“Too soon old and too late smart. You dont know anything till it gets here. You told me once that maybe the end of the road has nothing to do with the road. Maybe it doesnt even know there’s been a road.”
A meditation on grief and an exploration of the role of math and science in questions of eternity, "The Passenger" is a fascinating kaleidoscope of genres. Cormac McCarthy details the life and times of Bobby Western, son of the creator of the nuclear bomb, physics phenom, former race-car driver, and itinerant salvage diver.
“Names are important. They set the parameters for the rules of engagement. The origin of language is in the single sound that designates the other person. Before you do something to them.”
Western wanders New Orleans and the Gulf Coast, ruminating with an eclectic cast of characters as he struggles to define his life in the wake of the loss of his sister, with whom he had a troubling and vaguely heretical relationship. These characters (Kline seems to exist only as a conduit for lengthy diatribes) can occasionally be difficult to keep straight, chronology can get hazy, and attribution can be problematic, but the sheer brilliance of the dialogue makes the novel an immediate classic.
“The world is full of people who should have been more willing to weep.”
“Mercy is the province of the person alone. There is mass hatred and there is mass grief. Mass vengeance and even mass suicide. But there is no mass forgiveness. There is only you.”
As the narrator, Western is difficult to pin down: Is he insane? Going insane? A ghost himself? In a coma-induced dream state? "The Passenger" stands on its own, but the presence of "Stella Maris" as the companion book inspires hope that some of the mystery and ambiguity could be resolved.
“The world’s truth constitutes a vision so terrifying as to beggar the prophecies of the bleakest seer who ever walked it.”
Indications are that most of this book was written in 1980 and published 42 years later, and balancing the hilarity and depth can only be achieved by a writer of McCarthy's talent. With 16 years between novels, it's clear that McCarthy is pushing himself here in his final works -- and the results are to be treasured.
“Her hair was like gossamer. He wasnt sure what gossamer was. Her hair was like gossamer.”
“He knew that on the day of his death he would see her face and he could hope to carry that beauty into the darkness with him, the last pagan on earth, singing softly upon his pallet in an unknown tongue.”
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