There have always been two dominant styles in Cormac McCarthy's prose-roughly, afflatus and deflatus, with not enough breathable oxygen between them. McCarthy in afflatus mode is magnificent, vatic, wasteful, hammy. The words stagger around their meanings, intoxicated by the grandiloquence of their gesturing: "God's own mudlark trudging cloaked and muttering the barren selvage of some nameless desolation where the cold sidereal sea breaks and seethes and the storms howl in from out of that black and heaving alcahest." McCarthy's deflatus mode is a rival rhetoric of mute exhaustion, as if all words, hungover from the intoxication, can hold on only to habit and familiar things: "He made himself a sandwich and spread some mustard over it and he poured a glass of milk." "He put his toothbrush back in his shavingkit and got a towel out of his bag and went down to the bathroom and showered in one of the steel stalls and shaved and brushed his teeth and came back and put on a fresh shirt."
Denne historien er fra December 19, 2022-utgaven av The New Yorker.
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Denne historien er fra December 19, 2022-utgaven av The New Yorker.
Start din 7-dagers gratis prøveperiode på Magzter GOLD for å få tilgang til tusenvis av utvalgte premiumhistorier og 9000+ magasiner og aviser.
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THE ST. ALWYNN GIRLS AT SEA SHEILA HETI
There was a general sadness that day on the ship. Dani was walking listlessly from cabin to cabin, delivering little paper flyers announcing the talent show at the end of the month. She had made them the previous week; then had come news that the boys' ship would not be attending. It almost wasn't worth handing out flyers at all—almost as if the show had been cancelled. The boys' ship had changed course; it was now going to be near Gibraltar on the night of the performance—nowhere near where their ship would be, in the middle of the North Atlantic sea. Every girl in school had already heard Dani sing and knew that her voice was strong and good. The important thing was for Sebastien to know. Now Sebastien would never know, and it might be months before she would see him again—if she ever would see him again. All she had to look forward to now were his letters, and they were only delivered once a week, and no matter how closely Dani examined them, she could never have perfect confidence that he loved her, because of all his mentions of a girlfriend back home.
WHEELS UP
Can the U.K.’s Foreign Secretary negotiate a course between the E.U. and President Trump?
A CRITIC AT LARGE - CHECK THIS OUT
If you think apps and social media are ruining our ability to concentrate, you haven't been paying attention.
PARTY FAVORS
Perle Mesta and the golden age of the Washington hostess.
CHARLOTTE'S PLACE
Living with the ghost of a cinéma-vérité pioneer.
THE CURRENT CINEMA - GHOST'S-EYE VIEW
“Presence.”
MILLENNIALS: WHERE ARE THEY NOW?
Fame is fickle, and no one knows this better than millennials. Once, they were everywhere—in television laugh tracks for “The Big Bang Theory,” in breathless think pieces about social-media narcissism, and acting the fool in 360p YouTube comedy videos. Then—poof! Gone like yesterday’s avocado toast.
ANNALS OF INQUIRY: CHASING A DREAM
What insomniacs know.
THE MASTER BUILDER
Norman Foster's empire of image control.
INTIMATE PROJECTS DEPT. THE GOLDFISH BOWL
There are roughly eight hundred galleries that hold the permanent collection of the Met, and as of a recent Tuesday morning the married writers Dan and Becky Okrent had examined every piece in all but two.
