By Cormac McCarthy
An epic novel of the violence and depravity that attended America's westward enlargement, Blood Meridianbrilliantly subverts the conventions of the Western novel and the mythology of the "wild west." in accordance with old occasions that came about at the Texas-Mexico border within the 1850s, it strains the fortunes of the child, a fourteen-year-old Tennesseean who stumbles into the nightmarish global the place Indians are being murdered and the marketplace for their scalps is flourishing.
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Extra info for Blood Meridian: Or the Evening Redness in the West
Days of riding where there rode no soul save he. He’s left behind the pinewood country and the evening sun declines before him beyond an endless swale and dark falls here like a thunderclap and a cold wind sets the weeds to gnashing. The night sky lies so sprent with stars that there is scarcely space of black at all and they fall all night in bitter arcs and it is so that their numbers are no less. He keeps from off the king’s road for fear of citizenry. The little prairie wolves cry all night and dawn finds him in a grassy draw where he’d gone to hide from the wind.
They aint nothin wrong with you, he said. The kid looked about stiffly at the day. Where’s my boots? he said. The man squinted at him. Flakes of dried mud fell from his face. I’m goin to have to kill some son of a bitch if they got my boots. Yonder looks like one of em. The kid labored off through the mud and fetched up one boot. He slogged about in the yard feeling likely lumps of mud. This your knife? he said. The man squinted at him. Looks like it, he said. The kid pitched it to him and he bent and picked it up and wiped the huge blade on his trouserleg.
A hardlooking woman with a wiry body like a man’s. By the time he is mended he has no money to pay her and he leaves in the night and sleeps on the riverbank until he can find a boat that will take him on. The boat is going to Texas. Only now is the child finally divested of all that he has been. His origins are become remote as is his destiny and not again in all the world’s turning will there be terrains so wild and barbarous to try whether the stuff of creation may be shaped to man’s will or whether his own heart is not another kind of clay.