my dreams last night were haunted by corman mccarthy’s bleak and desolate road. a washed out rain grey road where a son and hid father try and scrounge for food in abandoned homes in a future where the trees have turned ashen and the sun no longer exists. cannibals hunt on the road heading south to the sea. and since i just finished the book i should be afraid to sleep tonight.
the previous summer book was ‘the brothers karamazov’ whose effects upon my dreamlife have already been noted previously here. the incisive high octane russian melodrama does not stop as on every page characters burn in fiery passions and play complex games of guilt and suspicion when a son is accused of murdering his own father over a woman. everyone in the book is twisted in knots by lust, love, jealousy and religion.
the same themes of ‘the wings of the dove’ but without henry james’ convoluted sentence formations that do get tiresome in spite of the great fun it can be often just in watching them twist, swerve this way and that, before finally making their way back to the main theme.