THE HOUSE OF CORMAC McCARTHY
or
The Deep Redness of the West
Vol 1
Summer 2020
...Where have all the Pretty Horses gone?...
“...He called and called. Standing in that inexplicable darkness. Where there was no sound anywhere save only the wind. After a while he sat in the road. He took off his hat and placed it on the tarmac before him and he bowed his head and held his face in his hands and wept. He sat there for a long time and after a while the east did gray and after a while the right and god made sun did rise, once again, for all and without distinction.” - Cormac McCarthy, The Crossing
“There is but one world and everything that is imaginable is necessary to it. For this world also which seems
to us a thing of stone and flower and blood is not a thing at all but is a tale. And all in it is a tale and each tale
the sum of all lesser tales and yet these are also the selfsame tale and contain as well all else within them.
So everything is necessary. Every least thing. This is the hard lesson. Nothing can be dispensed with. Nothing
despised. Because the seams are hid from us, you see. The joinery. The way in which the world is made. We
have no way to know what could be taken away. What omitted. We have no way to tell what might stand and
what might fall. And those seams that are hid from us are of course in the tale itself and the tale has no abode
or place of beind except in the telling only and there it lives and makes its home and therefore we can never
be done with the telling. Of the telling there is no end. And... in whatever... place by whatever... name or by no
name at all... all tales are one. Rightly heard all tales are one.” - Cormac McCarthy, The Crossing
to us a thing of stone and flower and blood is not a thing at all but is a tale. And all in it is a tale and each tale
the sum of all lesser tales and yet these are also the selfsame tale and contain as well all else within them.
So everything is necessary. Every least thing. This is the hard lesson. Nothing can be dispensed with. Nothing
despised. Because the seams are hid from us, you see. The joinery. The way in which the world is made. We
have no way to know what could be taken away. What omitted. We have no way to tell what might stand and
what might fall. And those seams that are hid from us are of course in the tale itself and the tale has no abode
or place of beind except in the telling only and there it lives and makes its home and therefore we can never
be done with the telling. Of the telling there is no end. And... in whatever... place by whatever... name or by no
name at all... all tales are one. Rightly heard all tales are one.” - Cormac McCarthy, The Crossing
“He thought that in the beauty of the world were hid a secret. He thought that the world’s heart beat at some terrible cost and that the world’s pain and its beauty moved in a relationship of diverging equity and that in
this headlong deficit the blood of multitudes might ultimately be exacted for the vision of a single flower.” - Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses
this headlong deficit the blood of multitudes might ultimately be exacted for the vision of a single flower.” - Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses
