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The Long-Awaited Finale To Cormac McCarthy's 'Border Trilogy' Is Another Tribute To The Impossibly Beautiful.
By Jim Carvalho
Cities of the Plain, by Cormac McCarthy (Knopf).
Cloth, $24.
By now of course longing has clouded their minds...The simplest
truths are obscured. They cannot seem to see that the most elementary
fact concerning whores--is that they are whores.
--from Cities of the Plain
IN THE LONG-awaited final installment of his lauded Border
Trilogy, Cormac McCarthy unites John Grady Cole and Billy Parham,
the heroes of All the Pretty Horses and The Crossing.
The year is 1952. Cole and Parham work for the Cross Fours ranch
near Orogrande, New Mexico. The ranch, 50 miles north of El Paso,
is soon to be confiscated by the U.S. government for military
use.
Cole is the "all-American cowboy," the master horseman.
On a visit to La Venada, a Juárez whorehouse, Cole spies
a young prostitute and falls in love. Unbeknownst to Cole (and
us) she also catches the eye of Eduardo, the alcahuete of the
White Lake, a high-priced brothel outside the city. Thus is born
this allegorical tale of horses and whores, conflict and tragedy.
McCarthy's always been more wordsmith than storyteller. His language
has always been the most important part of his stories, and Cities
of the Plain is no exception. The characters and situations
he introduces here--a blind maestro, a one-eyed criada,
an oily pimp, a pack of feral, calf-killing dogs, a Mexican transient
who uses words like "chimera"--invite us to to ponder
a full catalog of conflicts including young vs. old, East vs.
West, old vs. new, rural vs. urban, superstition vs. reason, dreams
vs. reality....
And on everything, in everything, over and under everything,
looms Mexico. In the earlier Border books, that's where John Grady
lost a lover and where Billy lost a brother, and in Cities
of the Plain, it still looms large.
And it's still a mystery. As Billy puts it: I damn sure dont
know what Mexico is. I think it's in your head....The first ranchera
you hear sung you understand the whole country. By the time you've
heard a hundred you dont know nothin. You never will.
Later, Eduardo explains the mystery, and the attraction: Your
kind cannot bear that the world be ordinary. That it contain nothing
save what stands before one. But the Mexican world is a world
of adornment only and underneath it is very plain indeed. While
your world...totters upon an unspoken labyrinth of questions.
And we will devour you, my friend. You and all your pale empire.
But in the end, when an American hunting knife is used to forcibly
fasten a Mexican's lower jaw to his skull, the imagery concerning
U.S.-Mexico relations is as subtle as, well, a hunting knife through
the jaw. The U.S. and Mexico are bonded, forever, and even with
all the chewing and gnawing, no one's devouring anyone, thank
you.
To say McCarthy's writing isn't light is a gross understatement.
Some readers--and I place myself in this category--find his writing
impossibly beautiful. Others just find it impossible. When it
comes to the nuts and bolts of writing, McCarthy's got his own
way of doing things. He rarely uses apostrophes in conjunctions,
drops the period in most abbreviations, and does away with quotation
marks altogether. This last can be troubling in long sections
of dialog where who's saying what might not always be apparent.
Depending on your mood and personality, McCarthy's two-dictionary
vocabulary--he uses procuress, ruff, debauchees, spitalhouse,
fard, replevined, rondel, bakelite, and misset in a single paragraph--stands
either to fascinate or infuriate.
He uses plenty of Spanish, often in ways that don't lend themselves
to translation-by-context, and some of his Spanish vocabulary--filero
and quinquagesima, for example--won't be found in staid
Castilian dictionaries. He uses run-on sentences when describing
the most common of activities, making the mundane truly boring,
and critical readers may even catch him using a cliché
or two (I suspect these were intentional; McCarthy's too good
a writer). But these minor irritations are crushed under the overall
impact of his masterful allegory.
In the epilogue to Cities of the Plain, it's the new millennium
and Billy Parham is 78 years old. Broke and homeless, he meets
another bum, a Mexican. Sitting under a highway overpass in central
Arizona, Billy listens to the Mexican's fanciful, long-winded
tale of loneliness, human sacrifice, and dreams within dreams.
At one point, Billy interrupts his companion's rambling story
and utters words that could very well have been directed at McCarthy
himself: I think you got a habit of makin things a bit more
complicated than what they need to be. Why not just tell the story?
Later, the Mexican explains why: ...in dreams it is often
the case that the greatest extravagances seem bereft of their
power to astonish and the most improbable chimeras appear commonplace.
The Mexican could just as easily have been talking about McCarthy's
writing. Like a marathon or a marriage, reading McCarthy is hard
work well worth the effort.
Jim Carvalho is the editor and publisher of Border Beat: The
Border Arts Journal. Issue 9, "Love and Language,"
will be available in bookstores, galleries and other select sites
in late July.
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