The Library Annex

It tells what it wishes to tell. It tells what makes the story run. The corrido is the poor man’s history. It does not owe its allegiance to the truths of history but ot the truths of men. It tells the tale of that solitary man who is all men. It believes that where two men meet one of two things can occur and nothing else. In the one case a lie is born and in the other death.

Not often do sequels outperform their original. Yet in this second installment of The Border Trilogy, McCarthy delves deeper into the experience of a youth coming of age. In this installment, however, Billy learns of the complexities of a boy’s deconstruction in order to learn of the real world and himself. Perhaps I would call this a deconstructroman, almost nihilist in nature. But it’s the truth.

Like in All the Pretty Horses, McCarthy splits the narrative into four parts. Yet in this composition, it seems he employs more purpose in doing so, as if each part mirrors the last in arc and could stand alone as its own book.

Within each section, we witness Billy’s endeavors through the wilds of the American Southwest and Mexico as McCarthy dictates with almost an Old Man and the Sea sense of style. He would then meet sages or soothsayers along his way, often the elderly, who plant stories and principles within him about the world within which he grows. Then he experiences a climactic event which leads to some form of tragedy and deconstructs him piece by piece.

The elderly stories and advise given to Billy differentiate this work from others I’ve read from McCarthy. Not since The Brothers Karamozov have I read stories within a book to rival The Grand Inquisitor. But McCarthy’s tales; of catching a wolf, of living within a ruin, of going blind, and of history, all serve as window’s and mirrors for Billy into the veil of the world and his own soul. These stories are his scripture and he must continue traversing the land before understanding their reference within his life.

The world is a tale. There are spaces within the world unseen by men. It is held together by stitches of overlooked encounters, bodies and things. It is a relative collection of experiences and it slowly dismantles the things that blind us from seeing it wholistically, and we forget the images and memories of things which represent the world for us, until we’re left with only ourselves, bare within it, a simple, adversarial existence from which we fully might understand ourselves.