A Pilgrim’s Digression

Having finished reading Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men recently, I am looking forward to this movie just about as much as any film in recent memory. This book (and apparently the film as well) is not for people who expect a satisfactory, happy conclusion. Negative reviews I have read concentrate almost exclusively on the lack of an ending in which the bad guy gets killed.

For example on the subject of how the book ends, one reviewer writes that “…McCarthy–in keeping with his nihilistic view of the universe–has Moss [the protagonist] killed off before such a climax can even take place. Perhaps in an attempt to one-up McCarthy on anti-climaticism, the Coen brothers have him killed off-screen.”

It sounds to me like the Coens aren’t one-upping anyone, instead sticking very closely to the book. In the book, there is a rather gaping hole in the ending during which Moss is killed. McCarthy does not describe the shootout, leaving it completely ambiguous about what happened and who killed who, or even if Anton Chigurh, the psychopath that has been chasing Moss, did the killing himself. Nora Ephron has written a rather humorous piece for the New Yorker, in which she and her movie-going partner try to figure out what the heck happened in this film. She even goes to the book, to which the film is apparently so faithful that even reading McCarthy provides no answers.

I have to admit, I found the darkness at the heart of this book so disturbing, I can’t say that it was an entirely pleasant read. It’s uncomfortable to find a writer apparently with no desire whatsoever to make his reader feel even the slightest bit hopeful that there might be good at work in the world. Before “No Country,” I read his novel The Road, which if anything is even more bleak. How much more bleak can you get than post-apocalyptic humans who cook and eat a newborn infant because there is no food left to eat anywhere on earth?

Additionally, Anton Chigurh, the psychopath at the heart of the bleakness in “No Country,” is a representation of Satan himself, as far as I am concerned. It is not that he is unconcerned with questions of good and evil–in his philosophical moments, he does take up the issue–but that he just doesn’t care if there is a right or wrong or not. In one scene in the novel, the sherrif, Ed Tom, comments that the problem with drug dealers today is not that they don’t fear the law, but that they don’t even give the law a thought. That is most disturbing, and extrapolated to Chigurh’s morality–his unconcern for right or wrong, and by extension God–that is most disturbing. Sometimes, he lets his victims live on the toss of a coin, and if someone actually wins, he is as uncaring as if they had lost. Nothing concerns him, certainly not human life. He allows people to live, and he takes their life with equal impassivity.

I happen to like, dark, bleak pessimistic stories such as this. Having written that, I doubt I will be able to persuade my wife to see the film with me, because she hates such movies. I am quite looking forward to it, though. McCarthy in the hands of the Coen Brothers…seems like a match made in Heaven, or perhaps Hell.

Some days by three o’clock in the afternoon, I am so tired I am literally dizzy with sleeplessness. Some days it doesn’t even take that long for exhaustion to smack me down. I work a ten hour day, arriving at the office around 6:30, and sometimes when I get there, I am in a complete stupor because I went to bed between midnight and 12:30 that morning.

Anyone who plays the MMORPG video game World of Warcraft probably knows the feeling. At 6:30 AM, having just finished an instance run barely five hours earlier, you feel dislocated, wandering loose in a half-dream world, head aching, eyes raw.

Coffee helps. Without Starbucks, I probably would not make it through to lunch, some days. I once had a colleague who would crawl under his desk and sleep and pretend he was out for a meeting. Now I wonder if he wasn’t a secret World of Warcraft player. Certainly there have been days when I have looked under my desk and thought, “Could I? Should I?”

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I began this post Thanksgiving Day, but found no time to finish it. We had a busy week, with my wife’s family visiting from Wednesday through Sunday, and plenty of cooking, eating, going to the movies, playing cards, and decorating for Christmas to keep us fully occupied. It was a good holiday.

The only real negativity that crept into the holiday occurred early on, before the family arrived. I was feeling extremely grouchy at the intensity of my wife’s preparations. Tuesday and Wednesday, I especially felt harried and nagged, and unable to find even a half-hour to myself. I remember Thursday morning, I got up early thinking that no one else would be awake and I could have maybe an hour to myself to play World of Warcraft. I made the coffee and then took the dog out for a pee, and by the time I came back in Lynn was up, preparing the turkey and asking for my help.

In retrospect, I had no right to be resentful, though. It was a good Thanksgiving, and it was good because my wife and her sister made it a good one. I can be intensely anti-social, even misanthropic, not to mention plain old lazy…and then I act as if it is other people’s fault when I am not enjoying myself.

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I just finished reading a novel by Justin Evans, titled A Good and Happy Child, and I thought it might be worthwhile to offer a few thoughts on the book. I picked it up at Borders several weeks ago, after reading a few pages and deciding that the fictional town of Preston, Virginia, was probably based on a town I know very well, Lexington, Virginia. Preston even has a store that sells fireworks and lawn ornaments and advertises “The largest rattle snake in the south.” Lynn and I have seen that snake. It is a big one, though it is now just a dried carcass hanging over the door of the store.

Until today, I did not realize that Evans has a website, where my suspicion about the Preston/Lexington connection is confirmed.

In terms of plot, the book is quite engaging. It’s the story of a young boy, George Davies, who believes he has become possessed by a demon, following his father’s death. Like the really good horror stories one reads, from Poe’s Doppelgangers to Stephen King’s “dull boy,” Jack Torrance, the heart of the horror is human madness. And like all truly good writers, Evans leaves the central question—is the hero mad or really possessed by a demon?— completely ambiguous right to the end. That may mean that this book is not for everyone. Even I found the ending a little abrupt and unsatisfactory, following as it does a climactic revelation.

Is George possessed by a demon? The question is almost irrelevant, because schizophrenia and demonic possession have so many of the same symptoms. The reader can make up his or her own mind, though I think near the end, Evans gives a pretty strong hint about the truth. I can’t say more than that without revealing too much. But keep in mind, this is the kind of book you have to think about in order to fully digest the content and come to some conclusion. If you read a book and expect the author to neatly tie things up in the end, revealing that the boy was crazy all along, this book will disappoint you.

Really, I can think of only a handful of criticisms of the book. Characterization of George’s mother, a central figure in the book, seems rather weak. I only have a vague impression of her and her motivations. The mother seems to be motivated by an almost clichéd liberalism, which is used to explain everything from her doubts about religion to her sex life.

Also, considering her staunch refusal to believe in George’s “Friend,” her sudden submission to a blessing ceremony for George (related in a flashback rather than in real-time narrative), seems uncharacteristic and forced. However, from a technical standpoint, I understand the reason behind it.

The novel is narrated by an adult George talking to his psychologist, but the majority of the narrative is actually set in the early eighties when George was a child, and it is at that time where the true climax of the book occurs. However, that does nothing to resolve the issue of why George, the adult, has found his way to a therapist’s office once again. In order to move the character from the climactic moment in the eighties to the climactic moment in the present without a lot of extra chapters, Evans introduces the “special blessing” that George’s mother consents to, and which seems to drive the demon into hiding for the intervening twenty-odd years.

Again, it seems sort of like a writer’s “Oh crap” button, as in “Oh crap, I painted myself into this corner, now how do I get out.”

Those criticisms aside, I enjoyed the book and hope Evans writes another. I am likely to read it, if he does.

Yesterday on Maryland Avenue, near the Supreme Court, I saw an SUV with a bumper sticker that read: “1/20/2009: The End of an Error.”

Error or not, as of yesterday, an era began to draw to a close. It is now exactly one year until Election Day 2008. I am always surprised how quickly an election cycle creeps up on us, except that in this case it seems like the election has been more like our shadow than a mysterious lurker in the shadows. Did the previous election cycle ever really end? It seems like news anchors and talking heads have been talking about the 2008 Democratic nomination, anyway, since at least the day after election 2004.

I have difficulty feeling much passion about the election. I am beyond feeling that a vote for one candidate or another is going to bring about Armageddon, or conversely, the Utopian vision of a Perfect Society. I know I’ve cited this before, but like the donkey in Orwell’s Animal Farm, I tend to believe the world goes on pretty much as it did before–that is, badly–no matter who is in charge, whether the pigs or the humans. Of course the ultimate lesson of Orwell’s fable is that there is little difference between the two, in the end.

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I came across this post at the Newsweek blog, I, Breeder titled “Confessions of a Waitress: I Hate Your Damn Kid.” The writer, a waitress herself, is very specific about the “your” in “your damn kid.” She admits that she has no kids of her own, but that she “loves” kids to whom she is related. She just hates your kids. A lot of her complaints about kids originate from the fact that she apparently resents having to work at a “menial” job, and “our” kids only make things worse.

On top of that, there’s your damn kids. For starters, they’re dirty: They throw noodles all over the floor, spread spaghetti sauce, drop breadbaskets. They spill water on the tablecloth and crawl underneath the table. They want crayons and drawing paper to keep them entertained…

The list goes on and on. She even complains about them pooping, as if that somehow affects her at all.

They demand everything and contribute nothing: their food is cheap (if they order food at all) and they don’t get drinks (yes, I know that’s obvious, but a waitress’s No. 1 goal is to up that tab). They need special food that’s not too hot and not too hard, and their bottles need to be heated up–but they can’t be microwaved. (“Can I get a warm–but not too hot–basin to soak this in?” I’ve had many-a-mother ask sweetly.) For the record, restaurants don’t keep “hot water basins” on hand

The author complains about whiny children, but I can think of a word with a similar meaning often applied to adults. It begins with B and ends with an itch. Often accompanied by “moan.”

What strikes me is that she really isn’t even complaining about “bad” kids, but normal-acting children. Yes, a toddler is a messy eater. Yes (I know it’s hard to believe) babies poop. In their diaper! In public places!

Much of what her complaint comes down to is one of economics. She feels first and foremost resentful at having to work such a job, and second of all resentful of parents who (to her mind) don’t tip decently. Honey, maybe you don’t get a nice tip from parents because they can sense how much you, in your words, “hate” their child? I wouldn’t tip you one dime if you acted even the slightest bit inconvenienced to be waiting on my family.

And then she admits that her goal as a waitress is to bump up the tab? I only wish I knew which restaurant she works at so I could avoid it, with or without children. Better yet, I think it would be fun to find out which restaurant she works at and plan my son’s seventh birthday party there. Do you have a party room available, Dear? We’ll show you what it looks like to spill noodles on the floor.