The Road

Where to begin your Pulitzer Prize-winning final love sonnet to your beautiful America, eh? In a weepy dream filled with Disneyesque animatronic unicorns and CGI sea otters that talk like Ernest Borgnine? I think not. Why not begin at the end, the end of everything you hold dear? Why not gracefully narrate in an elegiac (as in elegy: a mournful poem, a lament for the dead) fashion a book about the collapse of the very thing you hold closest to your heart? Why not envision the end as a death march for survival during which you shepherd your own sole heir, your son, into a most uncertain future? This is what Cormac McCarthy, author of