On Cormac McCarthy’s Outer Dark:

Before him stretched a spectral waste out of which reared only the naked words in a landscape barren of say a quote or many of its ilk. A faintly smoking garden of dead characterization and stagnate growth that tended away at the foot of each page. Story looked not only uninhabited but deserted, as if plague had swept and decimated it. He stood at the center of the novel where commitment fossilized like dried mud all about him, forcing him to turn yet another bleak bone-bleached sheet. Hard tales make hard times. I’ve seen the bleakness of horrific narratives and my soul curls as if poisoned by dark and if ye to join, there is a man to tell what he knows of night.