Lester Ballard is a feral serial killer, whose rife is an extension of his arm. He kills strangers and acquaintances with no remorse or even anger - he is merely a murderer without compunction. Lester is isolated with his own fevered obsessions and leaves misery in his wake. He particularly likes female victims, and practices necrophilia.

In the hands of a lesser writer, Lester's story would be sensationalized; however, McCormac writes with a simplicity that allows the readers to understand the evolving madness and cunning of a monster. ( )

Short and not so sweet tale of a serial killing necrophiliac. As usual it's McCarthy's way with words that keeps you reading, but this doesn't rise above to Blood Meridian heights of transcendent violence, nor to the pit of despair that is The Road. Lester is a pathetic character, and his story - despite the death and necrophilia - feels rather toothless and pointless. In that sense, it's perhaps more true to life. ( )

Amazing as always!!! ( )

I'm really beginning to question this "genius" of Cormac McCarthy. Three books into his span of works, and they just seem to be getting worse.

There was no story here. This felt like an extreme horror indie release with better-than-average writing. Lester is a character with no redeeming qualities, and the reader is simply plunged through a series of ever-increasingly terrible events. There's no real surprise at the end, and I, for one, was left trying to understand why this was even published.

I'm no prude. I can see where someone like Jack Ketchum pulls inspiration from a work like this, but I can see Ketchum also deciding that, if he's going to draw from this, he's going to write something and either make it have a point, or make the point obvious that there's a reason evil like this exists in the world.

Instead of just, "hey, here's a story about a really terrible human. The end."

I really have no idea what the point of this novel was. If someone wants to explain it to me, I'll take it. ( )

I told myself I was done with Cormac McCarthy after reading No Country for Old Men. First I declared publicly that I couldn’t finish that book — that it was just too depressing. Then last week I went on a road trip and did, in fact, finish that book. It was depressingly good. Meaning that while it was depressing it was also hard to put down.

Then I declared, also publicly, that that was it. No more depressing McCarthy. But as I was reading some commentaries about No Country for Old Men, I started reading about one of his earlier novels, Child of God.

Now, you know I can’t turn down a really well written novel about depravity. Also, I’m attracted to novels and stories about inbred hillbilly misfits and the like. So yeah, I downloaded Child of God to my Kindle and started reading.

I’m not going to drop any spoilers here. As of right now I am 67% through the book. It’s a fast read. It is fascinating, disgusting, and wonderful. I’m not sure why I say wonderful, but I think it is this…

The thing about McCarthy is that he can use the most beautiful, descriptive, poetic language and then the next sentence makes you want to barf or just retreat from the world. The first of his work that I read — Blood Meridian — I thought it was brilliant, but I think that now 3 books into his work I am starting to really get what the big deal is about him.

I lack the knowledge to really delve into what I think makes this writing good. Maybe in the coming months I will figure it out. It’s not just violent gross bullshit, and I think that points to the question I’ve got: Why is it not just violent gross bullshit? What makes it good? What makes it literary? ( )