I was excited recently to find this article by Christopher Badeaux on Cormac McCarthy at a promising (new?) website called The City, which is run by some folks at Houston Baptist University and looks like a sort of evangelical riff on First Things.
I’ve read a few other pieces and liked them alright, but I was pretty
disappointed with the Cormac McCarthy article. I got as far as the
extended quotation below (which is near the beginning) before I
realized what I was in for. (I would have commented on the article’s
site itself, but that function appears to be unavailable right now.)
The quotation:
It is not a profound insight to say that
disorder lies at the core of every modern novel: Things falling apart
drive action. The truth of most literature since well before the
Romantic era, however, is that disorder is made right at the end of
almost every book. The villain is defeated, the damsel is rescued, the
world is saved, and, in literature from the 1960s on, socially
appropriate noises are made and coffee is had. Even with that, novels
are a window into a safer world, one in which everything more or less
turns out right in the end—where the awful consequences of life are put
on hold in favor of the pleasant ones.
Put differently, only the Russians want to be depressed at the end of a good book.
This is actually slightly maddening,
because a novel is a self-contained utopia in which disorder has no
extrinsic effects, carries no ripples of destruction and
disintegration, and in fact, suggests to the reader that an original
sin is always entirely containable and repairable. One never feels the
connection between the people who inhabit the bubble of the novel. They
live lives as strutting, separate parts of some beautiful machine that
runs precisely and predictably outside of the suspension of disbelief.
Where to begin with this comedy of errors? First, we have a thesis:
“disorder lies at the core of every modern novel.” (Fair enough.) Then
Badeaux takes us back to “most literature since well before the
Romantic era,” where “disorder is made right at the end of almost every
book.” (I think the Greeks might have had something to say about this.
Possibly also Shakespeare.) But in the very next sentence, we’ve
somehow been magically transported back to “literature from the 1960s
on,” where at the end of every novel “socially appropriate noises are
made and coffee is had.” (What this means or is referring to I have no
idea.)
I mean, seriously. What world is this describing? Not the one I live
in. If by “most literature since well before the Romantic era” he means
“the complete works of Jan Karon,” I suppose it begins to make sense,
but I may be making a bit of an interpretive leap there.
There were also those “Russians,” the inevitable exception that proves
the rule, who just “want to be depressed at the end of a good book,”
which seems just a tad glib. (Incidentally, “the Russians”—by
which I’m guessing he means, primarily, Tolstoy and Dostoevsky—would
more characteristically be described as modern than anything else,
which should support his thesis rather than provide an exception.)
Directly following the extended passage quoted above, Badeaux
launches into the following: “In the real world, sin is a pebble in a
pond: It touches so much more than the sinner and, when there is one,
the victim. It disorders lives and relationships in ways foreseeable
and incredible.” Change “victim” to “victims” and “foreseeable” into
“unforeseeable” and you practically have a thematic summary of Macbeth.
But according to Badeaux’s account of the history of literature,
Macbeth—produced before the Romantic era—is one of those works where
“The villain is defeated, the damsel is rescued,” and “the world is
saved.” I must’ve missed that Act.
In opposition to the happy, cheery world of Shakespeare’s Macbeth
and Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex, Badeaux posits as their antithesis Cormac
McCarthy’s two books No Country for Old Men and The Road. I just can’t make things add up.
But why my disproportionate reaction? Well, I share two things in
common with Badeaux: I am a fan of Cormac McCarthy, and I am a
committed, relatively conservative Christian. So I feel like I have a
vested interest in the outcome of Badeuax’s exploration.
The general thrust of the article is to read Cormac McCarthy (or at least No Country and The Road)
as a particularly compelling illustration of natural law, especially
original sin, which is fine enough. The article should be evaluated on
whether or not it succeeds in its aims. But Badeaux’s understanding of
the history of literature is so phenomenally and weirdly wrong (either
that or I’m misreading it somehow, and I would be happy to be told so
if that were the case), that it gives me serious pause about anything
else that he will say after it.
And it turns out I was right to give pause. Badeaux’s interest seems
not to be in literature per se but in either co-opting or rejecting it
based on its adherence to or deviation from a Christian understanding
of natural law. Consequently, he seems somewhat dismissive—or even
ignorant—of Cormac McCarthy’s work that doesn’t fit his thesis of
McCarthy as quasi-Christian auteur of original sin. (At one point he says, “for contrast [to No Country and The Road], I worked my way through Blood Meridian,”
but there are no references to any of McCarthy’s seven other novels.)
As an example, Badeaux reads the psychotic killer Anton Chigurh in No Country as
the manifestation of Llewelyn Moss’s moral failings, which is
interesting, but Moss seems less a catalyst of evil than an
inadvertantly complicit protagonist on whom is wrought the furies of
the novel’s bizzarely fatalistic antagonist, Chigurh, who more or less
represents a concentrated manifestation of the universe’s ontology of
violence. To understand Moss’s actions as catalyzing moral retribution
seems not to read McCarthy as displaying the natural law but to read an
explicitly Christian morality into McCarthy’s own aims for the book.
These are two very different things, and the latter is a stretch at
best and inconceivable at worst. And since there’s no retribution for
evil in Blood Meridian, despite its being much more philosophically complex than No Country, Badeaux dismisses it as “simple.”
Two things have happened here. Art has become, first, evaluated
based on its adherence to a particular morality and, second, merely a
vehicle for a worldview. I don’t think art doesn’t contain those
things, but to reduce art to a worldview or a morality—either in its
creation or in its evaluation—destroys it.
. . . . . . .
