Cormac McCarthy: America’s Greatest Novelist Stumbles Back Into the Arena
Photo: Knopf and © Beowulf Sheehan
Cormac McCarthy is one of America’s greatest writers—and with the death of Toni Morrison, probably our best living novelist and best chance at another Nobel Prize in Literature. After writing his five best-known—and, to my mind, best—novels between 1992 and 2006, McCarty published no fiction from 2007 through 2021 (just a screenplay and a philosophical treatise). Now he has reemerged with not one but two novels: The Passenger, published in October, and Stella Maris, published this month.
These volumes are obviously the work of a gifted prose stylist and a major thinker, even if they don’t quite work as novels, as such. I’m glad I read them, but I wouldn’t recommend them to anyone as a place to begin exploring McCarthy or his works. If, on the other hand, you’ve already read the bulk of his fiction, these late-career books offer some fascinating ideas and set pieces to chew on.
One of McCarthy’s great achievements as a writer has been his consistent ability to marry the two dominant strains in American literature. One is the maximalist voice of Walt Whitman’s “barbaric yawp,” of William Faulkner’s dizzying run-on sentences, of the pulpit oratory from preachers black and white, of the florid lyrics of Bob Dylan and Kendrick Lamar. Standing in stark contrast is the minimalist voice of Emily Dickinson’s distilled quatrains, of Ernest Hemingway’s concise sentences, of the terse responses from both cowboys and Indians out West, from farmers and woodsmen back East, of Langston Hughes’ pithy fables and John Prine’s deadpan songs.
McCarthy wove these together by writing his narration in the maximalist voice and his dialogue in the minimalist register. His books were usually set in either Southern Appalachia or America’s Southwest borderlands, and he would bring to life the beauty of those landscapes—and the hard work and violence they contained—with a visionary efflorescence of language. His characters, though, were often hillbillies or cowboys, usually men who preferred action to words, deeds to ideas, and spoke as if words were too expensive to waste.
In my favorite of his books, All the Pretty Horses, McCarthy describes his young cowboy protagonist John Grady taking his hostage across the dry highlands of Mexico. “The water they found was at a stone stocktank,” he writes, “and they dismounted and drank from the standpipe and watered the horses and sat in the bands of shade from the dead and twisted oaks at the tank and watched the open country below them. A few cattle stood perhaps a mile away. They were looking to the east, not grazing. He turned to see what they were watching but there was nothing there. He looked at the captain, a gray and shrunken figure. The heel was missing from one boot. There were streaks of black and streaks of ash on his trouserlegs {cq} from the fire, and his buckled belt hung in a loop from his neck where he’d been using it to sling his arm.”
The author is generous with his language. His protagonist, not so much. The latter simply tells the captain: “I ain’t goin’ to kill you. I’m not like you.” Much of the power of McCarthy’s best fiction comes from this ongoing tension between the grandeur of the description and the austerity of the dialogue.
He largely abandons that approach in these two new books. His protagonists, the siblings Bobby and Alicia, are too well educated to be believable speaking with the pith of the author’s horse thieves and backwoods trackers. These only children of a man who helped create the atomic bomb are more than smart; they’re super-smart, he in physics, she in mathematics. They’re so smart, in fact, that they abandon academia when their intellectual investigations no longer fit the institutional infrastructure. But where can they go? How can they pursue their ideas? How can they explain themselves to the uninitiated?
It’s not only the characters who are stymied by these questions throughout the two books; so is the author. Much of The Passenger is devoted to Bobby trying to explain himself to his drinking buddies in New Orleans and to Alicia explaining herself to The Thalidomide Kid, a recurring hallucination. All of Stella Maris is devoted to Alicia trying to explain herself to a friendly but perplexed therapist at a Wisconsin sanitorium. Most of these conversations devolve into what is best described as banter: that mix of jokes, boasts, and joshing insults that conversation resorts to when there’s not enough common understanding for anything else.
The problem is that banter does not make for very satisfying fiction. It can often be clever, but rarely is it compelling or suspenseful. It can be a useful device for unloading a lot of research, and McCarthy allows his characters to explain what the author has been up to over the past 16 years of research into atomic weapons, cutting-edge math, the unconscious mind, and the nature of reality. It can be stimulating to read what someone as smart as McCarthy has to say on these topics, but it doesn’t provide much narrative momentum.
The potential was there. Buried beneath all the banter is an intriguing variation on the Romeo and Juliet story. In Shakespeare’s play, Juliet takes a potion that enables her to mimic death so she can avoid an arranged marriage. When Romeo discovers her in the family crypt, though, he assumes she really is dead, and in his ensuing despair, commits suicide.
In McCarthy’s second book, Stella Maris, which takes place in 1972, Alicia tells her shrink that her brother is in a coma from a racecar accident in Italy. She assumes he’ll soon be dead and blithely considers her suicide options. In the first book, The Passenger, which takes place eight years later, Bobby has awakened from his coma and is mourning his dead sister, found hanging from a tree in the winter woods all those years ago.