*Child of God

Maybe it was all the onions in the salad John whipped up that made my intestines churn a bit, but more likely it was Cormac Mccarthy's Child of God. Those little chapters spotted like blood or muddy footprints on the clean white snow...beautiful draw in, you start out with hearing stories and then the third person prose vines its way wround your legs until you are complicit in Lester's crimes...I wonder if it was intended to be sympathetic..."a child of God much like yourself"...are we supposed to find Lester's fumblings just a little adorable as he blushingly buys pretty clothes for his lady, that cold corpse of a girl he hoisted up into his attic to keep in the chill? Or perhaps we shouldn't use the word sympathetic to talk about a group of words on the page, no matter how frighteningly human they are. There's also something comforting about reading a book in one sitting, knowing the whole story before you focus on another thought, putting it down closed, unmarked, at rest, to let its cover smirk at you, "I told you so." Though comforting might be the wrong word to use with this one...looks like I'm going to have to suck it up and read everything he's written.