A man built a thing. He had a name, in those long-before times when salmon ran in the streams like silver clouds in the moonlight and people went about their business in great cities gleaming with glass as yet unmelted by fires from the sky. His name was Patrick B. The thing he built was built from bricks and told a story. A story about a man and his child a boy. That story was first told by a man named Cormac McCarthy in a book called The Road. A book is a thing made of trees but you cant eat it like you can bark and leaves and the little stems that try to push their way toward the darkened sky at the end of the months of snow. This thing this story these bricks by the man Patrick show the man and the boy as they walk long miles along long roads to the sea. It is a thing to behold. A thing you cant look away from.
I’ve seen that movie pop up on a list of “the greatests movies I’ve seen once and will never watch again”, but I don’t really get it. I watched it once, and then some years later I ended up watching it again and didn’t realize I was rewatching a movie until about halfway through. And at that point I didn’t remember much of what happened during the rest of the movie so I stuck with it. Right now, I can’t remember much other than one character death (the same one that made me realize I’d seen it previously). I mean, it wasn’t a bad movie, but it didn’t latch onto my brain, nor did I find myself being permanently traumatized by the experience like I assume the author of that list was.
The cold relentless twaddle of an incontient (and overrated) “author.”