Tom or Huck?

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Miss Barkely's True Love

Blind and still, he thought of Catherine in those last few moments, dreamed of walking with her on crisp cool days in London, their clouded breath glowing in the gaslight, remembered the days leading up to his deployment, when he wanted it and she wanted to give it but they were certain they had forever coming and besides waiting was so much more romantic than a hurried, desperate thrusting now, with the war pressing down on them; it would be too much like goodbye, so much like taking an opportunity that might not recur—this was so much better (they thought), as if by waiting to consummate they were rendering death impossible, as if by denying themselves this fulfillment temporarily they ensured its eventuality, but war was cruel and death crueler and neither cared much for lovers’ promises and possible futures, and he knew he was dying, knew how he was dying: shrapnel pierced him like a volley of arrows and either he had lost his limbs or was paralyzed and he was falling asleep beneath the warm blanket of his own blood, a sheet too thick for this muggy July day, and like a virgin sacrificed to the bog he knew he would never leave this muddy trench. The murmuring Somme churned red nearby.

No Country For Old Men Part 1: Book

Like many avid readers, I prefer reading an original text before I see any adaptation of it in order to avoid having either odd casting in my own mental imaging (Angelina Jolie as Grendel's Mom?) or completely altered plot details (Roy Hobbs is a hero?). I read The Road over the summer and was very impressed--impressed in that way that makes me wish I'd picked up McCarthy earlier--so I was eager to read No Country for Old Men in time to catch the adaptation, which has come much recommended. Philosophically and stylistically consistent with the later novel, NCFOM demonstrates the type of plot construction and wordsmithery that is simultaneously inspiring and discouraging. McCarthy's distinctive style and knack for characterization create a unique world in which the reader is swept away, and his great talent is his ability to bring things to an inexorable and wholly likely close while simultaneously leaving the reader with a sense of inevitability and surprise. Like Oedipus and Hamlet, you know how these stories are going to turn out, but you still can't believe art can so closely imitate the final cruelty of life and the undaunted march of humankind in the face of fate's obstinate callousness.

Missed Connection ver 2

Missed Connection

After searching so long, the last place I expected to find him was in the quiet, cool corridor of a Chicago-bound plane. I was shuffling back to my seat and he appeared, hair now dusted gray, peering through glasses at a folded magazine. I hoped he wouldn’t see me but the intensity of my stare and the force of my surprise sufficed to draw his attention and he looked up and the recognition was immediate and breathtaking—like the flash of love rekindled, a mix of excitement and nervousness and a physical churning. I kept walking, though my knees quaked, and he held my gaze a pulse too long before lowering it to an article we both knew he’d never finish.

Minutes passed before I was able to look away from the back of his head, tiny hairs emerging from beneath his cornflower blue collar, the twin aluminum rods of his glasses tucked behind his ears. I imagined myself shooting him, so easy, the bullet ripping through that cunning, conniving brain, but even if I had a piece I couldn’t have, not with all these people, not in such a confined space. I only wanted one person dead; if there had to be a second, I’d rather it be me.

I knew he wouldn’t forgo the security of the cabin to visit the bathroom at the plane’s rear; I could easily break in and strangle him or drown him in the small toilet. He would sooner piss himself than risk leaving the safety of the crowd.

I wondered if I could approach the front of the plane and somehow fall into him, driving the shaft of my pen through his throat. Could I make it look accidental? Truly I didn’t much care. Too long I’d been looking for him to let this chance slip. The gold and black Cross was sturdy and with enough force could damage his carotid and doom him up here with no real medical facilities. I wished I had some sort of poison applied to the tip, but I couldn’t think of anything sufficiently deadly to bother with.

I waited for the captain’s Okie voice to permit us to leave our seats and headed toward the front, hoping no one would interfere with my wandering in the opposite direction of the facilities. I tried to manifest calm confidence; I didn’t want some jackass heroically halting me, thinking I was headed toward the cockpit with grand plans of a hijack.

There was no doubt before I did it. He looked up just before I fell on him, just before I thrust the pen up and in, hoping like hell the tip pricked his spinal cord, and my failure registered too late. It seemed his ruined throat whispered judgment, but really the stranger just gurgled his own blood like a drainplug yanked suddenly.

Missed Connection

After looking for him so long, the last place I expected to see him was in the quiet, cool corridor of a plane headed for Chicago. I was shuffling back to my seat and he appeared, hair now dusted gray, peering through glasses at a folded magazine. I hoped he wouldn’t see me but the intensity of my stare and the force of my surprise sufficed to draw his attention and he looked up and the recognition was immediate and breathtaking for us both—like the flash of love rekindled, a mix of excitement and nervousness and a physical churning. I kept walking, though my knees quaked, and he held my gaze a moment too long before lowering it to a magazine article we both knew he’d never finish.

Minutes passed before I was able to tear my eyes away from the back of his head, the few short hairs emerging from his cornflower blue collar, the twin aluminum rods of his glasses tucked behind his ears. I imagined myself shooting him, sending a bullet through that accursed skull, that malicious little brain, but even if I had a piece I couldn’t have, not with all these people, not in such a confined space. I only wanted one person dead; if there had to be a second, I’d rather it be me.

I decided he wouldn’t be stupid enough to forgo the security of the cabin by visiting the bathroom at the plane’s rear, where I could easily break in and strangle him or drown him in the small toilet. If he was smart—and I knew he was—he would sooner piss himself than risk leaving the safety of the crowd.

I wondered if I could approach the front of the plane and somehow fall into him, driving the shaft of my pen through his throat. Could I make it look accidental? I decided I didn’t much care. It had been too long I’d been looking for him to let this chance slip. The gold and black Cross was sturdy and with enough force could damage his carotid enough to doom him up here with no real medical facilities. I wished I had some sort of poison applied to the tip, but I couldn’t think of anything sufficiently deadly to bother with.

I waited for the captain’s Okie voice to permit us to leave our seats and headed toward the front, hoping no one would question my wandering in the opposite direction of the facilities. I tried to manifest calm confidence; I didn’t want some jackass to get the idea of being a hero, thinking I was headed toward the cockpit.

He looked up just before I fell on him, just before I thrust the pen up and in, hoping like hell the tip pricked his spinal cord, and my error registered too late. The stranger gurgled his own blood like a drainplug pulled suddenly, and the vibrancy of his shocked stare faded to dull anonymous senselessness.