I’ve rooted for a character before, I’ve warned him not to open a door. Never before, however, have I waited as he passed a light over a discovery and looked him in the eye in that moment of awe of discovery.
He turned and looked at the boy crouched above him blinking in the smoke rising up from the lamp and then he descended to the lower steps and sat and held the lamp out. Oh my God, he whispered. Oh my God. (p. 116)
As reader, I am immersed totally in this grey world which McCarthy has so carefully plotted to make me aware of by his persistance of language. When there is a new stretch of landscape I check the ashes for footprints before the man does. I don’t have complete trust in his abilities; he’s tired, worn, overwhelmed by responsibility.
We watch out for the man. Me and the boy.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology