In those dark pools there sat each a small and perfect sun. Part of its hair was burned The Lace - Benjamin Orr - The Lace and it rode mute and stoic watching the land advance before it with huge black eyes like some changeling.
God will not love ye forever. Dont you know he'd of took you with him? He'd of took you, boy. Like a bride to the altar. Do it now. A sermon on war as the surrendering of life force, of power and will, of passion and being into the world:. An incantination of fiery images, both in the desert and sea:.
A striking dichotomy of being both amidst Blood Meridian (Slag) - Embers - Slag-Welter world, immersed in culture and sharing the terrain with every trade and stock of human life, and also completely isolated and independent all the while:. The frivolity of men being bound and compliant to rituals, to saloons and a mode of dance and a life that is Blood Meridian (Slag) - Embers - Slag-Welter without intention curses that man to a world of insignificance, wallowing, tarrying adrift:.
Bloom's criticism:. Such a double displacement—exile so extreme that we are exiled even from the possibility, the hope and despair, of exile—characterizes the life of these wanderers in the desert. The oedipal myth of paradise lost and regained, of patrimonial inheritance and promised land, has been abolished once and for all. These travelers will feel different cravings, experience different affects.
We are called to no responsibility, and we may lay claim to no transcendence. McCarthy, like Nietzsche, exposes not just the futility of the dream, but—far more troublingly—its inherent In The Wake - Legacyits ironic dependence upon the Blood Meridian (Slag) - Embers - Slag-Welter supposed mysteries that it claims to violate.
They rode on. They rode like men invested with a purpose whose origins were antecedent Blood Meridian (Slag) - Embers - Slag-Welter them, like blood legatees of an order both imperative and remote. For although each man among them was discrete unto himself, conjoined they made a thing that had not been before and in that communal soul were wastes hardly reckonable more than those whited regions on old maps where monsters do live and where there is nothing other of the known world save conjectural winds.
They crossed the del Norte and rode south into a land more hostile yet. All day they crouched like owls under the niggard acacia shade and peered out upon that cooking world. Dust-devils stood on the horizon like the smoke of distant fires but of living thing there was none. They eyed the sun in its circus and at dusk they rode out upon the cooling plain where the western sky was the color of blood.
At a desert well they dismounted and drank jaw to jaw with their horses and remounted and rode on. That night they were visited with a plague of hail out of a faultless sky and the horses shied and moaned and the men dismounted and sat upon the ground with their saddles over their heads while the hail leaped in the sand like small lucent eggs concocted alchemically out of the desert darkness.
In the night they passed the lights of a village on the plain but they did not alter from their course. Toward the morning they saw fires on the horizon. Glanton sent the Delawares. Already the dawnstar burned pale in the east. When they returned they squatted with Glanton and the judge and the Brown brothers and spoke One Step Up - Bruce Springsteen - Tunnel Of Love gestured and then all remounted and all rode on.
Five wagons smoldered on the desert floor and the riders dismounted and moved among the bodies of the dead argonauts in silence, those right pilgrims nameless among the stones with their terrible wounds, the viscera spilled from their sides and the naked torsos bristling with arrowshafts. The water that reached the canyon floor was no more than a trickle and they leaned by turns with pursed lips to the stone like devouts at a shrine.
They passed the night in a shallow cave above this spot, an old reliquary of flintknappings and ratchel scattered about on the stone floor with beads of shell and polished bone and the charcoal of ancient fires. They shared the blanket in the cold and Sproule coughed quietly in the dark and they rose from time to time to descend and drink at the stone.
They were gone before sunrise and the dawn found them on the plain again. They followed the trampled ground left by the warparty and in the afternoon they came upon a mule that had failed and been lanced and left dead and then they came upon another. The way narrowed through rocks and by and by they came to a bush that was hung with dead babies. They stopped side by side, reeling in the heat. Bald and pale and bloated, larval to some unreckonable being.
The castaways hobbled past, they looked back. Nothing moved. In the afternoon they came upon a village on the plain where smoke still rose from the ruins and all were gone to death. From a distance it looked like a decaying brick kiln. They stood without the walls a long time listening to the silence before they entered.
They went slowly through the little mud streets. There were goats and sheep slain in their pens and pigs dead in the mud. They found plates of food half eaten and a cat came out and sat in the sun and watched them without interest and flies snarled everywhere in the still hot air. At the end of the street they came to a plaza with benches and trees where vultures huddled in foul black rookeries.
A dead horse lay in the square and some chickens were pecking in a patch of spilled meal in a doorway. Charred poles lay smoldering where the roofs had fallen through and a burro was standing in the open door of the church.
They sat on a bench and Sproule held his wounded arm to his chest and rocked back and forth and blinked in the sun. He was coughing again. He held his chest with his good hand Blood Meridian (Slag) - Embers - Slag-Welter sat as if he'd get his breath.
