Guest post from MacDad:
So I'm in an airport. Tired, mentally bankrupt, fighting back a cold, and nothing to look forward to except the next several lost hours spent being queued through anonymous glass and steel corridors and into an airborne, aluminum tube full of meat before I get back to the family at home. And then I do something I wouldn't normally do. I buy a paperback and start reading it.
I finished it later that night. I was home, and although the world was quiet, I had an immediate need to find my sleeping wife and son, to touch them and to feel that that they were real and safe and that I had done my job for the day.
The book is The Road. I don't think I'm going to see the film when it comes out next week. There is something pure and unspoiled in the bleak landscape of words that Cormac Mccarthy has assembled. There is something untouchable in the tenderness between the unnamed father and son.
My wife wonders what's different about this book to me, and why I finished it when I leave so many others halfway through. For a new father, this is the story that lays plain all of the undecorated love and horror that I normally keep safely to myself. I don't expect her to like the book.
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