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The Crossing (Turtleback School & Library Binding Edition)

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Following All the Pretty Horses in Cormac McCarthy's Border Trilogy is a novel whose force of language is matched only by its breadth of experience and depth of thought.

In the bootheel of New Mexico hard on the frontier, Billy and Boyd Parham are just boys in the years before the Second World War, but on the cusp of unimaginable events. First comes a trespassing Indian and the dream of wolves running wild amongst the cattle lately brought ...

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The Crossing (Border Trilogy Series #2)

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Overview

Following All the Pretty Horses in Cormac McCarthy's Border Trilogy is a novel whose force of language is matched only by its breadth of experience and depth of thought.

In the bootheel of New Mexico hard on the frontier, Billy and Boyd Parham are just boys in the years before the Second World War, but on the cusp of unimaginable events. First comes a trespassing Indian and the dream of wolves running wild amongst the cattle lately brought onto the plain by settlers — this when all the wisdom of trappers has disappeared along with the trappers themselves. And so Billy sets forth at the age of sixteen on an unwitting journey into the souls of boys and animals and men. Having trapped a she-wolf he would restore to the mountains of Mexico, he is long gone and returns to find everything he left behind transformed utterly in his absence. Except his kid brother, Boyd, with whom he strikes out yet again to reclaim what is theirs thus crossing into "that antique gaze from whence there could be no way back forever."

An essential novel by any measure, The Crossing is luminous and appalling, a book that touches, stops, and starts the heart and mind at once.


The second book in his Border trilogy tells the story of a young boy who tries to capture a she-wolf after her mate is killed. 2 cassettes.

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Editorial Reviews

Newsweek
A true American original.
San Francisco Chronicle
[The Border trilogy is] an American classic to stand with the finest achievements of the century.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Young Billy Parham, in a horse stall, dreams of his father's eyes, ``those eyes that seemed to contemplate with a terrible equanimity the cold and the dark and the silence that moved upon him.'' Billy could as well be dreaming of McCarthy's prose and the unsparing tone of this, the second volume in the Border Trilogy. The Crossing , following the award-winning and bestselling All the Pretty Horses , is set in the American Southwest and in Mexico, and features, like its predecessor, teenage boys, their horses, a girl and the recurring spectacles of desert days and nights, awful wonders and appalling deprivations, and no small amount of roadside philosophizing. The story of Billy, his younger brother Boyd, the fates of their horses, a wolf, their parents and their dog, set against a vague and distant backdrop of the coming Second World War, throws little light upon a universe without much meaning, though it is in the nature of McCarthy characters to try to anyway. In the end, when the last dog is hanged, so to speak, what survives is the rhythm of McCarthy's open, ropey sentences circling a logic as inscrutable as an animal's or a god's. Although no mysteries are solved, and no comfort gained for these lonely characters, there is that language wrestling to earth all that it cannot know and all that it can. Readers again will be in awe of McCarthy's extraordinary prose attentions--the biblical cadences, the freshened vocabulary, the taut, vivid renderings of the struggle to live. 200,000 first printing; BOMC main selection. (June)
Library Journal
Sixteen-year-old Billy Parham is obsessed with trapping a renegade wolf that has crossed the border from Mexico to raid his father's cattle ranch. By the time he finally succeeds, Billy has formed such a close bond with his prey that he decides to return the wolf to its home, and the two head off into the mountains. Billy returns months later to find that his parents have been murdered by horse thieves. He abducts his kid brother from a foster home, and they ride into Mexico to retrieve their property, encountering gypsies, desperadoes, and itinerant philosophers along the way. Essentially a boy's adventure story written for adults, The Crossing is thematically related to the award-winning bestseller All The Pretty Horses (LJ 5/15/92; ``Best Books of 1992,'' LJ 1/93, p. 54-58.), but it is not a sequel. McCarthy's luminous prose style, spare as the desert landscapes it describes, is almost Beckett-like in its blend of deadpan humor and existential despair. An exceptionally vivid and rewarding novel.[Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 11/15/93.]-Edward B. St. John, Loyola Law Sch. Lib., Los Angeles
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780613708807
  • Publisher: Demco Media
  • Publication date: 5/28/1995
  • Series: Border Trilogy Series , #2
  • Format: Library Binding
  • Edition description: THIS EDITION IS INTENDED FOR USE IN SCHOOLS AND LIBRARIES ONLY
  • Pages: 432
  • Product dimensions: 4.90 (w) x 7.80 (h) x 1.10 (d)

