impressions: the sunset limited.

"black: what. we done opened a can of worm here? what you got against being happy?
white: it's contrary to the human condition"
somewhere in the ghettos of new york cities is an apartment rather small and low classed, sits around a table a rural folky black man and a well educated white professor, conversing back and forth some of life's ultimate questions, pulling each other backward and forward into the others firmly engrossed belief.
this play (or novel in a dramatic form as the critiques like to say) was deeply moving chiefly for the reason:
it seemed like an internal monologe.
the monologe we all get when questioning the world, questioning the purpose of existence, questioning the actual possibility of genuin happiness or if it is merely built on how many illusions you could rap your self with.
while: a professor of darkness, finds himself in desire of death, of end, and peace and quite and apocalypse to all things as disgusting and pointless as dreams and hopes.
black: a folksy seemingly simpleton who has found Jesus in the very roughness of prison violence.
and so on their dialoge goes n to represent universal thoughts in the most poetic of language and word formation.
Cormac Mcarthy as always, keeps me intrigued and gives me literature that always leaves me displaced.
"if people saw the world for what it truly is. saw their lives for what they truly are. without dreams or illusions. I dont believe they could offer the first reason why they should not elect to die as soon as possible."

impressions:the road

"no sound but the wind.what will you say? a living man spoke these lines? he sharpened his quill with a small pen knife to scribe these things in sole or lampblack? at some reckonable and entabled moment? he is coming to steal my eyes. to steal my mouth with dirt." -cormack mcarthy.

somewhere in the united states, in a post apocalyptic land, is an unnamed man, and his unnamed son, walking along the indefinite road, into unguarantied, undefined survival.
practically nothing in this book goes by specifics, no one has a name, the disaster that caused this apocalypse  unidentified, lending its self to the idea, non of this is personal.
this is a pure representation of humanity, at its weakest and strongest as if the two are interchangeable, as if at the face of the cold and desertion and lack of civilization, as if in fear and loneliness and malnutrition, it is given, that the mere fatherly-son relationship, could survive, tuberculoses, and the extinction of humanity.
it also reveals men at their core, describing them from a kids pont of view as simple, and somewhat incorrect, as "the good guys" and "the bad guys".
ones who's deepened weakness crippled humanity within them, turned them into immoral barbaric, while the others were set on a deep heap of bravery.
they carry the fire.
this book was dark, to say the least, but mesmerizing in its darkness and poeticness, and full understanding of human nature that it would go one, in 300 pages of noting but humanity unhindered by luxuries and society.
a pulitzer prize winning masterpiece.
"query: how dose the never to be differ from the never was?"