The kid looked at him. He shook his head Blood Meridian (Slag) - Embers - Slag-Welter rose and walked off across the plaza toward the church. There were buzzards squatting among the old carved wooden corbels and he picked up a stone and squailed it at them but they never moved.
The shadows had grown long in the plaza and little coils Blood Meridian (Slag) - Embers - Slag-Welter dust were moving in the parched clay streets. The carrion birds sat about the topmost corners of the houses with their wings outstretched in attitudes of exhortation like dark little bishops. The kid returned to the bench and Blood Meridian (Slag) - Embers - Slag-Welter up one foot and leaned on his knee. Sproule sat as before, still holding his arm. The doorways were low and he had to stoop to clear the lintel beams, stepping down into the cool and earthy rooms.
There was no furniture save pallets for sleeping, perhaps a wooden mealbin. Blood Meridian (Slag) - Embers - Slag-Welter went from house to house. In one room the bones of a small loom black and smoldering. In another a man, the charred flesh drawn taut, the eyes cooked in their sockets. There was a niche in the mud wall with figures of saints dressed in doll's clothes, the rude wooden faces brightly painted. Illustrations cut from an old journal and pasted to the wall, a small picture of a queen, a gypsy card that was the four of cups.
There were strings of dried peppers and a few gourds. A glass bottle that held weeds. Outside a bare dirt yard fenced with ocotillo and a round clay oven caved through where black curd trembled in the light within.
Blood Meridian (Slag) - Embers - Slag-Welter found a clay jar of beans and some dry tortillas and he took them to a house at the end of the street where the embers of the roof were still smoldering and he warmed the food in the ashes Blood Meridian (Slag) - Embers - Slag-Welter ate, squatting there like some deserter scavenging the ruins of a city he'd fled.
When he returned to the square Sproule was gone. All about lay in shadow. He crossed the square and mounted the stone steps to the door of the church and entered. Sproule was standing in the vestibule. Long buttresses of light fell from the high windows in the western wall. The savages had hacked holes in the roof and shot them down from above and the floor was littered with arrowshafts where they'd snapped them off to get the clothes from the bodies.
The altars had been hauled down and Blood Meridian (Slag) - Embers - Slag-Welter tabernacle looted and the Blood Meridian (Slag) - Embers - Slag-Welter sleeping God of Blood Meridian (Slag) - Embers - Slag-Welter Mexicans routed from his golden cup. The primitive painted saints in their frames hung cocked on the walls as if an earthquake had visited and a dead Christ in a glass bier lay broken in the chancel floor.
The murdered lay in a great pool of their communal blood. It had set up into a sort of pudding crossed everywhere with the tracks of wolves or dogs and along the edges it had dried and cracked into a burgundy ceramic.
Blood lay in dark tongues on the floor and blood grouted the flagstones and ran in the vestibule where the stones were cupped from the feet of the faithful and their fathers before them and it had threaded its way down the steps and dripped from the stones among the dark red tracks of the scavengers. Sproule turned and Zum Schreien (Live Improvisation) - Amuthon - Wirklichkeit at the kid as if he'd know his thoughts but the kid just shook his head.
Flies Jamintel - The Revolutionaires* - Goldmine Dub over the peeled and wigless skulls of the dead and flies walked on their shrunken eyeballs. They crossed the square in the last of the light and went down the narrow street. In the doorway there lay a dead child with two buzzards sitting on it.
Sproule shooed his good hand at the buzzards and they bated and hissed and flapped clumsily but they did not fly. They set forth in the morning with first light while wolves slank from the doorways and dissolved in the fog of the streets.
They went by the southwest road the way the savages had come. A little sandy stream, cottonwoods, three white goats.
They waded a ford where women lay dead at their wash. They struggled all day across a terra damnata of smoking slag, passing from time to time the bloated shapes of dead mules or horses. By evening they had drunk all the water they carried. They slept in the sand and woke in the cool early morning dark and went on and they walked the cinderland till they were near to fainting.
In the afternoon they came upon a carreta in the trace, tilted on its tongue, the great wheels cut from rounds of a cottonwood trunk and pinned to the axletrees with tenons. They crawled under it for shade and slept until dark and went on. The rind of a moon that had been in the sky all day was gone and they followed the trail through the desert by starlight, the Pleiades straight overhead and very small and the Great Bear walking the mountains to the north.
They went on. The Promised Land - Bruce Springsteen - Winterland 15th December 1978 in the night they heard the little prairie vipers rattle among the scrub and they were afraid.
With the dawn they were climbing among shale and whinstone under the wall of a dark monocline where turrets stood like basalt prophets and they passed by the side of the road little wooden crosses propped in cairns of stone where travelers had met with death.
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