Meet the Author

Cormac McCarthy was born in Rhode Island in1933 and spent most of his childhood near Knoxville, Tennessee. He served in the U.S. Air Force and later studied at the University of Tennessee. In 1976 he moved to El Paso, Texas, where he lives today.  McCarthy's fiction parallels his movement from the Southeast to the West—the first four novels being set in Tennessee, the last three in the Southwest and Mexico. The Orchard Keeper (1965) won the Faulkner Award for a first novel; it was followed by Outer Dark (1968),  Child of God (1973), Suttree (1979), Blood Meridian (1985), and All the Pretty Horses, which won both the National Book Critics Circle Award and the National Book Award for fiction in 1992. The Crossing is his seventh novel and the second in McCarthy's Border Trilogy.


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Read an Excerpt

I

When they came south out of Grant County Boyd was not much more than a baby and the newly formed county they'd named Hidalgo was itself little older than the child. In the country they'd quit lay the bones of a sister and the bones of his maternal grandmother. The new country was rich and wild. You could ride clear to Mexico and not strike a crossfence. He carried Boyd before him in the bow of the saddle and named to him features of the landscape and birds and animals in both spanish and english. In the new house they slept in the room off the kitchen and he would lie awake at night and listen to his brother's breathing in the dark and he would whisper half aloud to him as he slept his plans for them and the life they would have.

On a winter's night in that first year he woke to hear wolves in the low hills to the west of the house and he knew that they would be coming out onto the plain in the new snow to run the antelope in the moonlight. He pulled his breeches off the footboard of the bed and got his shirt and his blanketlined duckingcoat and got his boots from under the bed and went out to the kitchen and dressed in the dark by the faint warmth of the stove and held the boots to the windowlight to pair them left and right and pulled them on and rose and went to the kitchen door and stepped out and closed the door behind him.

When he passed the barn the horses whimpered softly to him in the cold. The snow creaked under his boots and his breath smoked in the bluish light. An hour later he was crouched in the snow in the dry creekbed where he knew the wolves had been using by their tracks in the sand of the washes, by their tracks in the snow.

They were already out on the plain and when he crossed the gravel fan where the creek ran south into the valley he could see where they'd crossed before him. He went forward on knees and elbows with his hands pulled back into his sleeves to keep them out of the snow and when he reached the last of the small dark juniper trees where the broad valley ran under the Animas Peaks he crouched quietly to steady his breath and then raised himself slowly and looked out.

They were running on the plain harrying the antelope and the antelope moved like phantoms in the snow and circled and wheeled and the dry powder blew about them in the cold moonlight and their breath smoked palely in the cold as if they burned with some inner fire and the wolves twisted and turned and leapt in a silence such that they seemed of another world entire. They moved down the valley and turned and moved far out on the plain until they were the smallest of figures in that dim whiteness and then they disappeared.

He was very cold. He waited. It was very still. He could see by his breath how the wind lay and he watched his breath appear and vanish and appear and vanish constantly before him in the cold and he waited a long time. Then he saw them coming. Loping and twisting. Dancing. Tunneling their noses in the snow. Loping and running and rising by twos in a standing dance and running on again.

There were seven of them and they passed within twenty feet of where he lay. He could see their almond eyes in the moonlight. He could hear their breath. He could feel the presence of their knowing that was electric in the air. They bunched and nuzzled and licked one another. Then they stopped. They stood with their ears cocked. Some with one forefoot raised to their chest. They were looking at him. He did not breathe. They did not breathe. They stood. Then they turned and quietly trotted on. When he got back to the house Boyd was awake but he didnt tell him where he'd been nor what he'd seen. He never told anybody.

The winter that Boyd turned fourteen the trees inhabiting the dry river bed were bare from early on and the sky was gray day after day and the trees were pale against it. A cold wind had come down from the north with the earth running under bare poles toward a reckoning whose ledgers would be drawn up and dated only long after all due claims had passed, such is this history. Among the pale cottonwoods with their limbs like bones and their trunks sloughing off the pale or green or darker bark clustered in the outer bend of the river bed below the house stood trees so massive that in the stand across the river was a sawed stump upon which in winters past herders had pitched a four by six foot canvas supply tent for the wooden floor it gave. Riding out for wood he watched his shadow and the shadow of the horse and travois cross those palings tree by tree. Boyd rode in the travois holding the axe as if he'd keep guard over the wood they'd gathered and he watched to the west with squinted eyes where the sun simmered in a dry red lake under the barren mountains and the antelope stepped and nodded among the cattle in silhouette upon the foreland plain.

They crossed through the dried leaves in the river bed and rode till they came to a tank or pothole in the river and he dismounted and watered the horse while Boyd walked the shore looking for muskrat sign. The indian Boyd passed crouching on his heels did not even raise his eyes so that when he sensed him there and turned the indian was looking at his belt and did not lift his eyes even then until he'd stopped altogether. He could have reached and touched him. The indian squatting under a thin stand of carrizo cane and not even hidden and yet Boyd had not seen him. He was holding across his knees an old singleshot 32 rimfire rifle and he had been waiting in the dusk for something to come to water for him to kill. He looked into the eyes of the boy. The boy into his. Eyes so dark they seemed all pupil. Eyes in which the sun was setting. In which the child stood beside the sun.

He had not known that you could see yourself in others' eyes nor see therein such things as suns. He stood twinned in those dark wells with hair so pale, so thin and strange, the selfsame child. As if it were some cognate child to him that had been lost who now stood windowed away in another world where the red sun sank eternally. As if it were a maze where these orphans of his heart had miswandered in their journey in life and so arrived at last beyond the wall of that antique gaze from whence there could be no way back forever.

From where he stood he could not see his brother or the horse. He could see the slow rings moving out over the water where the horse stood drinking beyond the stand of cane and he could see the slight flex of the muscle beneath the skin of the indian's lean and hairless jaw.

The indian turned and looked at the tank. The only sound was the dripping of water from the horse's raised muzzle. He looked at the boy.

You little son of a bitch, he said.

I aint done nothin.

Who's that with you?

My brother.

How old's he?

Sixteen.

The indian stood up. He stood immediately and without effort and looked across the tank where Billy stood holding the horse and then he looked at Boyd again. He wore an old tattered blanketcoat and an old greasy Stetson with the crown belled out and his boots were mended with wire.

What are you all doin out here?

Gettin wood.

You got anything to eat?

No.

Where you live at?

The boy hesitated.

I asked you where you lived at.

He gestured downriver.

How far?

I dont know.

You little son of a bitch.

He put the rifle over his shoulder and walked out down the shore of the tank and stood looking across at the horse and at Billy.

Howdy, said Billy.

The indian spat. Spooked everthing in the country, aint you? he said.

We didnt know there was anybody here.

You aint got nothin to eat?

No sir.

Where you live at?

About two miles down the river.

You got anything to eat at your house?

Yessir.

I come down there you goin to bring me somethin out?

You can come to the house. Mama'll feed you.

I dont want to come to the house. I want you to bring me somethin out.

All right.

You goin to bring me somethin out?

Yes.

All right then.

The boy stood holding the horse. The horse hadnt taken its eyes from the indian. Boyd, he said. Come on.

You got dogs down there?

Just one.

You goin to put him up?

All right. I'll put him up.

You put him up inside somewheres where he wont be barkin.

All right.

I aint comin down there to get shot.

I'll put him up.

All right then.

Boyd. Come on. Let's go.

Boyd stood on the far side of the tank looking at him.

Come on. It'll be dark here in just a little bit.

Go on and do like your brother says, said the indian.

We wasnt botherin you.

Come on, Boyd. Let's go.

He crossed the gravel bar and climbed into the travois.

Get up here, said Billy.

He climbed out of the pile of limbs they'd gathered and looked back at the indian and then reached and took the hand that Billy held down and swung up behind him onto the horse.

How will we find you? said Billy.

The indian was standing with the rifle across his shoulders, his hands hanging over it. You come out you walk towards the moon, he said.

What if it aint up yet?

The indian spat. You think I'd tell you to walk towards a moon that wasnt there? Go on now.

The boy booted the horse forward and they rode out through the trees. The travois poles dragging up small windrows of dead leaves with a dry whisper. The sun low in the west. The indian watched them go. The younger boy rode with one arm around his brother's waist, his face red in the sun, his near-white hair pink in the sun. His brother must have told him not to look back because he didnt look back. By the time they'd crossed through the dry bed of the river and ridden up onto the plain the sun was already behind the peaks of the Peloncillo Mountains to the west and the western sky was a deep red under the reefs of cloud. They set out south along the dry river breaks and when Billy looked back the indian was coming along a half mile behind them in the dusk carrying the rifle loosely in one hand.

How come you're lookin back? said Boyd.

I just am.

Are we goin to carry him some supper?

Yes. We can do that I reckon.

Everthing you can do it dont mean it's a good idea, said Boyd.

I know it.

HE WATCHED the night sky through the front room window. The earliest stars coined out of the dark coping to the south hanging in the dead wickerwork of the trees along the river. The light of the unrisen moon lying in a sulphur haze over the valley to the east. He watched while the light ran out along the edges of the desert prairie and the dome of the moon rose out of the ground white and fat and membranous. Then he climbed down from the chair where he'd been kneeling and went to get his brother.

Billy had steak and biscuits and a tin cup of beans wrapped in a cloth and hidden behind the crocks on the pantry shelf by the kitchen door. He sent Boyd first and stood listening and then followed him out. The dog whined and scratched at the smokehouse door when they passed it and he told the dog to hush and it did. They went on at a low crouch along the fence and then made their way down to the trees. When they reached the river the moon was well up and the indian was standing there with the rifle yokewise across his neck again. They could see his breath in the cold. He turned and they followed him out across the gravel wash and took the cattletrail on the far side downriver along the edge of the pasture. There was woodsmoke in the air. A quarter mile below the house they reached his campfire among the cottonwoods and he stood the rifle against the bole of one of the trees and turned and looked at them.

Bring it here, he said.

Billy crossed to the fire and took the bundle from the crook of his arm and handed it up. The indian took it and squatted before the fire with that same marionette's effortlessness and set the cloth on the ground before him and opened it and lifted out the beans and set the cup by the coals to warm and then took up one of the biscuits and steak and bit into it.

You'll black that cup, Billy said. I got to take it back to the house.

The indian chewed, his dark eyes half closed in the firelight. Aint you got no coffee at your house, he said.

It aint ground.

You cant grind some?

Not without somebody hearin it I caint.

The indian put the second half of the biscuit in his mouth and leaned slightly forward and produced a beltknife from somewhere about his person and reached and stirred the beans in the cup with it and then looked up at Billy and ran the blade along his tongue one side and then the other in a slow stropping motion and jammed the knife in the end of the log against which the fire was laid.

How long you live here, he said.

Ten years.

Ten years. Your family own this place?

No.

He reached and picked up the second biscuit and severed it with his square white teeth and sat chewing.

Where are you from? said Billy.

From all over.

Where you headed?

The indian leaned and took the knife from the log and stirred the beans again and licked the blade again and then slipped the knife through the handle and lifted the blackened cup from the fire and set it on the ground in front of him and began to eat the beans with the knife.


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Reading Group Guide

1. What is the significance of the book's title?

2. Discuss the meaning of the observation: "The world was new each day for God so made it daily. Yet it contained within it all the evils as before" [p. 278]. How are these words applicable to the novel's action?

3. Early in the book Boyd Parham is struck by the sight of his reflection in the eyes of an Indian who asks them for food. What he sees is not so much himself as a "cognate child... windowed away in another world where the red sun sank eternally" [p. 6]. What themes do this moment of mirroring and self-estrangement suggest?

4. How would you characterize Billy's relationship with Boyd? Why does he return to Mexico to find out what happened to his brother? What else is he looking for?

5. Who do you think murdered the Parhams? Why didn't Boyd try to escape when he had the chance?

6. The people in The Crossing are characterized by a kind of psychological opaqueness. Since we rarely know their direct thoughts, we must infer their motives from their words and actions, which often seem cryptic or irrational. How do we come to know these characters? What vision of human nature does their opaqueness suggest?

7. What role do animals play in this book? Why, for example, does Billy endure such great danger and hardship for the sake of a wolf? Do any of the characters he meets in Mexico share his feelings about animals?

8. The Crossing is a book of dreams and auguries. Early in the novel Boyd has a dream of people burning on a dry lake [p. 35]; Billy dreams he sees his father wandering lost in the desert and being swallowed by darkness [p. 112]. Later in his journey, Billy istaken in by Indians whose elder calls him "huerfano"--orphan [p. 134]--thus predicting the murder of his parents. What is the role of portents--both accurate and inaccurate--in this book?

9. The Crossing is an account of three journeys. The book is also divided into four sections. Why do you think McCarthy has divided
The Crossing in this asymmetrical fashion? Does he employ a similar structure elsewhere in this book? Is its overall structure similar to that of All the Pretty Horses?

10. What role does hospitality play in this book? Is there any relation between the novel's scenes of hospitality and its moments of violence?

11. Is The Crossing a violent book? Why do you think the author has chosen to recount some of the worst instances of bloodshed (the slaughter of the opera company's mule, the blinding of the rebel soldier) secondhand? At a time when graphic and gratuitous descriptions of mayhem are standard in much popular fiction for purposes of mere shock and titillation, has McCarthy succeeded in restoring to violence its ancient qualities of pity and terror? How has he managed this?

12. What things does Billy lose in the course of this novel? Which of these losses is voluntary?

13. The Crossing is a book about human beings and their relationship with God and, in particular, about their attempt to decipher divine justice. McCarthy explores this theme with Dostoyevskian eloquence in Billy's conversations with the sexton of a ruined church [pp. 140-59] and a blind veteran of the Revolution [pp. 274-93]. What kind of God have these men come to understand? Is that God the same one that Billy and Boyd encounter?

14. In what ways does The Crossing resemble classic myths and fairy tales? How do Billy and Boyd Parham compare to the figures that Joseph Campbell describes in The Hero with a Thousand Faces?

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 53 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(27)

4 Star

(14)

3 Star

(7)

2 Star

(2)

1 Star

(3)

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 53 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 1, 2005

    Great Western Novel Marred By Spanish Dialogue & Unneeded Monologues

    In ¿The Crossing¿, Cormac McCarthy evokes the same vanishing ranch culture of the American southwest and northern Mexico as in his ¿All the Pretty Horses¿. In this case, it is set in the late 1930s when the horse-based life is still alive, but is beginning to be replaced by a more modern, automobile-based way of life. McCarthy describes three difficult, physical, dangerous trips into Mexico by Billy Parham and, in one case, with his brother Boyd. The brothers depend on themselves and their knowledge of horses, guns, and how to live off the land in dealing with horse thieves and robbers in a Mexico that is more lawless than the United States. McCarthy reveals a way of life that is much more intense and physically demanding than our sheltered modern life. However, there are two negatives that lower my rating of this book. First, McCarthy makes extensive use of Spanish dialogue throughout the book without providing any English translations. Secondly, the book contains two long (approximately 20 pages each) monologues, one by a hermit priest and one by the wife of a blind soldier, who lost his sight in the Mexican revolution. With these monologues, McCarthy seems to be trying to add a philosophical dimension to the novel (e.g., about God, human suffering, chance in life, blindness and death), but both monologues are tiresome and not well integrated into the novel.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 17, 2005

    no words to describe it

    Even thought i can not really understand a single word of spanish, just to simply read and know the tone of the words you can understand the book. I am not worried what others think about having to read half a dozen pages in spanish, you simply know what is being said by the tone. This really is another great American Classic. IMO it will go down in American Literature as one of the true greats.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 20, 2002

