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Someone who enjoys this please enlighten me or show me a way into McCarthy's prose using examples of what's good. I tried several times to read his novels and I'm sorry, but it's just terrible. It's hard to put my finger on what is so unappealing. The closest I can come to what is bad about it is that it reads like farce without humor (if you take 'farce' to be a question of tempo, as in "tragedy sped up"). The opening to Blood Meridian (his masterpiece, I'm told) is just this endless stream of backstory that The Kid is supposed to have done or been but no exposition of anything. It sounds like the imagination of a 13yo boy playing with his GI Joes or super heroes. The fragmentary style and purply-pulpish register is very hard to take seriously. Where's the beef? Please post some passages that don't sound like common pulp fiction, unless that's what people are crowing about, in which case...I got nothin'.

[ojosilva]

    “Do you think we’re going to die?”
    “No.”
    “We’re not?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because we’re carrying the fire.”
    “What fire?”
    “The fire inside. Goodness. That’s what we’re carrying.”

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Not trying to piss on the fire but that's almost exactly the kind of thing I'm unable to enjoy. I guess I wonder "Who speaks like that?" It's wooden and affected to my ear. It comes across as needlessly obtuse. I'm not saying it's exceptional for that style, but to me it reads like so many YA fantasy novels from my youth, or maybe a /r/ for aspiring writers. If I'm being asked to work so hard to elucidate the symbolism or metaphorical content, then shouldn't I expect a little back in the form of beautiful English. If this were a poem (where obscurity is expected) I would say it's a meh poem just on the basis of not being very interesting. I get this is a father/son dialogue and maybe the terseness appeals to some, but I would ask those readers if that's how they talk to their own sons.

In the spirit of fairness, I found some fan favorites from /r/cormacmccarthy and if these are representative of his most powerful prose I don't know what to say:

"It was a lone tree burning on the desert. A heraldic tree that the passing storm had left afire. The solitary pilgrim drawn up before it had traveled far to be here and he knelt in the hot sand and held his numbed hands out while all about in that circle attended companies of lesser auxiliaries routed forth into the inordinate day, small owls that crouched silently and stood from foot to foot and tarantulas and solpugas and vinegarroons and the vicious mygale spiders and beaded lizards with mouths black as a chowdog's, deadly to man, and the little desert basilisks that jet blood from their eyes and the small sandvipers like seemly gods, silent and the same, in Jeda, in Babylon. A constellation of ignited eyes that edged the ring of light all bound in a precarious truce before this torch whose brightness had set back the stars in their sockets."

A "heraldic tree...left afire"? That's, er, not good. It's actually bad. And "auxiliaries routed(?) forth into the inordinate(?) day"? This is like the guy in the Community Arts writing class who gets a lot of praise but could really use an editor.

And the 'ands' are just interminable. And this and that and the other thing and one more and something totally different but also this and that. Good lord, someone give this man a period, or even a semi-colon. Here's another exemplar of a sentence that runs on more than the horses in it.

"That night he dreamt of horses in a field on a high plain where the spring rains had brought up the grass and the wild flowers out of the ground and the flowers ran all blue and yellow far as the eye could see and in the dream he was among the horses running and in the dream he himself could run with the horses and they coursed the young mares and fillies over the plain where their rich bay and their rich chestnut colors shone in the sun and the young colts ran with their dams and trampled down the flowers in a haze of pollen that hung in the sun like powdered gold and they ran he and the horses out along the high mesas where the ground resounded under their running hooves and they flowed and changed and ran and their manes and tails blew off of them like spume and there was nothing else at all in that high world and they moved all of them in a resonance that was like a music among them and they were none of them afraid horse nor colt nor mare and they ran in that resonance which is the world itself and which cannot be spoken but only praised."

"that resonance which is the world itself" is just royal purple prose.

I apologize for disliking something others like, it doesn't seem fair, but I get the feeling that Cormac McCarthy is one of those "favorites" for people who don't have a lot to compare it to. Anytime someone tells me their favorite author is Cormac McCarthy, I'm always tempted to ask, "Who's your second favorite?"