Cormac McCarthy mastered the language of the common man like no one else.

Cormac McCarthy: A Literary Genius

Cormac McCarthy, often hailed as the greatest American novelist since Faulkner, left us on Tuesday. His fiction delves deep into the heart of American culture and identity, surpassing the insights of many sociologists.

McCarthy’s work tackles the most profound questions about human existence, imbuing his stories with a depth that is characteristic of truly great literature. I have always been struck by the richness of his writing, captivated by its brilliance.

While many critics view McCarthy’s novels as bleak and hopeless, portraying a dark and loveless worldview, I find a profound love for his characters within his pages. Despite their struggles and conflicts, these fictional individuals embody basic moral commitment, strong values, and decency.

Exploring this topic in its entirety would require a lengthy treatise. However, I can illustrate the case more efficiently by highlighting examples from McCarthy’s prose. Through his meticulous documentation of language, infused with homespun wisdom and humor, McCarthy captures the essence of what we used to call “the common man.”

His memorable characters, such as John Grady Cole, Billy Parham, Llewelyn Moss, and Sheriff Bell, speak in the endearing idiom of southern American dialects. Their moral sensibility, often disparaged by the contemporary cultural elite, is brought to life through McCarthy’s elaborate and humorous rendering of their speech.

McCarthy uses language to convey that those who speak in this manner possess valuable insights into the world, insights that may elude those who communicate differently. The “common man,” with his colorful language, stands as the hero of McCarthy’s fiction.

In “All the Pretty Horses,” as John Grady Cole and Rawlins break horses at a Mexican ranch, Rawlins humorously describes the toll it takes on his hands: “Them old hot maggie ropes have eat my hands about up.”

Later, when the men encounter a lost friend in a Mexican jail, he delivers a blunt yet ominous line that elicits both laughter and foreboding: “What a man wont see when he aint got a gun.”

In “Cities of the Plain,” Cole and Billy Parham develop a strong friendship, exchanging witty and populist banter:

‘Are you a tracker?’ said John Grady.

‘I’m a trackin fool. I can track lowflyin birds.’

“No Country for Old Men” features some of McCarthy’s most famous lines in this style, some of which made it into the screenplay of the acclaimed film. For instance, when Llewelyn Moss’s wife questions him about the pistol he acquired, his response never fails to amuse: “‘At the gittin place.’

‘Where’d you git that pistol?’ she called.

‘At the gittin place.’

Even in the face of danger, Moss’s country calm remains unshaken:

‘I thought you was dead,’ she said.

‘Well I aint so dont go to slobberin.’

Throughout McCarthy’s final two novels, there are numerous examples of this “common man” language. However, one of the central characters, Alicia, speaks differently. McCarthy uses Alicia as a representation of his own contemplation of reality, particularly as he faced his own mortality.

In “Stella Maris,” Alicia engages in conversations with a psychiatrist in a mental hospital. These exchanges are highly stylized, and it seems unlikely that someone in their twenties, like Alicia, could possess such extensive knowledge on various subjects.

Alicia’s speech does not align with that of the “common man.” As a savant in mathematics, she has acquired a pompous manner of speaking from her education. She delves into topics such as the meaning of the world, our ability to comprehend reality, the nature of violence, and the human inclination towards self-destruction. Above all, she contemplates mortality and life after death. McCarthy uses Alicia’s language to explore his own interests, which also captivate Alicia.

Yet, even Alicia remains connected to the world of the “common man” through her love and admiration for her grandmother, “Granellen.” Her grandmother represents the pragmatic and resilient roots of rural America.

In McCarthy’s final novel, “Stella Maris,” the focus is not on the nihilistic affirmation of the universe’s moral meaninglessness, as some critics suggest. Instead, Alicia ponders the failure of reason to fully comprehend reality, drawing inspiration from the simple culture and origins of her grandmother.

Mathematics alone cannot capture the fullness of the world. Alicia realizes that the love and faith exhibited by people like her grandmother are the true essence of existence.

In my interpretation, even Alicia’s death by suicide is not an affirmation of despair, but rather the failure of a highly educated individual to fully grasp the wisdom of her humble ancestors, despite glimpsing the truth.

On this somber occasion, as we bid farewell to Cormac McCarthy, let us remember one final example of his language from the “common man.”

In “The Crossing,” Billy Parham encounters a fellow New Mexican who shares his disdain for Texans. The man tells Billy a hilarious joke about a Texas lion and a New Mexico lion. The Texas lion struggles to find food in Texas, while the New Mexico lion offers a poetic explanation:

Well, the old New Mexico lion looked at him and he said, “It’s a wonder you ain’t dead. That’s all wrong for your Texans, and I don’t see how you got through the winter at all. Look here. First of all, when you holler thataway, it scares the sh-t out of ’em. Then when you jump on top of ’em thataway, it knocks the wind out of ’em. Hell, son. You ain’t got nothin’ left but buckles and boots.”

Godspeed, McCarthy.