    Get a dictionary

    If the Spanish bothers you that much, invest in a five dollar espagnol/anglais dictionary. Its worth it! Parham's journey is a long harrowing trek of a boy's voyage of self discovery into becoming a man. It takes you away and you'll want to go back again soon after its done; its a sweet pain that you'll learn to cherish.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 7, 2012

    Isis

    *Sits down gracefully with her new purple hoodie fitting comfortably around her white body* "hello," she calls, "Aurora? You here?" *She puts in her earbuds and waits, her bright green eyes roving for the butterfly*

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 24, 2002

    LOVED THIS ONE!!

    Although there is hardly any conversation in this book, I was still captivated by the story of young Billy Parham and his brother, Boyd. McCarthy paints quite a picture of their rough life in a desolate, harsh land. The ending was so sad! If you like this book, you need to read THE CITIES OF THE PLAIN by the same author. It picks up when Billy is 27 years old and it has a lot more conversation and characters in it. I will highly recommend either of these books!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 15, 1999

    No Espanol ...

    After reading'All the Pretty Horses'(4 1/2stars) I was anxious to read this book. However, after the first 75 pages I knew this was not good.For starters I know little Espanol. McCarthy drolls on and on having his main character go from one location to another with no purpose but to paint scenery and mood with unfamilar and foreign words.It's as if he is trying too hard to have this character stumble into a situation where he might think, say or do something captivating,memorable or endearing. I needed two dictionaries,one English AND one Spanish to drudge through.There are too many unrecognizable words which made it more burdensome. Boring, boring, boring. I gave it a sympathy read only because I liked the first book and had intended to read 'Cities...' next(now I'm unsure). I really hoped the story would pick up or start to move unfortunately for me it didn't and I wasted my time.I learned some Spanish words: aburrido,pesado

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 29, 2013

    McCarthy has written better works.  While I really like his clea

    McCarthy has written better works.  While I really like his clean prose, the vulgar language is a turn-off at times.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 25, 2012

    Heather the zebra

    Ummmm it says no results...

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 24, 2012

    Hulk's 3rd

    SSSSSSSSMMMMMMMAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHH

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 23, 2012

    Flare

    *walks in and sits down and waits for auroa*

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 23, 2012

    Keesha the cat

    Um ....aurora? I need a house here

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 25, 2012

    Jacob

    *goes flying above heather* uhhh... help me *suddenly colaspes

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 21, 2012

    Crystal the polar bear

    I need a house

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 21, 2012

    Guthix

    *kills himself and dies*

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 28, 2012

    Aurora to all

    Umm. Agro all results except result 2.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 19, 2012

    If you read All The Pretty Horses

    Good read following All The Pretty Horses

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  • Posted July 18, 2011

    The Crossing As Wuz

    A fifth crossing for me, although this one undertaken in exceptional summer heat and in the company of bad tequila, likely as close to ideal as McCarthy intended it.

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  • Posted June 5, 2009

    Not very interesting

    This classic McCarthy book is considered one of his best and most thrilling.....and i don't know why. In every page cormac continues to show that lackluster abd uniterested writing style he uses by seamlessly making the book duller and less exiting by the minute. In each chapter, there has never been more unrelated and boring material put to gether in such a shoddy fasion. His classic idea of no character discription is back in force, and the reading itself wouldn't challenge a first grader. This time consuming book doesn't allow the reader to walk away with any besides a feeling of lost time in their lives.

    0 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted January 20, 2009

    triste viaje (sorrowful journey)

    Well written trek consistently balanced between sorrow and utter despair. The two very long monologues within the story unfortunately are not well integrated and do not add to the novel. <BR/><BR/>The story seems to leave you without closure (as did " All the pretty horses") but comes together with the third novel of the trilogy. This is old western version of Lord of the Rings but without true heros.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 17, 2001

    the second best book ever

    this book is a languorous, slow buring treat, the finest McCarthy has ever written

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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