I've been having a lot of trouble stopping talking about All the Pretty Horses, which I read not so long ago.
As Aces points out, Cormac McCarthy has a knack for making you laugh and cry for mummy on the same page. It's amazing. I want to read the whole trilogy, although I don't know if I can bear to start from the beginning again. It's such torture—a beautiful torture, true, but torture nonetheless.
So, the book was good, and I am enraptured. But now that my own life seems to be taking on an alarmingly All the Pretty Horses-ish vibe of its own, I find I've stopped talking about it.
I've stopped talking about it altogether.
Still, it's best to be optimistic, right? As long as I stay out of Mexican prisons, things should turn out okay.
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