling in place. The hallucinations become cartoonish, so even the most haunted character ceases to be compelling. McCarthy gives us Quentin and Caddie vibes, but Western and Alicia are flatter, less sympathetic. The numerous secondary characters float into the narrative with inconsequential brevity. And the fetishization of suicide that peeks out at us from the pages of The Road is on fuller display here; the deceased is treated by McCarthy as some oracular figure, a guru martyred by her demons. It's as if her suicide is meant to give her philosophical bona fides. It's just creepy. I realize this is one installment of a diptych, but Proust rendered us the kindness of volumes that stand up well individually. ( )

“Her hair was like gossamer. He wasnt sure what gossamer was. Her hair was like gossamer.”

I don’t know what this book is but it’s something. ( )