This will be the first of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.
First up: Cormac McCarthy's The Road.
Review:
Really? Really now? I just read 280 pages for that? People walking in an ashtray of life? Thanks for the ambiguity. I loved how you left everything wide open and couldn't make a hard decision in the book, Cormac. My grandmother would've called you indecisive and then slapped you off the back of the head. Seriously, next time try to make up your mind and decide on something. No character names...no development...no plot details...no explanations. No problem, I guess. Since you didn't decide on anything, Cormac, you didn't have to worry about writing much of a story.
Here's the entire story in amazing, pin-point detail: A father and son walk in a world of ashes. Pop is pissy. Son is sweet. Pop gets a cough and dies. Son goes off with another man and keeps walking. The end.
With all the ashes in the story the book was as much an anti-smoking advertisement than a book. Joe Camel is probably more disappointed than I am. The Marlboro Man is probably weeping an emphasematic cry of sadness, too. And so am I, and I don't even smoke.
