Thursday, May 22, 2008

The evening redness in the west


I love to read and write dream sequences, because the possibilities are infinite; you are not bound by the story or even the confines of the natural world.

Cormac McCarthy is one of my favorite authors. With him you get to experience the beauty of Faulkner in a book you’d actually want to read. And he writes nightmare dream sequences that can take your breath away:

He’d dreamt of the dead standing about in their bones and the dark sockets of their eyes that were indeed without speculation bottomed in the void wherein lay a terrible intelligence common to all but of which none would speak. When he woke he knew that men had died in that room.
–-All the Pretty Horses


In the dream from which he'd wakened he had wandered in a cave where the child led him by the hand. Their light playing over the wet flowstone walls. Like pilgrims in a fable swallowed up and lost among the inward parts of some granitic beast. Deep stone flues where the water dripped and sang. Tolling in the silence the minutes of the earth and the hours and the days of it and the years without cease. Until they stood in a great stone room where lay a black and ancient lake. And on the far shore a creature that raised its dripping mouth from the rimstone pool and stared into the light with eyes dead white and sightless as the eggs of spiders. It swung its head low over the water as if to take the scent of what it could not see. Crouching there pale and naked and translucent, its alabaster bones cast up in shadow on the rocks behind it. Its bowels, its beating heart. The brain that pulsed in a dull glass bell. It swung its head from side to side and then gave out a low moan and turned and lurched away and loped soundlessly into the dark.
--The Road

1 comment:

  1. Hilarious. A friend once told me I wrote like Cormac McCarthy and I took it as an insult.

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