Cormac McCarthy is one of the greats of our time. This isn’t news to anyone.

If the message of the book can be condensed to one line, it would be “say what you feel, damnit!”

I like to think some reads are just bad timing. For whatever reason, this book was one of those.

Here’s my attempt at reviewing what nearly became the unreviewable.

The writing is next level and mind-bogglingly human to its core.

I’ll say it: narratives can be over-rated.

I don’t think I’ve read a clearer book in message and execution before.

In lesser hands it would’ve been a drag, possibly unreadable.

I’m not sure how I made it though this beautifully strange book without sobbing, but I did.

This book came out of nowhere for me from an author I’d never heard of, but I’m paying attention now.

Hunger, violence, longing, and humor: a coming-of-age concoction that's an unexpectedly perfect blend.

Cormac McCarthy is proof that the rules for writing are only guidelines.

Grief is a go-to emotion for a reason.

Not since reading East of Eden have I felt like I was reading a masterpiece.

I enjoy a nice love story when the mood is right, but this was one for the ages.

As it’s said somewhere in the book, you can tell a lot about a person by the games they like to play.

A timeless romance, aged up but young at heart.

If you plan on doing any existing in the future, this story will be relevant. I promise.

The writing is worth experiencing. Even if it makes you feel small, it knows you and you’ll know it.

Saramago is Portugal’s patron saint of Literature, and now I know why.