I just about finished it. Twenty-five pages left. The boy thinks The Road is a very good book. Better than he imagined. He hates future-settings. It is written starkly. Stripped. It's a question that he asks himself. As he walks across the floor. The room is scattered. Is the movie worth seeing, he asks. The book as no pictures. The nascent prose allows him to make his own vision. Like a waterfall, or dead trees, burnt in a field. A nude visage. The passages are blunt. In your face. Everything is left to the mind, he tells himself. Film cannot be as clear. By adding another's vision, it loses what is best about the novel. A basic wire of a story. A full dreamscape without other's notion. The boy will not see the movie.
Regards, Cormac McCarthy.
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