A bit of a strange phenomenon happening with this reading. The "wow" factor of reading McCarthy is not interfering with the story.
It’s not, I’m sure, a disenchantment with McCarthy’s writing, but rather a getting used to and taking for granted his skill with language. It reads smoother, easier, as I go along. I think that if a normal sentence came along, I’d tend to think, "wow, that was less than exciting."
I’ll get back with some examples–I left the book in the shop–because I was thinking of it last night and again this morning; how language becomes a part of us and how it influences our further use of it. This may tie in a bit with my tendency to write rather formally in the style of Poe, although I’ve lost the accent somewhat, just as a friend who has lived down south for many years has lost–to my ears–her New England accent. She claims however, that to her family and friends down there, she’s not speaking southern at all.
If only, if only, if only, McCarthy rubs off on my writing as well. What a combination of style layered over Edgar’s indelible stamp.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology