I’ve been a fan of Cormac McCarthy since reading his Pulitzer Prize winning novel The Road while in college. Very soon after reading it, I incorporated it into my seminar paper on post-apocalyptic depictions in literature during my junior year at Princeton. Since then, I’ve meticulously added more of McCarthy’s books to my collection in an attempt to read my way through his entire body of work. With the exception of only a handful of titles, (particularly Suttree, The Outer Dark, The Crossing, and Cities of the Plain), I’ve nearly finished all of McCarthy’s novels, plays, and screenplays. When I learned of The Passenger arriving this Fall (along with the companion novel, Stella Maris, due out in December 2022), I felt that same familiar excitement
I don’t usually spend much time writing book reviews. Anyone who follows me on Goodreads knows that my “reviews” tend to be 1-2 sentence blurbs on my immediate thoughts upon finishing a title. On occasion, I may feel the need to write something longer, but for the most part I don’t take my reviews too seriously. However, I was so profoundly moved by my experience reading The Passenger that I wanted to express my thoughts in a slightly longer form than my usual Tweet-length takes.
This is one of my more critical responses to a book, and while still quite short by official “book review” standards, I feel like it communicates the gist of my frustration upon finishing this book. I still plan to read the companion book, but until then I will continue to reflect on what this book was compared to what it could have been.
My Review:
The Passenger is indulgent, meandering, and untethered in a way that too many readers will mistake for “crafty.” As if in an act of self sabotage, McCarthy refuses to engage with anything that could resemble coherent narrative or insightful commentary and instead chooses the murkier path of free association stream of consciousness, all to no real end.
McCarthy’s strength is writing about time and place, not people. I’d say that the biggest problem with this novel is that he attempts to turn away from this impulse, and instead chooses to craft a book around individuals who never really make much sense or evoke much interest. The two main characters fall into rigid over-played tropes: the silent, brooding, faceless roughneck genius who yearns for something more that the world can never give him. And the tragic schizophrenic math prodigy whose insight curses her to be wise beyond her years (and who is not faceless, I might add, because the only other essential fact about her is that she is apparently one of the most beautiful women that anyone has ever seen. Her madness, her brilliance, and her beauty are the only attributes we know about her, and are apparently all that matter. Never mind the need for things like character and personality.)
“The Passenger” is the first of a two volume set (the first novel focuses on the brooding man character, while the second will center on the prodigy — a brother and sister pair). However, McCarthy has already played much of his hand, filling the room with people who take up space and ruminate in their winding thoughts but ultimately never do or say or think anything of actual interest. The characters at the fringes of the story would carry more weight if they weren’t trying so hard to impress us.
There is nothing wrong with a nihilistic contemplation of existence and humanity. There is nothing wrong with a rejection of traditional principles of plot and storytelling for the sake of experimentation and innovation. But from the author who already gave us “Blood Meridian,” “No Country for Old Men,” and “The Road,” “The Passenger” adds nothing and, if anything, detracts from an otherwise impressive literary legacy.
