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A review by mishka_espey
No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy
5.0
I’ve had an inexplicable fascination with No Country for Old Men for a very long time, even before watching the Coen Brothers’ Oscar-winning film adaptation. Twice over Christmas break I attempted to pick it up, and both times lost steam within in the first couple dozen pages. Settling back down into the routines of the post-holiday grind, though, I picked it up once more, and the third time was indeed the charm. I tore through it by the end of the week.
You see, No Country is not the most accessible of novels. In order to fully immerse his readers in the bleakness of his world, McCarthy abandons the use of quotation marks in dialogue altogether, as well as most punctuation and grammar rules. Breaking into this world might be challenging for readers in the same way it would be challenging to listen to someone tell a story in a foreign accent. The deeper you venture, though, the more the words begin to spring off the page. The dialogue drips with wickedly dark humor. Scenes of bloody shootouts practically pulse with adrenaline. The characters look you straight in the eyes. And by the final pages, I felt like I’d mastered a new language. The lack of quotation marks that so irked me in the first few chapters no longer even registered as I swept through the pages.
Although a definitive time period is given (1980) and a nonfictional county serves as the backdrop (Terrell; population 810), the story transcends its setting with an eerie timelessness. It could be 2027. It could be 1908. Nothing would change the course of the three interwoven trails we follow: those of Llewelyn Moss, Anton Chigurh, and Sheriff Ed Tom Bell.
Moss stumbles upon the open grave of an illegal drug deal over the Tex-Mex border gone very wrong. Knowing full well that he may be signing his own death warrant, he flees the scene with the dealers’ $2.4 million in cash. In the wake of Moss’s disappearance, Sheriff Bell investigates the bloody crime scene and, quickly realizing the danger Moss is in, strives to protect him and the young wife he’s left behind.
Hired to recover the stolen cash is psychopathic assassin Anton Chigurh, arguably one of literature’s most blood-chilling villains. He is a man of few words and fewer emotions. His weapon of choice is a captive bolt pistol, which kills instantly and leaves no bullets. Insane though he may be, he holds to a warped yet unwavering set of principles. As someone explains it to Moss, “Even if you gave him the money, he’d still kill you for inconveniencing him.” The only way to survive an encounter with Chigurh is the fifty/fifty chance of a coin toss, if he deigns to offer you the choice.
There is so much more boiling beneath the surface of this sun-parched tale than a simple western saga. McCarthy examines morality—the senselessness of evil, the absurdity of altruism—with unflinching honesty. His characters serve as mouthpieces for entire world-views without ever sacrificing their own authenticity. He probes deep into questions about the nature of our world and leaves the wound open for the reader to explore. And he does it all in the midst of a story never bogged down by heavy exposition or stilted internal monologues. For example, look at the way Sheriff Bell posits the idea that perhaps there’s Someone good looking out for us bumbling humans after all:
I can safely say that I’ve never read and never will read anything even remotely like No Country. After reading up on Cormac McCarthy, it sounds like the author himself has never written anything else like it. Give yourself time to settle into the rhythm of his world and suddenly it will sweep you away, shock you, sear you with its heat, and afterwards, haunt you.
You see, No Country is not the most accessible of novels. In order to fully immerse his readers in the bleakness of his world, McCarthy abandons the use of quotation marks in dialogue altogether, as well as most punctuation and grammar rules. Breaking into this world might be challenging for readers in the same way it would be challenging to listen to someone tell a story in a foreign accent. The deeper you venture, though, the more the words begin to spring off the page. The dialogue drips with wickedly dark humor. Scenes of bloody shootouts practically pulse with adrenaline. The characters look you straight in the eyes. And by the final pages, I felt like I’d mastered a new language. The lack of quotation marks that so irked me in the first few chapters no longer even registered as I swept through the pages.
Although a definitive time period is given (1980) and a nonfictional county serves as the backdrop (Terrell; population 810), the story transcends its setting with an eerie timelessness. It could be 2027. It could be 1908. Nothing would change the course of the three interwoven trails we follow: those of Llewelyn Moss, Anton Chigurh, and Sheriff Ed Tom Bell.
Moss stumbles upon the open grave of an illegal drug deal over the Tex-Mex border gone very wrong. Knowing full well that he may be signing his own death warrant, he flees the scene with the dealers’ $2.4 million in cash. In the wake of Moss’s disappearance, Sheriff Bell investigates the bloody crime scene and, quickly realizing the danger Moss is in, strives to protect him and the young wife he’s left behind.
Hired to recover the stolen cash is psychopathic assassin Anton Chigurh, arguably one of literature’s most blood-chilling villains. He is a man of few words and fewer emotions. His weapon of choice is a captive bolt pistol, which kills instantly and leaves no bullets. Insane though he may be, he holds to a warped yet unwavering set of principles. As someone explains it to Moss, “Even if you gave him the money, he’d still kill you for inconveniencing him.” The only way to survive an encounter with Chigurh is the fifty/fifty chance of a coin toss, if he deigns to offer you the choice.
There is so much more boiling beneath the surface of this sun-parched tale than a simple western saga. McCarthy examines morality—the senselessness of evil, the absurdity of altruism—with unflinching honesty. His characters serve as mouthpieces for entire world-views without ever sacrificing their own authenticity. He probes deep into questions about the nature of our world and leaves the wound open for the reader to explore. And he does it all in the midst of a story never bogged down by heavy exposition or stilted internal monologues. For example, look at the way Sheriff Bell posits the idea that perhaps there’s Someone good looking out for us bumbling humans after all:
People think they know what they want but they generally dont. Sometimes if they’re lucky they’ll get it anyways. Me I was always lucky. My whole life. I wouldnt be here otherwise. Scrapes I been in. But the day I seen her come out of Kerr’s Mercantile and cross the street and she passed me and I tipped my hat to her and got just almost a smile back, that was the luckiest.
People complain about the bad things that happen to em that they dont deserve but they seldom mention the good. About what they done to deserve them things. I dont recall that I ever give the good Lord all that much cause to smile on me. But he did.
I can safely say that I’ve never read and never will read anything even remotely like No Country. After reading up on Cormac McCarthy, it sounds like the author himself has never written anything else like it. Give yourself time to settle into the rhythm of his world and suddenly it will sweep you away, shock you, sear you with its heat, and afterwards, haunt you.