Cormac McCarthy died today. He was old, and I can’t imagine it came as a surprise, except in the way death always is. At some point, all of us are going to end our time here, and if we’re lucky, we will be old when we do it. Coincidentally, I had read the first 15 or so pages of “The Passenger” last night. No, I’m not going to present you with a retrospective of said pages, it’s just one of those things. I don’t really have a plan as to what I’m going to read next. I finish a thing, decide fairly quickly what I’m in the mood for (status or contract? potboiler?), and dive in, even if it’s just for a little bit to check it out.
It’s my birthday weekend this weekend. My birthday is awfully close to father’s day, which serves as a reminder that my own father is gone, and has been for just over six years now. He died suddenly, at the age of 67, while traveling with mom. It sucked, and now it sucks a little less, but I don’t think we ever stop grieving those closest to us; it just takes on a different form. Sometimes, I think I’d like to call him to tell some shitty joke, or ask for some advice on some random thing. My father was a bit of a polymath, and I counted on him well into adulthood for advice on random things like carpentry or computers. He usually had an answer, and if he didn’t, he could usually suggest where you get one.
I read Blood Meridian last year. It was my third run at it, as the other two didn’t quite ‘click’. McCarthy can be very dense, and Blood Meridian’s constant, unrelenting unpleasantness together with the dense (but at the same time oddly beautiful) prose can be hard going. Having read it, it deserves its reputation. I haven’t read all his books, but from the ones I have, it would be the one I’d choose to remember him for. It’s more likely that people have read The Road or No Country for Old Men, however.
We sometimes imagine what our own legacy will be when the clock runs out. Me, I can’t imagine having much of one. I released some songs, I wrote a small blog, I wrote some short stories when I was in college that apparently a few people remember. But I never walked out on a big stage, or anything like that.
This morning, while walking the dog, I thought a little bit about what my next entry for the blog would be. I had started an entry on not finishing “Titus Groan”, and another on “Tender is the Flesh”, and a third on “Moby Dick” (which, you know, is one of this blog’s ongoing projects, along with a failure to read more Vonnegut or start “Bottom’s Dream”) . It’s the start of summer here in New Orleans, and the heat is oppressive, and it’s not always easy to think. By the time I got back into some air conditioning, whatever thoughts I had were mostly gone, and I happily made an English muffin and some coffee. The dog settled in for her post walk nap, and the house was quiet, and I thought about how I was oddly content.
Someday, either knowingly or unknowingly, I’ll have my final thought. I hope it to be one like that.
The Lithole 
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