I tend to enjoy literature written in so-called "brain voices," where the reader is burrowing into the thoughts of the author or an authorial-like presence, examples of which vary greatly and include Infinite Jest, Lolita, and the works of Haruki Murakami. Contrast that to realistic and in-the-moment descriptive prose, a closer relative to poetry and which the above examples certainly indulge in at moments, but which is in the domain of writers such as Cormac McCarthy, often cited as one of the best American novelists, and author of The Road, a short post-apocalyptic novel that I have just finished. (The only other McCarthy that I have read is All the Pretty Horses; Blood Meridian and maybe Suttree is on my list.)

While the post-apocalyptic genre is often characterized by futuristic technology, makeshift communes, and roving gangs a la Mad Max, The Road sticks to the basic survivalist story of a man and his young son, traveling down a road in search of the next unrifled store of non-perishables. The apocalyptic event has long passed, the world is a constant ashen gray, all plants and animals are pretty much dead along with most humans, and those remaining are strictly concerned with finding their next meal, whether it be canned goods or man foods. The latter cannibalistic types are the source of the most gruesome parts of the book, both in visceral content and in its twisted inventiveness -- but always mercilessly realistic. McCarthy's prose is simple and descriptive, wavering between Hemingway and Faulkner, with the actions of the man and the boy mixed with descriptions like:

In the field the dead sedge was drifted nearly out of sight and the snow stood in razor kerfs atop the fencewires and the silence was breathless.

What was most intriguing to me about The Road as a post-apocalyptic novel is that it is both incredibly pessimistic and persistently optimistic -- in that mankind is near inevitable extinction and organic matter is near exhaustion, yet the man and the boy keep on managing to find food without giving up or resorting to cruelty. Still, at times the optimism is shrouded and the reader, at least in my case, can only think of how poorly they would manage in such a terrible world. You're not going to find out how civilization ends in The Road, nor will you find any 12 Monkeys-esque ingenuity, but you will read a gritty and compelling take on how goodness can limp through even the worst of all worlds.

But back to brain voices: on Tuesday I will begin to go Against the Day.